The old cook held the baking sheet like a shield. His hands trembled.

“Master Chen, I mean no disrespect,” he said. “But this sheet has been in my family for generations.”

The swordsman’s face remained expressionless. His blade gleamed in the kitchen’s dim light.

“That sheet,” Chen said quietly, “bears the map to the Sacred Scrolls. Hand it over.”

“It’s just an ordinary baking sheet.” The cook’s voice cracked. “For making moon cakes during festivals.”

Chen’s sword flicked up, its tip stopping an inch from the cook’s throat. “The scratches on its surface. They form a code.”

The kitchen fell silent except for the bubbling of soup in a pot. Steam rose between them like morning mist in the mountains.

“Very well.” The cook lowered the sheet. “But first, let me tell you about my master.”

Chen’s sword didn’t waver. “Make it quick.”

“He was like you once. Pursuing power. The scrolls consumed him.” The cook’s eyes grew distant. “Until he realized their true purpose.”

“Which is?”

“To teach us that what we seek has been with us all along.” The cook smiled sadly. “Like this simple sheet that has fed thousands.”

Chen’s sword trembled slightly. “You’re stalling.”

“Am I?” The cook set the sheet on the counter. “Or am I offering you what you really hunger for?”

A clash of steel rang out. Three black-clad figures crashed through the window. Chen spun, his blade singing through the air.

“The Shadow Clan,” he spat.

The cook grabbed a cleaver. “They’ve been following you.”

Fighting erupted in the cramped kitchen. Chen moved like water, his sword finding gaps in the assassins’ defense. The cook proved surprisingly agile, his cleaver blocking deadly strikes.

When it was over, three bodies lay on the floor. Chen turned back to the cook, breathing hard.

“You fight well for a cook.”

“You listen well for a swordsman.”

Chen sheathed his blade. “The sheet. Please.”

The cook nodded slowly. “Very well.” He picked it up, then paused. “But first, catch.”

The sheet spun through the air. As Chen caught it, the cook vanished in a flash of smoke.

Chen stared at the empty space, then at the baking sheet. Its surface was pristine - no scratches, no map. Just decades of use marked by countless meals served.

He laughed, a sound rusty from disuse.

On the counter lay a steaming bowl of soup and a note:

“Some treasures can’t be found with a sword. Come back tomorrow - I’ll teach you to make moon cakes.”

Chen sat down and picked up the spoon. The soup was still hot.