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

The clouds and mist over Nantianmen had not yet dissipated. Two completely different scents swirled in on the wind at the same time.

It carried the dampness and earthy scent of the mountains and forests, the kind of scent that comes from spending too much time in the deep mountains, where even the fur is soaked with morning dew and moss.

Another wisp of smoke, not pungent but strong, emanated from the wind, as if something had been burning for a long time, until only a wisp of heat remained.

Two figures slowly emerged from the depths of the clouds. Their steps were slow, as if they hesitated with each step, wondering whether to continue.

The burly man was dressed in all black, taut and tight. Tight on his shoulders, tight on his arms, tight on every part of his body he could think of that needed to appear less dangerous.

Its face, covered in black fur, exuded a simple and honest charm. Its eyes were small, and it kept its gaze shifting, rarely daring to look directly ahead.

The black bear spirit that once roamed Black Wind Mountain now subconsciously slows down its steps when walking, trying not to stomp too hard.

Beside him was a child-like figure, wearing an old red shirt with frayed cuffs and loose stitching at the collar, revealing a faded lining underneath.

The cinnabar mark between his brows remained vivid; it was a mark that Red Boy was born with, one that could neither fade nor be concealed.

But a layer of lingering annoyance and resentment hung between his brows and eyes, and the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down. He hadn't smiled in so long that the muscles in his face had forgotten how to lift them.

These two were once formidable figures in the Three Realms.

The black bear spirit of Black Wind Mountain reigns supreme in the region, and even the mountain gods and local deities have to avoid it.

The Holy Infant King of Fire Cloud Cave possesses the Samadhi True Fire, which can burn half the sky with a single breath, and even his father, the Bull Demon King, has to coax him.

The two were incredibly powerful and lived a life of unbridled freedom, showing no respect whatsoever to the Heavenly Court. They would fight anyone who came, and if they couldn't win, they would run away, then continue to rule their mountain stronghold.

Now he has completely concealed his sharp edges and become a staff member under the tutelage of Guanyin Bodhisattva.

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The word "organization" carries a rusty, metallic feel to it.

Confined to that tiny place on Mount Putuo, they were worn down into tools for guarding the mountain, spending their days sweeping, guarding the gate, tidying up the prayer mats, counting the incense offerings, filling out forms, and reconciling accounts.

They walked up to the food stall, paused for two seconds, and then looked at each other. The black bear spirit instinctively took half a step back, letting Red Boy stand in front.

This action was so subtle that he himself probably didn't even notice it.

But that skill is ingrained, like an instinct honed through countless reports, positioning exercises, and group photos.

Red Boy didn't look at him, nor did he refuse; he simply stood in front.

That kind of dilemma—wanting to speak up but being too embarrassed to do so—is just like a desperate person in the mortal world who has nowhere else to turn but to ask for help.

Poverty is secondary; the main problem is being trapped.

Trapped within the rules, trapped within the system, trapped in a state of bewilderment where even they themselves cannot explain what they have lost.

I didn't initiate a conversation; I just slowly and methodically wiped the porcelain bowl in my hands.

The porcelain bowl has already been wiped twice; I'm wiping it a third time because I'm waiting.

I'll wait until they can't hold it in anymore. I've seen plenty of customers like this; none of them can speak fluently the moment they walk in.

It all has to roll around in your stomach a few times, get stuck in your throat a few times, and only the last sentence you manage to squeeze out is the truth.

Red Boy was about to speak when he suddenly stopped.

He tilted his head slightly, his neck turned to the side, like a young animal startled by something.

He was listening. He was listening in the direction of Mount Putuo, but he heard nothing.

He breathed a sigh of relief. But the relief was only half-hearted; his shoulders had just slumped a little when they tensed up again, replaced by a deeper sense of agitation.

He wasn't afraid of being overheard; he was afraid of discovering that he was actually afraid.

This discovery made him even more agitated. He spoke in a muffled voice, his tone full of barely concealed frustration.

"You're Chang Baiwei? I heard your food stall is quite famous and can earn you some extra money?"

I nodded: "Just enough to make a living, it's barely manageable."

The black bear spirit sighed.

His usually fierce face was filled with helplessness, and his voice was hoarse as if he had swallowed a handful of sand: "Young shopkeeper, we have come today to ask you for a favor."

I put down the porcelain bowl. It landed on the cutting board with a soft tap. "Speak."

Red Boy didn't speak immediately.

He pulled a handful of crumpled paper coupons from his sleeve and slammed them on the table. As he pulled out the coupons, his sleeve slipped down, revealing a ring of bruises around his wrist.

It wasn't deep, but it was very new, a purplish-black color, as if it had been strangled by something.

It wasn't done today, but it certainly wasn't done yesterday either.

The edges of the bruises were blurred, and the subcutaneous tissue had been repeatedly squeezed. Old wounds were layered on top of new wounds, one layer on top of another, becoming part of the skin.

Red Boy noticed me looking at his wrist. He paused, then pulled his sleeve down to cover it.

The movements were very casual, as if they had been done countless times before.

It's not that I'm trying to hide anything, it's just a habit.

Just as people don't deliberately hide their breath, he no longer felt that the bruise was something to hide; he just casually covered it up because others would find it uncomfortable to look at.

He pointed to the pile of scrap paper on the table, his voice so low it sounded like he was saying something he shouldn't.

"This is the incense offering from Mount Putuo last month."

I glanced down at the items. Supermarket discount coupons, loyalty cards, and an expired buy-one-get-one-free milk tea voucher.

The paper quality is poor, the printing is blurry, the corners of the discount coupon are curled, there is a scratch on the magnetic strip of the points card, and the milk tea coupon is dated two months ago.

He pushed the pile of things in front of me, and the papers scraped softly on the cutting board.

"Bodhisattvas don't look at that. Bodhisattvas only look at numbers."

The black bear spirit subconsciously touched the faint mark left by the headband on his head.

Rough fingertips traced a circle along the metal edge, from the forehead to the temple, and then back.

This action has been repeated countless times, so many times that a fixed track has formed between the skin and the metal, and when you place your finger on it, it will automatically complete a full circle.

Before he spoke, he glanced at Red Boy, then at me, and his Adam's apple bobbed twice before he managed to squeeze out a sentence.

"These binding hoops, these golden hoops, are the chains that bind us. They prevent us from ever leaving Mount Putuo."

"If you don't meet your incense offering quota, chant a mantra. If you do something wrong, chant a mantra. If the Bodhisattva thinks we need to reflect on our actions, chant a mantra. If the Bodhisattva thinks we don't need to reflect on our actions but need to take precautions to prevent future reflection, also chant a mantra."

Red Boy took over the conversation, his tone even more aggressive than before, but beneath that aggressiveness lay a hollowness.

He was angry with himself, angry that he didn't even dare to complain loudly.

I'm annoyed that even though I'm complaining, I still keep glancing in the direction of Mount Putuo.

"Back in the day, I reigned supreme in the Flaming Cloud Cave. My father was the Bull Demon King, and my mother was Princess Iron Fan. The Black Bear Spirit also ruled over a region in Black Wind Mountain. Which mountain god or local deity dared to interfere with us? Everyone who saw us had to give us a wide berth!"

"Now that I possess extraordinary abilities, guess what I do every day? Sweep the floor. Guard the door. Arrange the prayer cushions. Count the incense offerings. Fill out forms. Reconcile accounts. Last month, because I missed filling in one column on a form, I was cursed for three hours."

He paused, looking down at the pile of discarded coupons on the table. His fingers unconsciously flicked the expired milk tea coupon, flipping it over.

"If you don't meet your quota, you chant a spell. The excruciating pain is agonizing; your soul and spirit are crushed and then pieced back together, only to be crushed again. You're so exhausted that you don't even have the strength to scream anymore, and you can only lie on the ground and wait for it to end."

The Black Bear Spirit did not respond. His silence was heavier than Red Boy's accusations.

He sat there with his back ramrod straight and his hands neatly placed on his knees.

He sat so upright, not on purpose, but because his body had forgotten how to relax.

The spine has been held up by rules for too long, and it can no longer bend.

After a long while, he added in a low voice.

This statement doesn't sound like a complaint; it's more like an explanation to himself, or to someone unseen in his heart.

"We're not saying that Bodhisattvas are bad. The Bodhisattvas took us in to give us a righteous path. Following the Bodhisattvas in our practice is better than causing harm in the mortal world. We understand this principle. It's just..."

He didn't finish speaking.

What he meant was: the right path is just too narrow, so narrow that there's no room to turn around.

Red Boy cannot use his natal fire because "it cannot be used indiscriminately".

The black bear spirit cannot use its innate supernatural power because it would "disturb the worshippers."

They can no longer add "Holy Infant King" or "Black Wind Cave Master" before their names; they can only add "Guardian of Mount Putuo".

He dared not say those words aloud. He chopped those words into pieces in his heart and swallowed them back.

I looked at them.

The bruise around Red Boy's wrist was covered by his sleeve, but he would move his wrist from time to time.

It doesn't hurt.

The area where the sleeve was applied would itch. It itched so much that he wanted to scratch but dared not, so he could only gently scratch it a couple of times through his fingernail.

The black bear spirit sat there, his fingers still resting on the edge of the binding band, forgetting to put them down.

This so-called subjugation and organization is nothing more than trapping top talents in rigid rules, slowly grinding away all their sharpness, and turning them into obedient tools.

This is not salvation, it is domestication. Domestication to the point that they forget who they were, domestication to the point that they use the phrase "cannot be misused" to control themselves for the sake of the Bodhisattva.

But they came to me today not to break free of their cage.

They knew better than anyone that the cage was unbreakable, and they couldn't afford the cost of breaking it.

They just wanted to find a crack in the cage to breathe. A crack where they could secretly be themselves in between sweeping, guarding the door, and filling out forms.

"Want to work for me? Sure."

I put down the rag. The rag landed on the cutting board, covering just one corner of the expired milk tea coupon.

"But I don't accept empty promises at my stall. Besides your brute strength, what other valuable assets do you have?"

When I asked about the cost, Red Boy and Black Bear Spirit exchanged a glance.

They were confirming, confirming that the other party was also prepared. Confirming that this decision wasn't made alone. Confirming that even if they would be cursed for it upon returning, it would be worthwhile.

A resolute glint flashed in his eyes.