In the penthouse of Caesars Palace, the only five-star hotel in Brentwood City, a handsome and slender young man with a unique aura was drinking a particular aged red wine while looking through the comments online.
“The descendant of Charles Yard, the saint of cooks?” Looking at the post that currently had the most comments, the young man couldn’t help but sneer. “They associated him with Charles Yard just because of his last name. In that case, wouldn’t the saint of cooks have a ton of descendants? But it is quite astonishing how you, an unqualified line cook, have four pieces of century-old Unique Cookware. I don’t even have one myself. What right do you have to own them? Good kitchen utensils must meet a good chef. It’s such a waste for those century-old Unique Cookware to be in your hands. Christopher Yard, huh?” While looking at the blood red wine in the wineglass, the young man murmured to himself, “I don’t think you have the right to have those century-old Unique Cookware!”
Just then, someone knocked on the door.
Pulling his brows together gently, the young man finished the red wine in his hand at once and stood up. Looking out the large French windows at the busy night view of Brentwood City, he called out, “Come in.”
Shortly after, an old man in a tailcoat, who exuded a dignified air about him, walked in from outside. He bent forward slightly with his hand over his chest and bowed to the young man with utmost respect. “Young Master!”