Time flows quietly, and the festival bell rings once more.  

The prelude sways with the breeze, slowly unfolding.

Dawn had yet to break; morning mist lingered between the eaves and the muddy ground.

Outside the Braised Hall, dozens of large pigs had already gathered, white puffs of breath interlacing in the cold air.

The scent of grass and a quiet tension filled the space, low murmurs rising and falling.

“You’re Number Five from that year! I loved your rib soup!”

A young pig trotted up, eyes sparkling with admiration.

The pig he spoke to was broad and sturdy. For a moment, he looked surprised—then offered a faint smile.

“Thank you.”

Elsewhere, a similar scene was unfolding.

“My dad loved your braised cheek! I do too!”

“It’s my honor,” the other pig replied, bowing slightly with a warm tone.

Looking closely, every pig being approached wore a wooden tag around their neck, each marked with hoofprints——some with one, some with two.

The wood was coarse-grained, deeply stained with oil, every groove carved with the weight of time.

As the gathering time arrived, 

a large pig stepped into the courtyard, a porcelain badge with four interlocked sticks hanging from his chest.

His steps were steady. Though his voice was not loud, it naturally drew the attention of every pig present.

“Congratulations on passing the preliminary selection. I’ll now lead you to the training grounds.”

With that, he turned and led the way.

As the group passed through the side corridor, they came face-to-face with five pigs, 

each wearing a terracotta badge marked with three interlocked sticks.

“Good morning, senior!”

The five pigs greeted him in unison.

The lead pig gave a slight nod. “Morning.”

One of them twitched his snout, eyeing the group of unfamiliar faces behind the senior with curiosity.

“Are they…?”

“New recruits. I’m taking them to the training room. Don’t be late for your remembrance session with the family.”

“Got it, senior!”

They resumed walking only after the new pigs had gone out of sight.

One of them watched the confident, high-stepping figures disappear around the corner and let out a quiet sigh.

“You were just as excited back then.”

“And you were the one who cried the loudest in the hall master’s arms.”

“I really thought cutting meat just meant cutting meat…”

The three-stick pigs exchanged glances. 

A flicker of laughter passed between them before they quickly composed themselves and headed toward the records room.

As the doors to the kitchen hall swung open, the morning sun had just begun to climb over the roof of the Braised Hall.

Warm air filled the space. Long rows of cooking tables stood neatly in place, each prepared with identical ingredients and tools.

At the center of the hall stood a tall, broad-shouldered pig, a heavy stone badge hanging at his side—seven carved marks clearly etched upon it.

He tilted his head slightly and nodded to the pig by the door, the one bearing a four-stick porcelain badge.

“Let them in. One pig per table.”

The contestants entered as instructed, spreading out and taking their places, each standing upright like a post.

Only when everyone was in position did the pig at the center finally speak:

“Before we begin cooking,  

I want to tell you a little story.”

His gaze turned slowly toward the window.

Dew still shimmered along the edges of the courtyard, and the air carried a lingering chill.

“They were a loving pair,  

and met one spring in a field of blooming rapeseed flowers——”

The story wasn’t long,  

but every line carried the lingering warmth of time gone by.

Finally, he reached the end.

“Though they never had children, the husband once said:  

She made me forget what regret even means.”

He opened the wooden box beside him and carefully took out two earthenware trays, 

each pressed with a pig’s hoof——one large, one small.

He stood the trays upright on the display table, ensuring every pig in the room could see them.

“This is Record Number Ninety—the story behind the piece of meat you’ve been given.”

He paused, gaze sweeping slowly across the room.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll tell one story each day.”

“The day we reach Number One will mark the end of your training.”

The air seemed to freeze,  

quiet as frost settling gently on a shoulder—utterly soundless.

“If anyone feels they can’t continue,  

you’re welcome to come see me at any time to withdraw.”

“Well then, let’s begin.  

There are only two rules for cooking: maintain hygiene, and finish by the end of the day.”

With that, he turned and walked away,  

his hooves striking a steady rhythm against the stone floor.

The cooking hall was silent,  

save for the sound of knife handles tapping against cutting boards.

A young pig stood at his station, gaze fixed on the piece of meat before him.

The cut was clean, its marbling precise——clearly a carefully chosen portion.  

But instead of recalling the seasoning steps,  

his mind conjured other images:

A pair of pigs smiling at each other in a field of blooming rapeseed.  

A familiar figure turned through the rising steam, just as the boiling water began to hiss.

A dining table always spotless, with fresh flowers replaced each day.

Veins bulged faintly along his forelimbs as he gripped the knife——  

tightly, desperately——  

yet still, his hooves trembled.

He tried to raise the blade,  

but the closer his hooves inched forward,  

the stiffer his whole body became.

Finally, his eyes reddened.

“Nngh…”

A soft, choked sound slipped from his throat.  

He suddenly set the knife down, covered his face with both hooves,  

and stumbled toward the door.

The movement was like a signal.  

Seconds later, another pig was seen wiping his eyes and quietly stepping away.

Then a third.  

A fourth.

The door in the hallway opened and closed again and again,  

swinging with a rhythm that words could not describe.

Those wearing hoof-marked badges looked up and watched the retreating figures——    

then quietly turned their focus back to the task at hand.

After a few deep breaths, they set down their blades with steady hooves,  

pressed down on the meat——

and made a clean, precise cut.

Some pigs came and went,  

trying again and again to gather their emotions.  

Others… never returned to their station at all.

And so, the piece of meat on the table remained,  

lying there in silence——     

still waiting for the next cut that might never come.

The sun had already risen high,  

and the shadows along the courtyard edge had shrunk to a single line.

By the flower trellis stood the pig with the seven-stick stone badge,  

sunlight resting quietly on his shoulders.

Soft hoofsteps approached.

A contestant came to a halt in front of him, head bowed low,  

his voice squeezed from deep in his throat.

“I… I want to withdraw.”

The seven-stick didn’t answer right away.  

He merely lowered his gaze, watching the trembling pig for a few seconds.

Then, slowly, he extended a hoof  

and gently pulled the other into an embrace.

The movement was unhurried,  

yet carried a tenderness that held nothing back.

“It’s alright,” he whispered,  

his voice nearly brushing the other’s ear.

“The doors of the Braised Hall will always be open to you.”

The rigid body in his arms suddenly gave way,  

collapsing all at once.

A sob burst from deep within his chest.

“I really… thought I could do it…”

The words caught in his throat.  

He couldn’t go on.

All he could do was bury his face into his senior’s chest.

Sunlight fell upon them,  

casting a glow that was soft——yet piercing.

Night had fallen deep, and the corridor was hushed in silence.

The pig with the seven-stick stone badge stopped in front of a door and knocked three times.

“Senior Sister, it’s me.”

A gentle voice responded from within.

“Come in.”

He pushed the wooden door open softly.

It creaked faintly as it swung inward.

Warm yellow light filled the room.

Along the wall stood a wooden shelf lined with earthenware trays, each marked with the number.

Behind the cooking table, a large pig looked up at him briefly.

“The meat for tomorrow is ready.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

The seven-stick pig walked over,

carefully beginning to sort the neatly cut portions of meat, his movements slow and steady.

After a long while,  

Senior Sister gazed out the window at the moonlight and remarked, almost offhandedly:

“Time flies... Next year, it'll be our turn to qualify for the festival.”

“It does.”

The reply was quiet, his hoof still smoothing out the cloth beneath the trays.

“You’ve been at seven sticks for quite a few years now.  

Ever thought about entering?”

He didn’t answer right away.  

His eyes settled on the cuts of meat on the table, lingering in a silent daze.

“I don’t think… I’m ready yet.”

He paused, then glanced at her with a faint smile.

“But you——just one more rank, and you’ll be eligible to carry a bone necklace.”

She looked down at the eight-stick stone badge at her waist,  

her eyes curving with a teasing glint.

“I don’t think my neck’s thick enough yet.”

The air paused for a beat.

Then both of them laughed at the same time.

The sound drifted through the room, soft and unhurried, echoing gently in the quiet.

Every mark carved here is a record of the day a life ceased to be its own——    

and was reshaped for others.