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

The fire in the stove gradually died down, leaving only a bowl of "mud soup" on the bluestone stove that looked dirty but exuded warmth.

Meng Po didn't speak. She looked at the bowl of mud soup, took half a step forward, and lowered her head to smell the warmth.

Then she looked up and glanced at the Old Man Under the Moon.

There was no forgiveness, no relief, but also no hatred in that glance.

It's just exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that comes from being exhausted for a thousand years and finally no longer having to be exhausted.

The Old Man of the Moon was moved to tears by that glance, but dared not utter a single word.

I raised my hand to wipe away the lingering heat from the rim of the bowl, looked at the two of them, and said in a calm yet firm voice: "The old rules have been abolished, and the obsession has been resolved."

"This soup may look dirty, but it has the truest flavor of life."

"From now on, it will be called—the Seven-Flavor Rule-Breaking Meng Po Soup."

Meng Po stared blankly at the bowl of mud soup, as if she hadn't heard me.

The Meng Po soup she guarded for a thousand years was as clear as water.

That pot of clear soup was for herself. She brewed a bowl of forgetfulness potion, pretending that she could forget the past completely.

But this bowl of mud soup is different.

It was murky, it was ugly; it stirred up everything hidden at the bottom of the water and laid it all out in the open. She found it dirty.

But she could smell the warmth.

It tasted like the rice porridge Wan Xiliang cooked by the stove long, long ago, before she was taken to repair the Great Wall.

The porridge had burned to the bottom and was cloudy, but Wan Xiliang took a sip and said it tasted good.

She scolded him for having a problem with his sense of taste.

That was the last time she ever cooked.

From then on, she never cooked for anyone again.

Later, she arrived at the Bridge of Helplessness and began to brew soup, which took a thousand years to brew. She brewed the soup until it was crystal clear, thinking that this would filter out the past as well.

But as the soup was filtered for a thousand years, it became clearer and clearer, while the things in her heart grew heavier and heavier.

Until today. Until this bowl of mud soup was placed in front of her.

She suddenly realized something.

The clear broth is fake.

Life is a mess.

Love and hate are intertwined.

The rice porridge must be completely burnt at the bottom to be truly authentic.

  

Meng Po's shoulders trembled slightly.

It wasn't crying, it was laughing.

It was faint and brief, like finally settling a score that had been accusing someone for a thousand years.

She turned her head and looked at the Old Man Under the Moon.

Aren't you going to drink it?

Her voice was hoarse, but the chilling coldness of the past was gone. Instead, it sounded like someone who had been waiting for a long time was finally urging her to speak.

The Old Man of the Moon shuddered.

He had been standing there the whole time, watching Meng Po smell the soup and the faint smile on her lips. His heart felt like it was being gripped and then released, over and over again, and he couldn't quite describe the feeling.

He recalled the three layers of tears that Chang Baiwei had just pointed out, the life of Meng Jiangnu that had been completely consumed by the feudal ethics, and how many red threads he had personally severed over the millennia by using the concept of "marrying someone of equal social standing" as a command.

He used to think he was acting on behalf of God, but now he realizes he's nothing more than an executioner with scissors.

Of those red threads he cut, how many were genuine? How many were simply severed because he felt they were "inappropriate"? He dared not count.

He took a deep breath, slowly walked forward, and stood in front of the stove.

The white jade porcelain bowl sat quietly on the stove, the "Seven Flavors of Meng Po Soup" still steaming slightly.

It looks like a bowl of murky muddy water, yet it exudes a comforting warmth.

It's like a freshly baked sweet potato in winter, or a bowl of steaming dumplings on New Year's Eve.

The Matchmaker stared at the bowl of soup, his expression complex.

Then he turned around and bowed deeply to me.

"Thank you, shopkeeper."

This bow washed away his millennia-old arrogance as a celestial being, and brought forth a heart full of remorse and relief.

His red robe trailed on the ground, getting stained with oil droplets from the stove, but he ignored it.

His white beard hung down to his chest, curling slightly from the heat of the stove fire, but he ignored it.

He was just an old man who had been in debt for a thousand years. Before he could repay his debt, he finally thanked the person who gave him the antidote.

After saying that, he no longer hesitated, picked up the bowl of dirty muddy soup, tilted his head back and drank it all in one gulp.

The soup didn't have the fishy or foul smell I had imagined.

First comes a very faint sweetness, not the sweetness of honey, but the sweetness of rice water when a baby is weaned, mixed with the aroma of milk, slightly astringent and then dissipating.

That's the taste of tears.

Before the sweetness had fully dissipated, a sour taste suddenly rose on the tip of my tongue.

It was like biting into an unripe green apricot; the sourness made his back teeth feel weak.

A bitter taste then rose on the back of my tongue. It was the taste of old tears and bitter tears tangled together.

Tears of old age are the tears of a person in their twilight years; bitter tears are the tears of a person swallowing all their resentment.

The three flavors of sour, sweet, and bitter swirled on his tongue, and before he could distinguish which flavor was which, a spicy sensation suddenly surged up from deep in his throat.

It's not the fiery heat of chili peppers, but the intense sensation of being doused with a basin of cold water in the dead of winter.

It is the bitterness of tears shed during illness, and the pain of tears shed in parting.

The Old Man of the Moon groaned, his hand holding the empty bowl trembling slightly.

The spiciness traveled down my throat and back into my chest, circling around my heart before finally transforming into an indescribable, mellow flavor that lingered on the back of my tongue.

Those were tears of regret, tears of longing. They were the face that someone had endured for a thousand years at the Bridge of Helplessness, a face they could never forget.

Seven flavors enter the stomach.

The Old Man of the Moon closed his eyes.

His tongue was still numb, but the flavors were no longer in his mouth.

They rushed down his throat and into the top of his head, exploding into images before his eyes.

He saw Meng Jiangnu weeping her heart out at the foot of the Great Wall.

I saw Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai transform into butterflies in front of their grave.

I've seen countless ordinary people suffer setbacks and even get hurt for that little bit of sincerity.

A scholar waited at the ferry for three days and three nights, only to be met by an empty boat.

A widow stayed at the mourning hall for fifty years, until she herself became a monument.

A young man crossed three mountains just to deliver a basket of bayberries to the girl he loved, only to find out upon arrival that she had married the day before.

He didn't arrange these red lines.

Because in his eyes, none of these are in compliance with regulations.

The scholar's family was too lowly, the widow's fate was to bring misfortune to her husband, and the young man couldn't even afford the betrothal gifts.

What makes him think he can set them up?

He is the matchmaker, and he abides by the rules, not people's hearts.

But at this moment, these images flashed before his eyes in fits and starts.

This time he wasn't watching.

He was tasting it.

He tasted every bitter, every sour, and every pain they swallowed that they couldn't swallow or spit out.

All that bitterness, all that sourness, all that pain, was delivered by him.

The God of Love's knees buckled, and he almost knelt down.

He reached out and grabbed the edge of the stove for support; the rough bluestone pressed against his palm, making it difficult for him to stand.

His aura began to surge violently, and the rigid and restrained immortal aura he originally possessed seemed to be washed away from his very bones by this warm current, leaving him completely clean.

Instead, there is a gentle, clear, and compassionate feeling, imbued with the warmth of everyday life.

When he opened his eyes again, his cloudy old eyes revealed an unprecedented clarity.

He looked down at the empty bowl in his hand, with a little bit of murky soup residue still at the bottom.

He rubbed the bottom of the bowl with his thumb, put the smear of soup into his mouth, and tasted it again.

This time, there was no smell at all. Only warmth.

It's like a bowl of plain water, but with something more than plain water.

He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was something he had owed for a thousand years and was finally repaying today.

He gently placed the bowl on the stove and looked up.

"I understand..." the Old Man of the Moon murmured to himself, his voice trembling slightly.

"Marriage is not predetermined; it is merely a matter of human choice."

He looked down at the red spool in his hand.

In the past, when he looked at these red lines, he saw destiny, social status, and divine rules.

He looked at the red line like he was looking at an account book, calculating each and every detail clearly.

This one matches that one perfectly; they're a match made in heaven.

He thought he was acting on behalf of Heaven.

But now, what he sees are burning hearts and hands that refuse to let go.

His fingers trembled slightly as he gently stroked the red thread.

The red thread trembled slightly under his fingertips, as if sensing something.

For the first time in millions of years, these red threads were not "pulled" out by him, but were "waiting" for him.

Once he has figured it out, once he returns these threads to those who truly love each other.

He suddenly turned his head and looked at Meng Po.

"Miss Meng." His voice was old, yet steady as a stone that had been dropped to the ground.

"I will reconnect you and Wan Xiliang. Even if it means tearing a hole in the sky, I will make sure you two can continue your relationship."

"besides!"

He took a deep breath, and his voice suddenly rose, echoing throughout the entire food stall.

His shout startled the flames on the stove, causing them to jump three times, and dust from the cracks in the bluestone slabs began to fall down.

He stood ramrod straight, his white beard fluttering in the firelight, his eyes still red-rimmed, but his gaze was as bright as if he had become three thousand years younger.

"From this day forward, I, the Old Man of the Moon, will act as matchmaker, no longer caring about social status or worldly etiquette!"

"Just follow the will of the people!"

"Only true feelings matter!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he lightly flicked his fingertips, and a strand of red thread floated out from the axle.

This time, the red thread was no longer a cold, hard silk thread.

It glowed with a faint red light, as if it had warmth and life, gently wrapping around his fingertips.

The light wasn't dazzling.

It was as warm as an oil lamp in the twelfth lunar month, or like the color of candlelight reflecting on a girl's face as she embroidered her wedding dress by the window in a small courtyard in the mortal world.

Looking at the red thread on his fingertip, Meng Po finally couldn't hold back her tears.

This time, it's not resentment, but liberation.

Her tears were not bitter.

She just knew.

She had simmered the soup for a thousand years and tasted all the bitterness in the world, so she knew that the two watermarks on her face were faint.

She raised her hand to wipe the corner of her eye, and looked down to see a clean, unused porcelain bowl on the stove.

She reached out and picked up the bowl, scooped half a bowl of water from the water vat by the stove, and took a sip.

It's not Meng Po soup, it's just water.

For a thousand years, the soup had been simmering at the Bridge of Helplessness. For the first time, she drank a bowl of plain water without Meng Po's soup.

The water slid down her throat; it didn't taste like much, but she found it sweet.

The flames on the stove flickered, as if cheering for this scene.

I stood aside, watching all of this, a faint smile playing on my lips.

This soup is made with tears, it unravels knots in the heart, and it breaks with old conventions.

The lively atmosphere at the corner of Nantianmen is still strong.

The fire in the stove was still burning, and the strange dishes on the cutting board that even immortals and demons avoided were waiting for the next customer.

My anti-gross food stall story continues.

And from tonight onwards, the bonds of marriage in this world have finally come alive, in accordance with the hearts of men.

A new dish has been added to the food stall: "Seven-Flavor Breaking Meng Po Soup".

I wrote the name of the dish on the mottled wooden sign in front of the stall. The ink was still wet, and the heat from the stove made the edges curl up slightly.

I stepped back and looked at it, and thought the name was alright.

I don't know who will drink this soup in the future, or what stories it will bring.

But I know one thing—once this soup is on the menu, it won't be sold in just one bowl.

I just didn't expect that the place where things would change the fastest would not be the Marriage Hall at the South Heavenly Gate, nor the thousands upon thousands of bridal sedan chairs and wedding halls in the mortal world.

It's that place that has had only one story for thousands of years.