Folklore and Strange Tales: At the Start, You Retrieve the Sea-Suppressing Black Iron

Chapter 137 A Living Person's Chaotic Voice Suppresses the Fake Street, A Green Flame Steals the First Bite from the Bottom of the Well

Tong Kexin's shout immediately brought the street to a lively atmosphere.

Aunt Liu choked on her soy milk halfway through her shout, Old Li knocked his tofu pudding bowl askew, Aunt Wang scolded the buns for having too little salt, and Aunt Zhang turned around and scolded the stove for being unreliable.

When the living person got angry, the mouths of the row of fake figures at the well opening all went blank.

The fake Old Zhao opened his mouth, uttered half a sentence about the hot steamed buns, and then turned his face toward the newsstand.

The fake Aunt Zhang raised her hand and uttered a phrase from the morning and evening newspapers, her voice circling around the steamer of buns, unable to find a place to land.

The fake old man spat out tofu pudding three times. The third time, the sound of his tongue disappeared, leaving only the empty sound of well water sloshing around the bowl.

Tieguai Li carried his toolbox, twirling the wrench in his palm.

"On the first day of school, everyone at the live morning market failed their exams."

Han Shaobai held the account book, his pen flying across the paper.

"A cacophony of voices above ground drowns out the chorus at the bottom of a well; fake neighbors, wrong stalls, wrong prices, wrong customers."

Tang Wanqing stood three feet outside the well, a red rope with a copper buckle hanging from a lamppost.

A morning breeze blew, and the copper buckle jingled, shortening the sound that rose from the bottom of the well.

She looked at Cheng Xiaojin, "Half an incense stick's time has almost passed."

Cheng Xiaojin didn't reply. His pale hand hovered over the edge of his trousers, and his ear sank into the noise of the street.

The fake street at the bottom of the well is still holding on.

Fake stew pots, fake soy milk buckets, fake tofu pudding stalls, fake sesame seed cake ovens—all lined up underground.

Each pot tried to mimic the sound of pots on the ground, but when the ground became chaotic, the pots at the bottom of the well couldn't keep up.

The pot lids over there rattled together in unison, sounding orderly, but to Cheng Xiaojin's ears, it sounded like an empty courtyard filled with eerie wind.

He raised his hand, palm down, while Tong Kexin stood on the long bench, holding a long spoon, her ear also listening to the well.

She didn't have Cheng Xiaojin's skills, but she could tell from the sound of her pot being snatched away.

As the broth simmers in the stew pot, a fake pot simmers at the bottom of the well.

The sound of soup on the ground was thick, while the sound of soup underneath was thin, so thin that it annoyed her.

"Cheng Xiaojin, where are we in the next lesson?"

Learn that tone you use before you start hawking your wares.

Tong Kexin's eyes blazed with anger, and she slammed the long spoon against the edge of the pot.

"Then curse them. Only when the living people are tired of cursing will it become real."

She scanned the stall owners.

"Stop pretending to be civilized. Curse the pot, the fire, the price, and the stall next door blocking the way. Whoever talks the most will be credited today."

Aunt Liu immediately perked up.

"Old Li, you've moved your tofu pudding bucket half a foot closer to me again, blocking my view!"

Old Li stuck the spoon into the bucket.

"The smell of your fermented mung bean juice could wake up eight alleys. If I don't move further away, all my customers will run away."

Aunt Wang was shouting in front of the steamed bun stall.

"Aunt Zhang, please don't let the ashes from your oven drift towards my steamer. The buns I made yesterday all got blackened!"

Aunt Zhang held up a sesame seed cake and cursed back.

"Your steamer lid rattles every day, making it impossible for my dough to rise properly, and you even pick at my stove ashes?"

Old Zhao banged the bamboo pole loudly.

"You can argue all you want, but don't block my newsstand. If you do, I'll write your names all on the blackboard tomorrow."

The neighbors burst into laughter and banter.

Someone came out wearing a cotton-padded coat, not even having put on their socks properly, and started cursing Old Zhao for disturbing the peace.

Someone tapped the bottom of an enamel mug, saying that Aunt Liu's soy milk had gone up in price again.

The anger, old grudges, gossip, and complaints of those who hadn't woken up properly all mingled with the sounds of the morning market.

The fake street at the bottom of the well was thrown into disarray by this chaotic noise.

Those fake images started mimicking the cursing, but when it comes to cursing, the worst thing is to just recite it verbatim.

The fake Lao Zhao opened his mouth.

"The smell of your fermented mung bean juice could wake up eight alleyways."

It learned every single word perfectly, without any hint of disdain or Old Li's sour tone.

Aunt Liu put her hands on her hips and cursed back.

"Do you know where the Eight Hutongs are? Point me to one."

The fake Old Zhao raised his hand, twirled his finger in the air, and pointed to the wellhead.

Tieguai Li laughed out loud.

"Okay, the household registration is incomplete, and the map isn't installed either."

Old Zhao himself peeked out from behind the newsstand.

"It's one thing to copy my face, but to become so directionally challenged is just embarrassing!"

The fake Lao Zhao's face was covered in a layer of paper, the edges of the wet ticket curled up, and a piece of paper fell off.

The scraps of paper fell to the edge of the gray circle, and after being licked by the gray, they shrank into black dots.

Han Shaobai wrote it down immediately.

"The fake Lao Zhao doesn't know the alleys, the wet ticket has paper scraps, and the gray circle is valid."

Tang Wanqing glanced at the account pages.

"Don't write near the wellhead."

Han Shaobai took half a step back and quickly pressed down on the bamboo tube.

The cracked red stick made a muffled sound when it hit the tube. The moldy green on the cracked wooden handle shrank inward and then peeked outward, as if it couldn't make up its mind after hearing the sound of the tent.

Cheng Xiaojin said, "The mouth of the bamboo tube should face the ground, so it doesn't hear the whole thing."

Han Shaobai did as instructed, and the bamboo tube drooped down so that the red stamp could be placed securely.

Tieguai Li glanced at him.

"Your family heirloom red stamp is like an old man going to the opera; you just follow wherever there's excitement."

Han Shaobai wore a bitter expression.

"I'll go back and get it some earplugs."

Just as Cheng Xiaojin was about to speak, the voice from the bottom of the well changed.

The fake street no longer imitates the hawking cries of the entire street, nor does it imitate the cursing.

It started stealing the ending —

As soon as the living person finished shouting, the tail fell to the ground, and the bottom of the well took the tail away.

Aunt Liu called for douzhi (fermented mung bean juice), and got some from the bottom of the well; Aunt Wang called for hot baozi (steamed buns), and got some from the bottom of the well.

Old Zhao called out for an old newspaper, and retrieved it from the bottom of the well.

The response was short and precise, like someone adding a half-sentence behind each vendor's back—a chilling and unsettling remark.

The fires on the street simultaneously lowered, and the steam, instead of rising upwards, drifted towards the well.

Tong Kexin's face darkened. "They're—trying to steal the last note—"

Cheng Xiaojin's ears twitched.

"Shen Jiulou used broken plates as a whistle, with the air vent underneath."

Tieguai Li immediately picked up the pliers.

"Where's the whistle?"

"Under the archway of the fake street at the bottom of the well."

"Can I smash it?"

"You're going to go down and smash it?"

Tieguai Li looked at the well and spat.

"Never mind, I didn't ask."

Tang Wanqing untied the red rope and copper buckle from the lamppost and wrapped it around the well opening by half a foot.

The copper buckle jingled twice, the last note cut off in half, but the broken plate whistle at the bottom of the well blew again.

The sound was thin and scattered, carrying the crisp sound of broken copper.

Cheng Xiaojin looked up and said, "That fake Lu Mingzhu's copper buckle can cut off the fake voice of the copper plate, but it can't cut off the tail of a person's mouth."

Tong Kexin jumped off the stool and shoved the long spoon into Aunt Liu's hand.

"Keep shouting, don't stop."

Aunt Liu caught it.

"What should I shout?"

"You're yelling about the price, complaining that the soy milk is sour, and saying your wife didn't buy you a new spoon."

Aunt Liu stomped her foot in anger.

"That old man really didn't buy it!"

Once she opened her mouth, her resentment was three times stronger than before.

Just as Cheng Xiaojin was about to catch the tail at the bottom of the well, he raised his hand.

"Head transplant".

Tong Kexin immediately understood.

"Sell after you've insulted them?"

Cheng Xiaojin nodded.

"It waits for your last two words; you put your last two words first."

Tong Kexin snatched back the long spoon and stood on the stool.

"Get out of the way, you dead man! Braised pork and baked buns are three yuan a bowl, the living have to wait their turn."

Aunt Liu called out as well.

"Don't pretend to be a Beijinger, you can't handle sour things~ it's douzhi and jiaoquan~!"

Aunt Wang understood too.

"Get lost, wet tickets! The meat buns are hot!"

Old Zhao holds up a bamboo pole.

"They'll insult you before they even pay you, like a morning paper, an evening paper, or an old newspaper!"

The street vendors' cries were all overturned, and the items that were supposed to be connected at the bottom of the well were immediately taken away.

The fake Old Zhao opened his mouth and said a living person was in front of him, but he couldn't find the beginning of the next sentence, and blisters appeared on his lips.

As the fake Zhang caught the hot meat buns, his face slumped back from the heat of the bun stall.

The fake old man, Mr. Sun, was receiving an old newspaper when Old Zhao slammed his bamboo pole against the mailbox. The smell of ink from the real newspaper wafted out, and the fake old man's shadow was blurred by the ink smell.

Han Shaobai's pen tip became hot as he wrote.

"The living person shouts backwards, the tail at the bottom of the well fails to connect, and the ending of the fake street is wrong."

The black ink on the ledger pages receded, revealing the original yellowish-white color of the paper.

Tieguai Li raised an eyebrow at Cheng Xiaojin.

"It's a waste that you don't use your brain to set up a street stall."

Cheng Xiaojin looked at him.

"Setting up a street stall is a way to train your brain. You think I make a living off my looks?"

Tong Kexin turned around from the bench.

"You make a living by being cheeky."

"That counts as a skill too."

Tang Wanqing didn't answer; she stared at the gray ring around the well.

"The water is coming up."

Outside the gray circle, a thin line of water crawls outward along the seam of the blue bricks.

The waterline wasn't wide, but it bypassed the area covered by the brass buckle and went straight under the stall's feet.

It doesn't spray people, it only sprays the cart wheels, the stove feet, and the ground under every pot.

When Cheng Xiaojin saw the water line, the smug look on his face disappeared.

"It's not fighting for food anymore, it's fighting for land."

Tong Kexin jumped off the bench.

"The bottom of the pot?"

"Under the stall. They want to replace the ground with mud from the bottom of a well."

Tieguai Li squatted down and reached out to touch the edge of the floor tiles.

"It's wet—but not really wet, it's like it's damp."

Cheng Xiaojin looked over.

Tieguai Li raised his hand, his palm smeared with black mud.

He cursed, "This thing really knows how to take shortcuts."

Tang Wanqing threw out the red thread, which landed in front of the water line. The end of the thread turned black as the water line circled around it.

"Red lines can't block the way."

Cheng Xiaojin said, "It walks along the food stalls, not the auspicious path."

Han Shaobai, holding the account book, asked, "Hang it up with the tent?"

"It can keep businesses running, but it can't keep stalls running."

"Then what should we use?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked down at the feet of the stalls.

"footprint."

Tong Kexin understood the fastest.

"Regular customers are standing in front of the stall."

Cheng Xiaojin nodded.

"The stalls rely on the pots and pans, and also on the paths that people have made."

Aunt Liu immediately shouted into the alley.

"Old Sun, you're always the first to buy fried dough rings, don't pretend you're deaf!"

Old Sun, who sells candied hawthorns, shuffled out of the crowd on his cane, still stubborn.

"I didn't plan to buy anything today."

Aunt Liu lifted the spoon.

You owe me three days' worth of change.

Old Sun immediately stood in front of the douzhi (fermented mung bean juice) stall.

"Then I'll buy it."

Cheng Xiaojin looked down at his feet.

Old Sun's cloth shoes sank into the dust, leaving solid imprints on the soles.

The waterline crawled to the edge of the shoe print, touched it, and retreated half an inch.

"It works."

Old Li called out, "Where's the regular customer for sweet tofu pudding?"

Old Zhao, the newsstand vendor, raised his hand.

"I."

"You run up debts every day."

"Even if they buy on credit, they are still customers."

Old Zhao stood in front of the tofu pudding stall, his cotton shoe prints lingering on the edge of the bucket.

The waterline at the bottom of the well circled around to his feet, but was pushed back by the smell of cigarette ash from the soles of his shoes.

A girl with pigtails ran out of the doorway in front of Aunt Wang's steamed bun stall.

"I buy two vegetarian buns every day."

Aunt Wang slapped the lid of the steamer.

"Stand here, don't step in the water."

In front of Aunt Zhang's pancake stall, Old Wu, who runs a shoe repair stall, walks over carrying shoe lasts.

"I'll buy a sesame seed cake with pickled vegetables."

"You didn't bring any money today."

"Stand here first, I'll pay you later."

Han Shaobai quickly wrote it down.

"Regular customers stand at the bottom of the well to press the water line, and even if they pay on credit, it's still considered a flexible account."

Tieguai Li turned his head.

"You wrote this sentence more smoothly than you're reciting a sutra."

Han Shaobai wiped his forehead.

"I've figured it out now: it's better for a living person to owe you a penny than for a dead person to owe you a hundred."

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the street, his eyes scanning the footprints one by one.

When someone stops in front of the stall, the water line recedes.

Where no one is standing, the waterline arches forward.

It avoids the hot pot and the gray circles, specifically seeking out stalls with sparse footprints.

We made our way to Sister Zhou's empty pancake cart.

There were no customers at the pancake cart that day, so the waterline at the bottom of the well immediately rose up, clinging to the pancake cart wheel.

The old rag on the handlebars moved slightly, and the wad of oilcloth that had just been pasted back onto the bottom of the vehicle was pushed open by half a finger by the moisture.

Tong Kexin's expression changed. "Who's standing in front of Sister Zhou's stall?"

The neighbors looked at each other.

Sister Zhou usually sets up her stall early and has many regular customers, but the first customer is not always the same.

Some people buy one when they're in a hurry, some students buy one, and some car repairmen buy one.

It's not fully light yet, so no one can say for sure.

Taking advantage of this brief respite, the waterline at the bottom of the well had already climbed onto the wheel.

Tieguai Li lunged forward, using bamboo strips to hold down the oilcloth ball.

"Hurry up, the car is breathing again."

Tang Wanqing's silver needle flew out and stuck in the crack of the blue brick next to the wheel.

The silver needle pressed against the waterline for a moment, and the needle tip immediately turned black.

"We can't hold on any longer."

Aunt Wang's eyes reddened with anxiety.

"Who did Sister Zhou usually give her first set of clothes to?"

Old Zhao shouted, "Sometimes the city management officers sneak around and take advantage of that kid."

Aunt Liu scolded, "That kid moved away."

Old Li said, "I've also given milk to people who deliver it by bicycle."

"They didn't come today."

The waterline climbed another inch.

The pancake started to heat up, but it wasn't heated properly; the iron surface made a hollow sound.

The fake pancake cart at the bottom of the well started making noise again, the shovel circling along the iron plate.

The green knots under Sister Zhou's car bulged up again, and the rag wad turned white from being pushed up.

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the empty space in front of the car and suddenly asked, "Sister Zhou, are you going to eat the first one yourself?"

Tong Kexin was taken aback, and Aunt Wang immediately nodded.

"Eat it! She said the first one wasn't cooked properly and it would be embarrassing to sell it to someone else, so she rolled it up and ate it herself."

Aunt Liu also remembered.

"Yes, I always let her take a couple of bites of the first one herself, and sometimes I leave half of it and stick it to the side of the car."

Cheng Xiaojin raised his hand and pointed to the bottom of the truck bed.

"try to find."

Tieguai Li crawled under the truck bed and rummaged around, making a loud bang as the toolbox clattered.

"What are you looking for?"

"Leftover pancake wrappers, even the burnt edges are fine."

Aunt Wang also squatted down, without touching the handlebars, but instead rummaged through the small drawer on the side.

The drawer is rusted and I can't open it.

Tieguai Li used a wooden-handled screwdriver to hold the drawer seam shut, instead of using an iron tip.

"Sister Zhou, could you lend me your drawer for a moment? I'll put some oil on it for you later."

The drawer clicked twice and then creaked open.

Inside were an old plastic bag, half a bunch of dried scallions, two eggshells, and a piece of dried, hardened, burnt pancake edge.

The burnt edges are stuck to the corner of the drawer; they are dark in color and curled at the edges.

Aunt Wang pinched the corner of the plastic bag and pulled out the scorched edge, her hands trembling violently.

"She left it last time."

Tong Kexin took it and put it into a clean bowl.

Cheng Xiaojin said, "Don't give it to the well, put it in front of the cart."

"Just leave it like this?"

"She ate the first one herself, and the burnt edges were hers from standing at the stall."

Tong Kexin placed the bowl in front of the pancake cart, and the bottom of the bowl hit the blue bricks with a soft sound.

The waterline on the wheel stopped, and the sound of the shovel at the bottom of the well paused for a moment.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Tieguai Li pushed the oilcloth ball back and cursed, "Go eat your fake pancakes."

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the scorched edge.

"Aunt Wang, call her the way she usually scolds the first person."

Aunt Wang wiped her face, her voice hoarse and stiff.

"The first one wasn't cooked properly, what a disgrace, I'll eat it myself."

Aunt Liu took over.

"There wasn't enough chopped green onion; I'll add it tomorrow."

Old Zhao also shouted.

"Sister Zhou, give me less chili, you always pretend you don't hear me."

Tong Kexin looked at the bowl, the long spoon pressed against the ground.

"Sister Zhou, your first photo is still here, no one can replace you."

The whole pancake cart got a little warm.

It's really hot this time.

A faint aroma of oil slowly wafted from the edge of the iron plate.

The scorched edge curled up in the bowl, and the water line on the wheel receded back into the crack in the ground.

The shovel from the fake pancake cart at the bottom of the well lost its rhythm, clattering three times in a row, the third clatter producing a cracking sound.

Crack! The crack in the main tank at the bottom of the well has widened further.

The fake neighbors all stepped back, their faces softened by the morning light.

The paper was roughened by the nib of Han Shaobai's pen.

"Sister Zhou's first charred edge is back in place, the pancake stall footprints are replaced by old rice, and the main jar cracks again."

Tieguai Li crawled out from under the car, his clothes covered in flour dust.

"This account is well written; Sister Zhou will be able to understand it when she gets back."

Tong Kexin didn't say anything, but pushed the bowl forward half an inch.

Tang Wanqing pulled out the blackened silver needle; the tip of the needle was bent.

She looked at the well opening. "The waterline has receded."

Cheng Xiaojin, however, did not loosen his grip.

"The retreat went too smoothly."

Tieguai Li sat on the ground and looked up at him.

"What commotion did you hear this time?"

"It won't be cheaper anyway."

The fake street at the bottom of the well is quiet, but this quietness is not right.

Just moments ago they were scrambling for the sound, the tail, and the ground, but now everything has stopped, not even the dripping sound of wet tickets is heard.

The fake neighbors stood around the gray circle, their faces turning into blurry white silhouettes, the wet tickets in their hands drooping down.

They no longer crowd in front of the stalls, nor do they try to speak like people.

Tong Kexin frowned. "You're admitting defeat just like that?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the well opening and shook his head.

"Shen Jiulou won't spend a whole night teaching them to admit defeat."

No sooner had she finished speaking than a bubble appeared in Aunt Liu's soy milk bucket.

Guh!

Immediately following, Old Li's tofu pudding bucket, Aunt Wang's steamed bun basket, Aunt Zhang's sesame seed cake oven, and Tong Kexin's braised pot all made a soft sizzling sound from the bottom of their pots.

The stall owners' faces completely changed.

Tong Kexin yanked open the lid of the braised pot, and a layer of tiny black specks floated on the surface of the old broth noodles.

The black dots are not gray; they swirl around the oil stains, forming a circle before dispersing.

The flames were still burning at the bottom of the pot, but the base of the flames had turned a little blue.

Tang Wanqing reached out to touch the red thread, but the red thread did not move.

"There's no malevolent aura about it."

Cheng Xiaojin stared at that point of blue.

"The fake street no longer steals from outsiders; it's feeding the pot with flavor."

"What should I feed you?"

"It tastes like fake stock."

Tong Kexin's face immediately darkened.

She dipped her long spoon into the pot, and as soon as it touched the soup noodles, a layer of black film coated the tip of the spoon.

The black membrane was thin, and it even smelled of meat, but the aroma was so faint it made one want to vomit.

Tong Kexin took the spoon out and placed it face down on the ground.

"This thing went into my pot?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the foot of the stove.

"It came from the bottom of the pot, and everyone was shouting and scrambling, trying to steal the first bite from the bottom of the pot."

Aunt Wang got anxious.

"Can I still eat the steamed buns?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked around.

"Keep it steady! Don't turn off the fire or tip the pot over."

Aunt Liu hurriedly tried to turn on the stove.

Tong Kexin didn't move.

Cheng Xiaojin looked at her.

"Kexin, cease fire."

Tong Kexin stared at the braised pot, her palm resting on the handle of the long ladle, not reaching for the valve.

"If the fire stops, does it mean my pot is out?"

Cheng Xiaojin did not answer immediately.

Tang Wanqing looked at him.

"She has a good question."

The row of illusory figures at the wellhead all looked up at the same time. Although they had no faces, everyone felt that they were waiting for this moment.

The fire in the pot where the living are kept still, the blue flames rise from the bottom of the well.

The third thing is recognizing the pot, recognizing the morning market, and recognizing this sip of braised broth.

If Tong Kexin turns off the fire first, the fake street at the bottom of the well can use blue flames to make up for it, saying that it took over the fire from the Huguosi morning market.

Tieguai Li gripped the pliers tightly.

"Closing it off is one thing, leaving it open is another; that bastard Shen Jiulou really knows how to pick his timing."

Han Shaobai's voice was strained.

"How should it be written in the account?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the blue flames at the bottom of the pot and suddenly smiled.

"Write it down, Shen Jiulou learned how to spread dirt, but he didn't learn how to change the fire at the food stall."

Tong Kexin turned her head.

"Change the fire?"

Cheng Xiaojin nodded.

"Keep the fire burning, and remove the pot from the rack."

Tieguai Li's eyes lit up.

"Lift the pot."

Tong Kexin immediately yelled.

"Old Zhao, bring the bench! Tiezhu, bring the carrying frame! Aunt Liu, push the empty stove over, don't let the fire go out, keep it burning hot!"

Aunt Liu snapped out of her daze and turned to run away.

"I have a spare furnace over there."

Aunt Wang closed the steamer lid.

"I'll get a wet towel."

Tang Wanqing pulled out two red threads, wrapped them around the outside of the pot handle, and didn't touch the soup.

"The red thread is only for the outer edge of the gloves; don't let the black smell get onto people's hands."

Tieguai Li removed two alloy steel pipes from the toolbox and threaded them through the pot handle.

Tong Kexin wrapped the other end of the steel pipe with a damp cloth.

Cheng Xiaojin stood three steps away, raised his iron-blue hand, but was stopped by Tang Wanqing.

"Don't go up there."

"I'm not planning on going up there; I'd have to charge for even carrying a bowl."

Tieguai Li cursed, "If you know it, then you can command with peace of mind."

Cheng Xiaojin stared at the blue flame at the bottom of the pot.

"Don't shake it when you lift it up. Don't flip it over during the last bite at the bottom of the pot. The black film will float on the surface; don't let it sink to the bottom."

Tong Kexin gritted her teeth.

"Anyone who dares to shake my pot, I'll use them to make soup."

Tieguai Li and Lao Zhao stood on either side, while Tong Kexin stood in front, controlling the edge of the pot.

With the combined effort of the three people, the braising pot was lifted half an inch off the stove rack.

The blue flames at the bottom of the stove immediately shot upwards, as if trying to lick the bottom of the pot.

Cheng Xiaojin shouted, "Higher!"

Tieguai Li's shoulders slumped.

"This pot is heavier than Han Shaobai's account book."

Han Shaobai raised his hand from the side.

"I can pay someone to do it."

"You're hiring a ghost to lay bricks."

Han Shaobai quickly picked up two blue bricks and placed them on either side of the spare stove.

Aunt Liu pushed over the spare stove; the fire was red-hot, and the yellow flames were steady.

Tong Kexin spotted the spot and called out.

"Fall!"

The braising pot was placed on the spare stove. As soon as the bottom of the pot was settled, the yellow flames licked up, and the black film on the soup noodles shrank to the center.

Cheng Xiaojin said, "Don't stir, use the old broth oil to press the edges."

Tong Kexin poured the last bit of the old soup oil she brought back last night from the small aluminum kettle and carefully poured it around the edge of the pot.

When the old broth oil touches the black membrane, the membrane immediately curls up into a thin sheet.

The thin skin was trying to slip into the soup, but Aunt Wang, quick as a flash, handed it the steamer lid at an angle.

"Fishing?"

Cheng Xiaojin nodded.

"The bun wrapper is used as a base."

Aunt Wang grabbed a torn dumpling wrapper from the steamer and placed it on the lid of the steamer.

Tong Kexin used a long spoon to hold the black membrane and then folded it onto the bun skin.

Sizzle! The bun skin turned black, but it wasn't rotten.

The black membrane twists and turns, turning the meaty aroma into a rusty smell.

Tieguai Li used pliers to clamp the edge of the steamed bun.

"Is this the fake Lao Tang?"

Cheng Xiaojin listened for a while.

"The first bite fed from the bottom of the well and the bottom of the pot."

Han Shaobai wrote it down immediately.

"The first sip of the fake broth, before it even reaches the bottom of the pot, is forced out by the oil from the broth, and the bun skin shrinks."

The black water in the ledger receded in large patches, and a cracking sound came from the red-cracked bamboo tube, as the moldy green shrank into the depths of the crack.

The row of illusory figures at the wellhead simultaneously appeared half a head shorter.

A series of loud clattering sounds came from the underground fake street.

Just now, it stole the wire from the bottom of the pot on the ground, but it was cut off by the fire-switching move.

The fake braising pot was burning with a blue flame when it wasn't connected to the real pot.

The fake soy milk buckets and fake tofu pudding stalls were also thrown into chaos, and the sound of knocking on the bottom of the pot was scattered.

Tong Kexin looked at the braised pot on the new stove, where the soup noodles were bubbling up again. Only then did she loosen her grip on the steel pipe, her palms burning red, but she didn't cry out in pain.

Cheng Xiaojin saw it.

"hand----"

Tong Kexin wiped her hands on her apron.

"It's alright, my hands aren't as valuable as yours."

Tang Wanqing tossed the bandage to her.

"Wrap it up."

Tong Kexin caught it and wrapped it around haphazardly twice.

Tieguai Li placed the piece of steamed bun wrapped in black film next to the gray circle at the wellhead.

"What should we do with this?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at Aunt Liu's bean juice bucket.

"Sourness can dispel false fragrance."

Aunt Liu immediately scooped half a spoonful of soy milk and poured it onto the bun skin.

The sour smell hits, and the black membrane shrinks into a ball.

Old Li brought over half a bowl of braised tofu pudding, adding a salty flavor.

Aunt Zhang grabbed a handful of ash from the oven and sprinkled it on the outside.

Aunt Wang closed the steamer lid, and Tieguai Li tapped the edge of the lid with pliers.

"Huguosi breakfast set meal, a cure for fake soup at the bottom of the well."

A muffled thud came from the bottom of the well.

It was the sound of the earthenware pot completely cracking.

The charred edge on the front of Sister Zhou's pancake cart curled up slightly before falling back into the bowl.

The water vapor at the wellhead contracted downwards, and the dry edge of the gray ring reappeared.

The shadow of the fake Old Zhao dissipated beneath his feet, the wet ticket in the hand of the fake Aunt Zhang shattered into two pieces, and the fake Old Man Sun didn't even have time to put his face back together before the morning light sliced ​​off half of his shoulder.

The pots and pans on the street were bubbling up one after another.

Aunt Liu's soy milk boiled, and white foam overflowed the rim of the bucket.

Aunt Wang's steamer basket was steaming hot, and Old Li's tofu pudding was emitting a fresh aroma of soybeans.

Tong Kexin's braising pot made a bubbling sound, the thick material pressing down on the bottom of the well making a hollow noise.

When Han Shaobai finished writing this stroke and looked up, his eyes were red from the smoke.

"This deal is settled."

Cheng Xiaojin walked to the outside of the well and stopped three feet away from the gray circle.

The sounds from the fake street at the bottom of the well have faded away.

Even after retreating a hundred meters below, the stall is still there, the pot is still there, and the blue flame is still there.

The fake soup that had just been interrupted could no longer be fed; the main tank of Sister Zhou's fake pancake cart was cracked, and the sound of the shovel had fallen silent.

But the fake street didn't disperse.

It moved its stall back, to a place where the gray circle couldn't reach it, and started queuing again.

Cheng Xiaojin heard something counting stalls on the ground.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

After counting the seven stalls, I counted the voices of the people.

Braised pork, fermented mung bean juice, tofu pudding, steamed buns, sesame seed cakes, newsstands, and pancakes.

When they got to the pancakes, the thing paused, clearly dissatisfied.

Then, the sound of paper rubbing came from the bottom of the well.

The wet paper was turned over, and the real money was sandwiched between the burning paper and spread out one by one.

Han Shaobai couldn't hear anything, but he could see that Cheng Xiaojin's expression was off.

"Brother Cheng?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the well opening.

"It's keeping accounts."

Han Shaobai clutched the ledger tightly.

"Who?"

"That fake street at the bottom of the well."

Tieguai Li cursed.

"You still have to do your homework even if you lose a game?"

Cheng Xiaojin shook his head. "It remembers to leave a little bit at the bottom of the pot, to have regular customers stand at the stall, not to sell to strangers on the first bite, to refuse wet tickets, to shout 'break the end,' and to keep the pot burning even when the fire is changed."

Tong Kexin walked over from the pot, her bandage wrapped crookedly around her hand.

"Can it learn it?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at her.

"I can't learn it today."

"What about tomorrow?"

Cheng Xiaojin looked at the gray circle that had just dried.

"A different person will continue tomorrow."

The streets were a little quieter.

This statement is even more disheartening than someone hawking their wares from the bottom of a well.

Aunt Wang held the steamer lid in her arms.

"Who should we replace them with?"

A soft laugh suddenly came from deep within the well.

That laugh wasn't Shen Jiulou's; it was thin, old, and came from a voice that had been soaked in water.

Laughter climbed up the well bricks and stopped at the bottom of the gray circle. A shadow emerged from the well water, half of its face visible.

Before the face even took shape, a hand was already outstretched.

It had no wet tickets in its hand; instead, it held a bowl, the bottom of which was spotless and dazzlingly shiny.

A small piece of burnt pancake edge was stuck to the rim of the bowl.

Aunt Wang's steamer lid slammed against her knee with a loud thud.

Tong Kexin took a step forward, holding the long spoon horizontally.

Cheng Xiaojin stared at the bowl, hearing three soft sounds coming from the bottom of it.

The shovel collided with the other.

The color drained from his face little by little.

"That's—Sister Zhou's bowl."