86: Chapter 86 Qin Feng Cooks, Featuring an Unreasonable Character!

Qin Feng's head buzzed.

In his past life, while fighting in wars, he had eaten everything—tree bark, grass roots, snow water, even poisonous insects.

But he had never cooked a meal.

Those badass days were spent either killing or on the way to kill.

He was only concerned with being a badass himself; where would he have time to study pots and pans?

Now, the first thing he had to do upon arriving at the front line was actually Cook?

What kind of starting setup is this, dammit?

He carefully placed the large black pot he was holding onto a relatively clean wooden box in the corner.

This thing was precious; it was the lifeblood of the Third Company and the ancestral tablet of Squad Leader Lao Wang.

Company Commander Zhou Hailong, that old fox, had explicitly stated: as long as the pot exists, the person exists; if the pot is lost, the person is lost.

If it got nicked or bumped, never mind returning to The Military, Lao Wang would carry a forty-meter blade and chase him all the way from Nantian Gate to Penglai East Road.

Anyway, there was still a rusted iron pot on the stove, so he'd just have to make do.

But where exactly should he start?

He looked around; in this dark and damp dugout, besides himself, there was only that comrade in the shadowy corner whose face he couldn't see clearly.

"Am I the only Cook?" Qin Feng couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah."

The voice in the shadows was devoid of any ripples.

"You are the only one."

"What about the others?"

"Dead."

The two simple words were like two blocks of ice, smashing into Qin Feng's heart.

"How did they die?"

"A shell landed right in the previous kitchen."

The person in the shadows seemed to stand up and slowly walked into the light.

It was a very young soldier with a look of exhaustion and numbness on his face that didn't match his age, a cigarette dangling from his mouth that wasn't lit.

"The people and the pot were both sent to the heavens."

He tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if smiling, yet also as if crying.

"So, you'd better pray that your luck is a bit better, Chef."

Qin Feng's face turned completely dark.

Company Commander Zhou Hailong! You bastard!

Didn't you say being a Cook was the safest job?

Didn't you say to stay far away from the battlefield, just stir-frying vegetables and cooking meals every day?

This is what you call safe, dammit?

The kitchen was wiped out in one go; this mortality rate is higher than the infantry charging, right!

Now he finally understood why the entire Falcon Reconnaissance Platoon didn't even have a proper kitchen and could only huddle in a dugout.

It turns out they were afraid of being targeted by the enemy and wiped out with a single shell.

This Falcon Reconnaissance Platoon is truly pathetic, failing to even keep someone to Cook.

"You'll get used to it."

The young soldier seemed to see through Qin Feng's thoughts, found a place to sit down on his own, and began to wipe his rifle.

"My name is Chen Mo. I arrived three days before you."

"Three days ago, I followed the Platoon Leader out on a reconnaissance mission. When we returned, there were less than ten people left in the whole platoon."

"Most of the people you see now are like you and me, replenished from various places."

Chen Mo's voice was very flat, as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.

"The opponents this time are the guys from Bear Country, every one of them like a bear—thick-skinned, tough, and with fierce firepower."

"We've been fighting them back and forth over that iron mine on the border of Yang Country for quite a few rounds."

"Neither side has gained much of an advantage; people die every day, and every day someone like you is sent over."

"So, don't think too much. Here, if you can survive today, you've made a profit."

Chen Mo's words were like a cold file, filing away the last bit of luck in Qin Feng's heart.

He was troubled.

He really didn't know how to Cook!

He looked at the few potatoes, onions, and a piece of meat frozen as hard as a rock (he didn't know what kind it was) next to the stove, and felt even more of a headache than facing a full-strength reinforced regiment.

What should he do?

He couldn't possibly tell the Platoon Leader, "I don't know how to Cook," right?

That would be too embarrassing, dammit.

He, Qin Feng, the dignified National Soldier King, could be stumped by a meal?

How about... he just chops it up randomly and throws it in the pot for a stew?

No, what if he kills someone by feeding them this? Then he would be in big trouble.

Qin Feng was so anxious he paced in circles, feeling for the first time what it meant to be "at a loss."

System!

Right, he still had the System!

He screamed frantically in his heart.

System Daddy! Help!

You can't let a Soldier King like me starve to death in the kitchen, right?

Can you give me a "Quick Guide to Divine Cooking"? Or just give me a "God of Cooking Possession" skill?

Even "108 Home-Style Dishes" would be fine!

Just when he was about to despair and was ready to bite the bullet and mess around with it.

A cold, mechanical, yet heavenly voice suddenly rang out in his mind.

[Ding!]

[Detected that the host has arrived at the mission location, currently in a brand-new combat environment.]

[Novice protection period has ended, System 2.0 version is officially activated!]

[Main Mission: Complete the key reconnaissance mission for the Falcon Reconnaissance Platoon.]

[Mission Reward: Settled based on the host's combat contribution!]

[Friendly Reminder: Good luck, Host!]

No way!

System 2.0?

That's it?

Nothing else?

Qin Feng was dumbfounded.

He waited for a long time, but apart from those few cold prompts, there was no other movement in his mind.

The promised system upgrade turned out to be an upgrade to nothingness.

No Divine Chef guide, no Food God possession, not even a recipe.

He couldn't count on it.

Qin Feng completely gave up.

He glanced at Chen Mo, who was cleaning his gun in the corner, and then looked at the pile of ingredients on the stove.

Potatoes, onions, and a piece of meat frozen like a lump of iron.

Forget it.

If he dies, he dies.

He had seen all kinds of storms in his past life; could he really be stumped to death by a meal?

It's just cooking!

Qin Feng steeled his heart, took the rusty kitchen knife off the wall, and weighed it.

Not bad, it was heavy, felt good, and was suitable for hacking people.

He picked up the frozen meat and, against the stone corner of the stove, smashed it with a series of "clangs."

Ice chips flew everywhere.

The posture didn't look like he was defrosting it; it looked more like he was dismantling some precision instrument.

Chen Mo, next to him, had his eyelids twitch, and he silently hugged his rifle a little tighter.

Finally, he smashed the meat open. Qin Feng couldn't be bothered to cut it finely, so he just hacked it into large chunks and threw them into the rusty iron pot.

Next were the potatoes; he didn't peel them, just left the dirt on, chopped them a couple of times, and threw them in.

For the onions, he peeled off the outermost layer of dry skin and threw them in whole.

Finally, he looked for a long time and dug out a few greasy bottles from a broken wooden box.

He couldn't tell which was salt, which was soy sauce, or which was aged vinegar.

Whatever!

Qin Feng unscrewed the caps, closed his eyes, and based on the principle of "roughly, maybe, good enough," poured it all into the pot.

He added water and lit the fire.

The whole set of actions was smooth and flowing, filled with a wild aesthetic.

It was all about doing whatever he wanted; it was all about leaving life and death to fate.

Half an hour later.

The dugout was filled with an indescribable, bizarre smell.

It was a complex smell mixed with the stench of raw meat, earthy odors, burnt smells, and the fermented scent of various seasonings.

It was pungent, intoxicating, and addictive.

Qin Feng lifted the lid.

A thick plume of black smoke, mixed with heat, rushed into his face.

In the pot was a dark brown, indescribable, bubbling mush.

The potatoes were half-cooked, the onions were boiled to mush, and the meat chunks were vaguely visible in the murky broth.

Its appearance was comparable to pig feed.

No, calling it pig feed is giving it too much credit; even a pig would shake its head and curse at its bad luck if it saw it.

Even Qin Feng felt a wave of nausea looking at it, and he awkwardly scratched his head.

This thing... can it be eaten?

If he eats it, won't he drop dead on the spot?

Just then, Chen Mo, who had been silent all along, put down his gun and walked over.

He leaned over to look into the pot, and he was delighted!

Then, with an approving expression, he said, "Good man!"

Chen Mo gave Qin Feng a thumbs up.

Qin Feng's face burned, and he felt incredibly guilty.

"Um... I... I only have this much skill."

"No, your skill is amazing!"

Chen Mo not only didn't despise it, but he was also very serious.

"You did a great job; this is exactly the effect we need! The Platoon Leader will definitely be satisfied when he sees it!"

What the hell?

Qin Feng was stunned.

You think your Platoon Leader will be satisfied with this piece of junk?

Have the meal standards of your Falcon Reconnaissance Platoon really dropped to such an appalling level?

Or was Chen Mo saying the opposite on purpose, waiting to laugh at him?

Just as he was being suspicious, the broken wooden door of the dugout was kicked open.

A tall man with a full beard, radiating a strong smell of gunpowder and blood, strode in.

His eyes were as sharp as an eagle's, and a military knife stained with dark red blood was tucked into his waist.

His murderous aura was overwhelming!

"I heard a new Cook arrived? Is the meal ready?"

The man's voice sounded like two stones grinding together—hoarse and full of oppression.

Chen Mo immediately stood at attention: "Report, Platoon Leader! The meal is ready!"

Platoon Leader?

This was the Platoon Leader of the Falcon Reconnaissance Platoon, Platoon Leader Long Zhan!

Qin Feng's heart skipped a beat, and he subconsciously wanted to hide the pot.

It was too late.

Platoon Leader Long Zhan had already walked up to the stove, his gaze landing on that pot of pig feed.

Qin Feng's heart instantly jumped to his throat.

He's done for.