The essence of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall was simple—
A chaotic stew.
But through careful layering of ingredients and precise timing, it created an extreme stacking of umami.
At its core—
It was all about ingredients and heat.
Different ingredients required different preparation times.
Some needed soaking.
Some needed pre-processing.
Everything had to be arranged in advance.
The dried sea cucumber and abalone soaked before dinner had already softened by the time the dishes were washed.
Uchiha Yoru began the initial preparation.
He cut open the sea cucumber, removing the sand, mouth, and teeth hidden inside. The abalone was cleaned again, with its mouth and gills removed, before being returned to soak.
Next—
The fish gelatin.
Placed into cold water, steamed for ten minutes to activate its aroma, then immediately cooled.
Once fully cooled—
It was transferred into fresh well water.
At this stage—
Ginger slices were essential.
This batch of fish gelatin came from the Land of Waves, and no one knew how it had been processed after extraction. The fishy odor was unusually strong.
Without proper deodorizing—
It would ruin everything.
Around ten at night—
He moved on to preparing fish lips.
In reality, it was just the skin from a large fish's head.
Naturally waterproof—
Which meant it required soaking in warm water.
By the time he finished—
The tabby cat that had stubbornly stayed with him was already half-asleep, her entire body draped over his shoulder like a boneless creature.
"…Alright. That's enough for now. Rika-chan, go to sleep."
"Meow… no…" she mumbled weakly.
"Don't force it. The next step—soaking the conch—won't be until four in the morning. You can rest properly."
"No staying up late. I'll need you to watch the fire tomorrow. You have to stay sharp."
"…Meow…"
After settling Miwa Masayo down, Uchiha Yoru quietly left the house.
His destination—
The clan's archive.
The so-called archive—
Was a combination of library, record hall, and museum.
The most important foundation of the Uchiha clan.
At least—
That was what Yoru believed.
Most of the clan—
Did not.
Especially after Madara Uchiha had swept away the clan's ninjutsu records and treasures before defecting—
No one thought anything valuable remained.
Since no one was willing to reorganize it—
Everything Madara had left behind had simply been piled together.
A storage room.
A dumping ground.
Left untouched.
For years, no one had been assigned to manage it.
Until—
Uchiha Yoru.
After taking over, he gradually restored order.
And in the process—
He obtained an enormous amount of knowledge.
He unlocked the door.
Pushed open the heavy stone gate—over half a meter thick—
And a faint, unpleasant smell drifted out.
Parchment.
Ancient ink.
Dried blood.
Bone fragments.
Turtle shells.
Tree bark.
A chaotic mix of recording materials—
All compressed into a single scent.
Sharp.
Unpleasant.
Yoru didn't like it.
But he could endure it.
In a world where almost all forms of entertainment were meaningless to him—
Reading had become one of his few sources of enjoyment.
Before meeting Miwa Masayo—
Searching through these old records for fragments of Uchiha history had been one of his rare pastimes.
Eighteen-year-old Uchiha Yoru—
Had spent most of the past fourteen years here.
Back then, his biological father had still been alive.
But as a shinobi—
Rarely at home.
Compared to an empty house—
This place was more interesting.
And safer.
Fourteen years.
That was how long it had taken him—
To sort through everything.
To reorganize all records.
To rewrite them into twenty-four large scrolls.
Each carefully categorized.
Containing everything left behind by previous generations:
Battle insights.
Rare chakra phenomena.
Research notes.
Fragments of inspiration regarding bloodline limits.
Attempts at senjutsu.
Speculation on natural energy.
Uchiha Yoru considered himself a true materialist.
Changing worlds—
Gaining extraordinary power—
Even encountering so-called gods—
None of that shook him.
Those who saw something beyond their understanding and immediately declared—
"Science is dead."
"Physics no longer exists."
—were nothing more than mechanical materialists.
What they worshiped was not scientific spirit—
But the power of existing results.
For Yoru—
Anything that existed—
Whether supernatural or divine—
Could be observed.
Analyzed.
Summarized.
Understood.
And eventually—
Mastered.
But all analysis—
Began with observation.
And observation required information.
Here—
There was more information than anywhere else.
Precious.
Irreplaceable.
It was precisely because of this—
That Yoru had been able to step onto the path he now walked.
Instead of dying the moment he sensed natural energy.
He lit the lamps.
Under the bright light—
He continued sorting the final portion of unorganized records.
These were written on silk.
Worn down by centuries.
The fabric itself was damaged.
The text—
Incomplete.
Missing strokes.
Faded.
Difficult to decipher.
Many times—
He had to guess.
To reconstruct.
Sometimes even sketching the damaged original forms—
Marking them as uncertain for future study.
After copying—
He read.
Analyzed.
Then categorized them into the appropriate scrolls.
By the time he finished—
It was already 4:20 in the morning.
…
He returned home in a hurry.
Miwa Masayo was still asleep.
Without disturbing her—
He resumed preparing the ingredients.
The conch was sliced.
Washed repeatedly.
Then soaked again in fresh well water.
Next—
Dried scallops.
Mushrooms.
Soaked and cleaned.
Pig's trotter tips.
Tendons.
Deer tendon.
Pig's feet—
All soaked to remove blood.
By 6:30 in the morning—
Everything was finally ready.
Fire.
Full flame.
Abalone scored.
Shrimp cleaned.
Quail eggs boiled and peeled.
Pig's feet cut.
Soup bones chopped.
The hen cleaned—
Organs, head, tail, wing tips removed.
Then placed into cold water with ginger and peppercorns.
Brought to a boil—
And the impurities skimmed away.
Carefully.
Meticulously.
Even the slightest residue—
Would ruin the final flavor.
Once the broth was clear—
He reduced the fire.
Added water.
And began simmering the stock slowly.
Oil heated.
Quail eggs fried until blistered.
Then set aside.
The pot was cleaned again.
Cold water added.
Ginger.
Scallions.
Spices.
Cooking wine.
Then—
The critical step.
Abalone.
Sea cucumber.
Shrimp—
Blanched.
Then conch slices.
Mushrooms.
Fish gelatin.
Fish lips—
Each processed in sequence.
Timing was everything.
Too short—
The odor remained.
Too long—
Flavor leaked prematurely.
Everything—
Had to be exact.
He took out the largest pot in the house.
Layered the ingredients:
Bones at the bottom.
Then fish gelatin.
Fish lips.
Conch.
Then quail eggs.
Abalone.
Sea cucumber.
Broth added.
Wine added.
Unfortunately—
There was no huadiao wine here.
Sake didn't work either.
Only strong liquor.
Less fragrance.
More sharpness.
Once boiling—
Salt.
Sugar.
Soy sauce.
Mixed thoroughly.
Then—
Sea cucumber.
Abalone.
Mushrooms.
Quail eggs.
Shrimp.
More broth.
Covered with layers of cloth.
Then sealed with a ceramic lid—
Minimizing steam loss.
Finally—
The pot was placed over the fire.
Low heat.
Slow simmer.
At some point—
Miwa Masayo had already woken up.
Her eyes—
Locked onto the pot.
Burning—
With anticipation.
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