Twelve days later, the snowstorm laced with thunderstorms quietly subsided, and Melbourne's skies finally cleared.
Mei and Zhao Bai set off together, boarding a flight to the Far East. It was supposed to be a secret trip, yet a group of people had come to see them off.
They were all Zhao Bai's students.
The chefs unfurled an exaggerated bright red banner, its gilded lettering brimming with reluctance to part.
Naturally, it drew quite a few stares.
Mei seemed to have grown used to all this and showed little surprise. She merely sighed and let Zhao Bai wave goodbye to his disciples without trying to stop him.
The plane roared into the air, quickly leaving his disciples' shouts behind. Zhao Bai reached over to adjust his seat, intending to get some proper sleep before they arrived in the Far East.
Taking the opportunity, Mei hurriedly asked, "Zhao Bai, how have you considered the matter I asked you about that day?"
"What matter?"
Zhao Bai asked strangely. He had been teaching cooking in the hotel kitchen these past few days and had not noticed what Mei had asked of him.
That night, she had knocked on Zhao Bai's door.
Mei had pulled Zhao Bai aside and said she wanted to become his disciple—not as a chef, but as a disciple of the Sword Sect.
What kind of request was that?
Zhao Bai finally remembered and scratched his head helplessly.
He had no intention of teaching Mei swordsmanship, because his swordsmanship was truly terrible—even worse than Mei's.
"You know, my swordsmanship..."
"Your swordsmanship is the strongest I have ever seen in my life. Like the stars on the horizon, it is brilliant and powerful. Even if one painstakingly climbed to the summit of a mountain, one could only raise one's head and