Celestial Food Stall: I Set Up a Food Stall in Heaven

Turn west past three cloud walls from the South Heavenly Gate, and you'll find the most inconspicuous corner of the Heavenly Court.

This place is perpetually filled with a smoky, earthy smell that clashes with the serene and ethereal atmosphere of the Nine Heavens—a smell of everyday life mixed with a hint of burnt food.

My unconventional cuisine stall is set up in this chaotic shadow.

The fire in the stove never goes out, and the dishes laid out on the cutting board are all strange dishes that even immortals and demons would avoid.

The sky had just begun to darken. Usually at this time, a few drunken immortals or demon cultivators who had failed their tribulation would come to ask for a bite to eat.

But today the stall was unusually quiet, with only the occasional crackling sound from the stove fire.

Two distinct auras, one after the other, landed unexpectedly beside the wooden table in front of the stall.

The one who arrives early is the Matchmaker.

He wore his plain red robe neatly, and even the wrinkles at the hem were ironed smooth by magic.

The old man was always smiling, and he always had a kind and benevolent look on his face.

But at this moment, he was gripping the red thread spool he always carried with him tightly in his hand, his knuckles turning bluish-white from the force.

  

He reached out to stroke his beard, but stopped halfway, his gaze darting away, completely devoid of the composure and calmness he once possessed when he governed human relationships.

Following closely behind her was Meng Po, who took her seat.

Unlike the hasty arrival of the Old Man of the Moon, she came silently.

She wore a pristine white dress, her hair simply tied up, and she exuded a unique medicinal scent, carrying the bitter aroma of spider lilies.

The taste wasn't strong, but it was bone-chillingly cold, like the perpetually freezing water beneath the Bridge of Helplessness.

But if you get close enough to discern it—provided, of course, that someone dares to get close enough—you'll find a faint, indescribable fishy odor beneath the bitterness.

It's not the smell of blood, nor the smell of decay; it's the smell of rules that have been left out for a long time, become moldy, and then been repeatedly taken out and used for thousands of years.

I leaned against the stove, slowly and deliberately wiping the gleaming wok in my hand, without making a sound.

One tied the red thread at the Three Lives Stone, while the other severed their ties at the Bridge of Helplessness. These two should have been mortal enemies who would never see each other again. It seems that the Old Man of the Moon has made a great decision to invite this great Buddha to the meeting today.

I didn't rush to greet them. I gently tapped the spatula on the edge of the stove with a clang, signaling the start of the conversation.

The Old Man of the Moon's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and finally, as if he had made up his mind, he squeezed out a slightly stiff smile.

He gestured with his hand, "Miss Meng, please sit. I invited you here today for no other reason than to have a good chat and put an end to our old grievances."

Meng Po didn't move, not even lifting her eyelids.

She lightly tapped her slender fingers on the greasy tabletop, then withdrew them in disgust.

His voice was as calm as the water beneath the Bridge of Helplessness, revealing no emotion whatsoever: "If the Old Man of the Moon has come to reminisce, turn left at the door and don't bother seeing me off. If he has come to repay a debt, sit down."

The smile on the Old Man of the Moon's face froze, as he was somewhat embarrassed by this subtle rebuff.

He took a deep breath, stopped beating around the bush, and sighed, "I know you've always hated me. You hate me for messing things up back then, you hate the way you and Wan Xiliang ended up, and you hate this thousand years of loneliness."

I invited you here today to find a solution. We can't let this feud drag on for millennia, preventing everyone from finding peace.

After he finished speaking, he turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a resolute determination, as if he were making a desperate gamble.

He had clearly found out the rules of my stall beforehand: "Shopkeeper, bring out your best dishes that can resolve conflicts and settle scores first."

I raised an eyebrow, put down the spatula, and slowly began, "Our signature dish, 'Flaming Mountain and You Forever' Grilled Beef Steak. Last time, a customer ate it and sat staring at the empty plate all night. It's said to resolve all the world's love and hate entanglements and millennia-old grudges. But the taste... well, it might not suit your palate. Think carefully before you eat it."

Upon hearing this, the Old Man of the Moon immediately nodded, his eyes shining: "Let's go with this one."

He looked at Meng Po again, and his previously hesitant expression gradually became serious when the name of that dish was mentioned.

A thousand-year-old feud and confrontation quietly began in front of this small, unconventional food stall, accompanied by the crackling of the stove fire.

I flicked the flames off the stone stove, and they shot up high.

The orange-red flames licked the bottom of the pot, illuminating the two faces in front of the stall—the Old Man of the Moon's usually rosy face was now full of wrinkles, while Meng Po's eyes were as cold as ice shards that could not be melted.

The iron spatula in my hand clattered against the edge of the stove again. The sound was small, but it just broke the deadly silence between the two of us.

"Gentlemen, the 'Flaming Mountain and Longevity' roast beef steak needs to be slowly seared over a low flame, so that the resentment is forced into the meat's texture. The dish isn't cooked yet, but we can warm up our conversation first, instead of just staring at each other in vain."

As if awakened by the sound, the Old Man of the Moon (the god of marriage) readily sat down on the wooden stool.

His hands, accustomed to holding red threads, gripped the red thread spool at his waist so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He looked up at Meng Po, who was still standing there, and squeezed out a pleading sound from his throat: "Miss Meng, please sit down. This stall owner has seen all sorts of messy affairs in the Three Realms. Our little troubles are nothing to hide."

Meng Po didn't move.

The bitter scent of spider lilies lingered around me for a while.

After a long while, she slowly sat down.

Her pristine white sleeve swept across the oil-splattered wooden bench, and she didn't even glance at the God of Love the entire time, her voice as cold as if she had just been pulled out of an ice cellar.

"I don't have time to listen to your reminiscing. For the past thousand years, I've been simmering soup at the bridgehead, sending off more ghosts than you've tied red threads. I don't have the leisure to listen to your explanations."

These words were like a needle, piercing through the last shred of dignity left by the Old Man of the Moon.

He sighed deeply, his graying eyebrows furrowing into a tight knot, finally abandoning his evasive tactics: "I admit it! I admit to this debt from a thousand years ago!"

"You were originally Meng Jiangnu, and I tied that red thread with my own hands. But back then, the mortal world's etiquette was like a knife to my throat, and the heavenly rules were so restrictive that I couldn't breathe! I... I was afraid back then too! I couldn't protect your true feelings, and instead, you ended up crying down the Great Wall and your soul returning to the underworld."

Meng Po's hands, hanging by her sides, clenched tightly, her nails almost digging into her flesh.

She suddenly looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, tears welling up but refusing to fall.

"No one has called this name in a thousand years."

"Admit it? Can your casual 'admit it' erase all the suffering I've endured in my life?"

"I've been brewing this soup by the Bridge of Helplessness for a thousand years, offering others the chance to forget their love. But what about myself? I can't forget Wan Xiliang, I can't forget that collapsed Great Wall! Isn't all of this thanks to you?"

The Matchmaker was rendered speechless by the rebuttal, and his hand holding the red thread spool trembled like a leaf.

After a long silence, he finally spoke in a hoarse voice: "It's all my fault, no matter what. Over the years, I've been tormented by your hatred, and I've always made the wrong choices. Watching countless lovers being torn apart by those ridiculous rules, how could I ever have peace of mind? I invited you here today to give myself and to you an explanation."

As we were talking, I brought the cooked steak to the table.

In the black porcelain plate, the piece of meat was rich in color, with an eerie fiery red halo on its surface, which was the suppressed resentment.

As the aroma spread, it wasn't the cloying sweetness of celestial dishes, but rather a rich, earthy scent that seemed to penetrate right to the top of one's head.

I pushed the plate between the two of them: "Enjoy it while it's hot. This meat can evoke the truest thoughts in your heart and rekindle broken bonds. Enjoy."

The Matchmaker stared at the plate of steak, took a deep breath, as if he had made some earth-shattering decision.

He suddenly looked up at Meng Po, his eyes revealing a madness.

"Meng Po, I swear by the celestial path of the Old Man Under the Moon and the predestined relationships of the three realms. Today, I offer you this steak, and I will dedicate my entire life's cultivation to reconnect you and Wan Xiliang, allowing you to continue your past love!"

Meng Po was stunned, clearly not expecting the old man to say such a thing.

"If I succeed, our thousand-year-old grudges will be wiped clean, and we will owe each other nothing from now on!" The Old Man of the Moon's voice slammed onto the table, resounding powerfully.

But then, he abruptly changed the subject—he paused for a moment. That pause was very short, as short as the brief moment a charcoal nugget explodes in a stove fire, but the person sitting opposite him could sense that he wasn't carefully choosing his words, but rather leaving himself one last door to turn around.

Then he closed the door.

"But if I can't do it, if I can't reconnect this red thread," he raised his eyes and looked directly at Meng Po, "I am willing to drink the Meng Po soup that you brewed yourself."

As soon as these words were spoken, not only did Meng Po's expression change drastically, but even my hand, which was wiping the spoon, suddenly stopped.

That old man has gone mad. He's probably forgotten that everyone in the Three Realms can drink that soup, except for him, the Old Man of the Moon.

Meng Po abruptly stood up, her body radiating a chilling aura, and shouted fiercely, "Are you insane?! Do you know the consequences of drinking that soup?!"

The Old Man of the Moon gave a bitter laugh, his eyes filled with resolute determination.

"Of course I know. I govern the marriages of the Three Realms, and all the memories of the red threads are engraved in my soul. Once I drink your soup, I will forget all the rules and all the marriages. At that time, the order of the Three Realms will collapse, and lovers in the world will have no red thread to follow, and the world will be in chaos."

"But this is what I owe you. If I can't make it up to you, I'd rather not be the matchmaker anymore."

Meng Po stared at him blankly, a crack appearing in the ice in her eyes.

The resentment that had lingered for a thousand years began to soften at this moment, but the unwillingness in her heart prevented her from easily giving in.

She gripped her sleeve tightly and spoke coldly.

"Alright, I accept the bet. I want to see if you can break this thousand-year-old regret and reconnect that broken red thread."