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

I've been setting up a stall outside Nantianmen for a while now.

All sorts of deities passed by my stall, some to fill their stomachs, some to try something new, and some just passing by and casually spitting out, "The mundane world's grime has soiled the shoes of the immortals."

I never talk back.

For a cook, arguing with a customer is the stupidest thing to do. Keeping the stove burning and the cutting board busy is the best way to respond.

My "anti-traditional cuisine" is just a reminder to myself: use traditional methods to cook, but don't follow the old ways; make strange dishes, but don't forget the roots.

As evening fell and the afterglow faded, the crowd outside the South Heavenly Gate thinned out. I was tidying up the stove when I caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing in front of the stall.

The man was wearing a golden robe and a Vairocana hat, with a faint Buddhist light emanating from his body—he was a golden Arhat.

The South Heavenly Gate is the territory of the Heavenly Court, and people from Mount Ling rarely venture this way. For an Arhat to appear before a market stall is unusual in itself.

But what I noticed wasn't his robe, but the way he walked. He hunched over, lowered his eyes, and walked very lightly, as if afraid of disturbing someone.

I'm all too familiar with this posture.

Only those who have been demoted possess this quality. No matter what title they later receive, those who have been demoted will forever retain the curve of their knees from that time.

The title is new, but the knee is old.

"Sit down." I pointed to the bench in front of the stall.

He sat down, his robe trailing on the ground, stained with a greasy corner. He didn't brush it off, but simply sat quietly, like a tower that had taken root.

"What would you like to eat?"

"Plain noodles." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in a long time.

I cooked the noodles, scooped out the broth, and sprinkled on some chopped green onions. It was just a simple bowl of plain noodles.

He took it, lowered his head and ate slowly, stirring the noodles in the bowl with his chopsticks as if he were counting them.

A person who eats noodles and counts the noodles either has something on their mind or is keeping accounts.

Halfway through his noodles, he put down his chopsticks, took out a stack of papers from his sleeve, and laid them on my greasy cutting board.

The paper was old, with frayed edges at the creases, but the handwriting was neat and precise, each stroke as if measured with a ruler.

  

I glanced down at it—it was a lawsuit. It accused the Heavenly Court of withholding wages. It accused the Heavenly Court of illegally dismissing me. It accused the Heavenly Court of failing to fulfill its promise to reinstate me.

Signed: General of the Front Curtain, Golden Arhat, Sha Wujing.

I slung the rag over my shoulder and didn't say a word. Having been a street vendor outside Nantianmen for so many years, I've seen all sorts of people.

This is the first person to file a complaint.

"Boss Chang," he said, his voice hoarse but deliberate, "you have connections in Heaven. I want to settle a score, and I need someone to show me the way."

I took a closer look at the indictment.

His accounts were meticulously detailed: annual salary for the Peach Banquet, rank allowance for the Curtain-Rolling General, resettlement fees for the Flowing Sand River over five hundred years, and even interest calculated to two decimal places.

Every stroke of the pen has its origin, and every rule has its basis in divine law.

A person who had been demoted for five hundred years remembered every single penny that the Heavenly Court owed him.

I put down the lawsuit and looked at him: "You've kept these numbers for five hundred years?"

"It wasn't memorized." He paused, "It was added stroke by stroke each year when a flying sword pierced the chest."

The wind blew in from outside the South Heavenly Gate, making the stove fire flicker.

I caught a glimpse of his arm peeking out from under his sleeve, covered in a dense array of old wounds. Not the marks from clashing swords, but the fine, scattered scars from the piercing energy of sword strikes, layer upon layer, old wounds piled on top of new ones, like an old ledger turned over five hundred years ago, every page stamped with the same seal.

"Does this injury still hurt on cloudy days?"

Sha Wujing stopped eating with his chopsticks. He looked up at me, something flashing in his eyes, like a dog used to being beaten suddenly being patted on the head.

How did you know?

I didn't answer. A chef who's been grilling meat for so many years can tell at a glance what kind of wound is from fire and what kind is from sword energy.

This isn't a skill, it's an occupational hazard. Having witnessed countless instances of skill and skill, one inevitably encounters numerous setbacks.

I handed the complaint back to him and pressed down on the chopping board: "Eat your noodles first. If the noodles clump together, the case will have been filed for nothing."

He lowered his head and continued eating his noodles. The sound of his chopsticks stirring the noodles was soft and rhythmic, like someone re-regulating their breathing.

The next morning, Sha Wujing went to the Immortal Register Office.

The Celestial Register Office is located in the eastern corner of the Heavenly Court, managing all the celestial registers and records in the Three Realms. The entrance is not large, but the threshold is extremely high—not an adjective, it really is high, a full three feet and three inches.

It is said that the first head of the Celestial Register Office was short and afraid of being looked down upon, so he built the threshold up to his waist. Celestial officials passing by had to lift their robes and raise their legs, a very unseemly posture, but no one dared to remove it for thousands of years.

A threshold is also a rule. No matter how inconvenient the rule is, no one will remove it.

Behind the window sat a celestial official, with fair skin and a friendly smile, as polite as if he were seeing his own father.

"Excuse me, I would like to check the demotion document of the General of Curtains from five hundred years ago."

The celestial official's smile remained unchanged, a smile that seemed to be embedded in his face: "The records are from five hundred years ago; they're so old, they're probably hard to find."

Sha Wujing handed over the inquiry fee.

The other person accepted it, pulled a form from under the window and pushed it over with practiced ease, clearly having rehearsed it tens of thousands of times: "First, fill out the 'Archives Inquiry Application Form.' Three pages, front and back, two copies. The 'Purpose of Inquiry' section on the third page needs to be clearly stated—is it a personal request or an inquiry from your employer? The two windows are different. Oh, an inquiry from an employer requires an official seal, and a personal request requires proof of the person being inquired about at the time of the inquiry."

Sha Wujing picked up the watch, glanced at it, and then looked at the service guide sign hanging above the window.

The sign was densely packed with dozens of items, each with an arrow pointing to a different window. The longest arrow made five turns before finally pointing to a corner hidden by a wall.

There was no ticket dispenser, but a wooden sign was stuck by the window, which read: Today's processed items: Parts. Yesterday's processed items: Parts. This month's processed items: 01. After the "1", there was a blurry white mark scraped off with a fingernail, like a ghost that dared not leave its name.

He filled out the form and handed it back.

The celestial official glanced at the form and pushed it back: "Writing 'personal request' as the purpose of the query is incorrect. You're querying a demotion document, which falls under personnel files; you should check 'personnel dispute.' But personnel disputes require a letter from the labor arbitration tribunal first. To get the letter from the labor arbitration tribunal, you need to obtain a case filing receipt from the Inspectorate. To get the case filing receipt, you need to fill out a 'Labor Arbitration Application Form.' The 'Labor Arbitration Application Form' requires you to provide the Heavenly Court's Unified Social Credit Code of the respondent unit."

He smiled and said politely, "I suggest you consult the Inspectorate first."

Sha Wujing didn't argue. He folded the table, put it in his sleeve, and turned to leave.

As his skirt brushed against the three-foot-three-inch threshold, he tripped. He staggered half a step, but regained his balance.

There was a very shallow and new scratch on the threshold.

He went to the Inspectorate. The threshold of the Inspectorate wasn't high, but two stone pixiu (mythical creatures) squatted at the entrance, their mouths agape, eight characters carved on their fangs: "Enforcing the law is like a mountain; there's no way to complain." The duty officer exuded righteousness, so righteous that one felt embarrassed to doubt him: "We are a law enforcement department; we don't handle files. Demotion documents belong to personnel files; you should check with the Salary Department."

Sha Wujing went to the Salary Department. The celestial official there flipped through the registers for a long time, from the first page to the last, and then back again, shaking his head: "To check a pay slip from five hundred years ago, we first need the Celestial Register Department to issue a certificate of the celestial's employment. Without the certificate, we can't check."

Three departments, a perfect closed loop. Every step was polite and courteous, every step followed the rules, and every step did absolutely nothing.

Sha Wujing didn't argue. He memorized the locations of the windows in the three departments, the faces of the officials on duty, and the tone of their voices when they said "It's not my responsibility." The next day, he went back to the same place again. The result was exactly the same.

On the third day, he didn't go to the department anymore. He went to the Purple Bamboo Forest.