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The sky over Crownleek Terrace was still pitch black when a lone figure crouched by the dirt road.\nZhao Xiaogang was always here at this exact hour, like clockwork. He didn't even bother with a lantern. By the faint, fish-belly gray creeping over the eastern hills, he grabbed a handful of coarse salt and scrubbed his hands. He ground the grains into his skin again and again until his palms burned, scouring away every last speck of grease and dried dough. Only then did he wipe his hands on his apron and start setting up his stall.\nAt a glance, his setup was nothing special: a plain wooden table, a ratty awning, and two wicker baskets, one for meatballs, the other stacked with baked flatbreads. But look closer, and you'd see a man obsessed with the details. Take his iron wok. He'd hiked thirteen miles to the town blacksmith, squatted in the shop from dawn to dusk, and rapped his knuckles against seventeen different pots before finally picking one. To this day, the blacksmith still swore at him whenever they crossed paths: "You stubborn scoundrel, you nearly made me deaf!"\nWhen testing a wok, Zhao would smack the bottom with his bare hand, listening for a very specific CLANG. It had to be thick and heavy. The sound had to ripple outward from the center, hit the rim, and bounce right back. If it sounded even a fraction hollow, he'd shake his head.\n"It'll wear through," he'd say, flipping the heavy iron over to point at some invisible flaw. "Right here. It's a hair too thin."\nThe blacksmith would rub the spot for ages, feeling absolutely nothing, his beard twitching with rage. But Zhao couldn't care less. Once he dug his heels in, a herd of oxen couldn't drag him the other way.\nHe'd been setting up at the edge of the village for a few months now, and everyone knew who he was. It wasn't just his cooking, though his scallion meatballs were perfectly springy, and his grilled meat buns were incredibly crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. No, he was famous because his street cries were just so weird.\nNormal vendors shouted things like, "Hot and fresh!" or "Cheap and tasty!"\nZhao Xiaogang, on the other hand, would take a massive breath, the veins bulging on his forehead, and absolutely bellow:\n"Scallions gotta be crisp and firm! No wilted greens!"\nHe'd drag that last syllable out, letting his voice carry all the way down the dirt road.\n"Millet gotta rustle like sand! No clumpy grains!"\n"Rice gotta be crystal clear! No moldy rot!"\nAnd for his grand finale, he would always take his iron ladle and whack the rim of his wok.\nCLANG!\n"Iron woks gotta ring thick and true! No thin bottoms!"\nTravelers passing through would look completely baffled. "What on earth is he yelling about?" they'd ask.\nThe locals would just laugh. "He's announcing his rules."\n"Rules?"\n"Yep." A villager would gesture toward the stall. "The kid is stubborn as a mule. He hand-picks every single ingredient. Scallions must be pulled fresh from the dirt, and he only takes the ones with stiff, rigid stalks. Says floppy scallions 'have no soul.' He tests his millet by rubbing a handful to see if it rustles like sand. If it feels even a little sticky, he walks away. And the rice. Have you seen him squatting outside the grain shop, holding the grains up to the sun? One by one! Elder Zhang nearly chased him off with a broom."\nThe traveler would stare in disbelief. "Isn't that taking it a bit far?"\n"Maybe. But you think a sane man could make meatballs that taste like that?"\nZhao Xiaogang heard every word, but it didn't bother him. He just kept his head down and focused on his wok.\nA scoop of batter-coated meat and scallions slid into the boiling oil with a vicious hiss. The savory aroma shot straight down the street, making the stomachs of passing farmers growl on the spot. Zhao worked the wok with a pair of extra-long wooden chopsticks. The greasy smoke flushed his face red, but his eyes were sharp and bright. Normally, the guy looked a little vacant, but the second he was standing over a hot stove, he came completely alive.\nWhen the meatballs hit a perfect golden brown, he fished them out to drain on oiled paper. Then, he'd grab a baked flatbread off the griddle, toasted to a flaky, crackling crust, slice it open, stuff the sizzling meatballs inside, and smear the whole thing with a heavy spoonful of his homemade sauce.\nWhen he handed the food over, he never bothered with polite customer service fluff like, "Enjoy your meal." He only ever gave a single, gruff instruction: "Eat it hot."