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

The black bear spirit spoke first. He didn't attack immediately, but instead looked down at his thick, rough bear paws for a long time.

Those hands, which once tore apart heavenly soldiers and generals, each finger still remembers the feeling of iron shards cutting into the palm when tearing through armor.

Nowadays, it is only used for sweeping, moving incense burners, tidying up prayer cushions, and flattening out the wrinkles on the cushions left by worshippers, making them square and without a single crease.

It's been a long time since I've used these hands to do anything meaningful. I still have the strength, but I lack a decision.

He clenched his fist, then relaxed it, repeating this three times.

The thick calluses on the bear's paws made a soft, rustling sound as they rubbed together.

Then he looked up at Red Boy with a strange look in his eyes, as if to say, "Who goes first, you or me?"

Red Boy turned his head away, refusing to look at him. The Black Bear Spirit understood.

He placed the bear paw on the cutting board, palm up, fingers slightly curled, as if he were holding something unseen.

"Young shopkeeper," his voice was flat, so flat it didn't sound like he was talking about himself.

"This hand has torn more things than I've eaten rice. Today, I want it to release some of its own essence."

I looked at the bear paw he had placed on the cutting board. Thick calluses, old scars, and indelible incense ash stuck between his fingers.

This hand hasn't made a decision for itself in far too long.

"Have you decided?" I asked.

He nodded.

  

I pulled a narrow-bladed knife from under the cutting board.

The blade is so thin that you can see the fine forging patterns on the back of the blade.

This knife is usually used for deboning, but today it's used to cut fat.

What was being cut was not food, but the patience and dignity of a monster that had been worn down for too long.

When the tip of the knife touched the palm of the bear's paw, the black bear spirit's fingers slightly retracted.

I'm not afraid of pain because this hand hasn't been touched by anyone in a long time.

Pilgrims won't touch him, the Bodhisattva won't touch him, and he himself rarely touches himself.

"Hold on," I said. The knife pierced through.

The moment the fat seeped out, the black bear spirit's entire body trembled.

A sharp pain shot up my arm, from my palm to my wrist, from my wrist to my shoulder, and from my shoulder to the back of my head; every vein in my body was screaming.

His brows were furrowed, cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he pressed his other hand tightly against his forehead.

On his forehead, there was a bruise exactly like the one on Red Boy's forehead. Veins bulged, but he didn't utter a sound.

It hurt, but he wasn't used to crying out. He wasn't allowed to cry out when he was being cursed at Mount Putuo; if he did, the curse would intensify. He was used to it.

My hands never stopped. The tip of the knife moved along the texture of the fat layer, peeling it away and removing it. The movements were slow, but each cut was steady.

I'm a cook, not a butcher.

This cut has no punitive meaning; it's for taking ingredients, which are then used to make a dish.

Food is made to be eaten. And after eating it, people are meant to remember who they are.

The moment the fat was peeled away, the black bear spirit looked down at the tiny new scar on his palm.

He was stunned for a moment. So this hand could still excrete its own fluids.

The last time it was injured was on the battlefield, when it was cut by a magical artifact while tearing apart heavenly soldiers.

The scar had faded long ago, so much so that he had almost forgotten where it was.

This scar was inflicted by someone else, but he decided to do it himself.

He touched the edge of the new scar with his fingertip, his lips moved as if to say something, but the sound was swallowed back.

I placed the warm bear paw fat into a white porcelain dish and pushed it in front of him so he could see it.

"The oil refined through three hundred years of cultivation is of good quality."

The black bear spirit stared at the object he had taken from his body on the plate, remaining silent for a long while. He finally spoke.

The voice was softer than before, but more steady. "What can it do?"

Just as I was about to answer, Red Boy, who was waiting impatiently beside me, couldn't wait any longer.

He patted his chest and spoke, trying to make his tone sound like he was showing off.

The long-lost arrogance in his eyes was mixed with something more complex: excitement, unease, and a hint of guilt.

It seems that using Samadhi Fire is itself a kind of stolen freedom.

"My natal Samadhi True Fire is no ordinary fire, nor is it a common immortal fire. It can control temperature and lock in flavor, bringing out the best in the ingredients. I will control this fire."

As he spoke, he lightly flicked his fingertips.

No flames appeared.

He paused for a moment, his expression changed, and he tried again, but still missed.

On the third strike, he used force, and his knuckles snapped out with a crisp sound. A tiny flame flickered out, so small it looked as if it could be blown out by the wind at any moment.

He breathed a sigh of relief and was just about to quell the fire when the flames suddenly shot up, almost scorching the edge of the pot.

The black bear spirit instinctively dodged to the side, while Red Boy gritted his teeth and suppressed his anger, his fingertips trembling slightly.

It seems to be because I can't control it, but actually it's because I haven't used it for too long.

The Samadhi True Fire is the lifeblood of the Holy Infant King.

Back in the Fire Cloud Cave, his words could set half the sky ablaze, so much so that 100,000 heavenly soldiers dared not approach him.

He has drilled into Laozi's furnace in the Flaming Mountain and swallowed the fire of the Eight Trigrams Furnace. There is no fire in the world that he cannot control.

Now, even a small fire in the stove is almost out of control; it took three attempts to get it out, and it almost burned the pot when it finally did.

He looked down at his fingertips, where a small cluster of fire was dancing.

He looked at it as if it were an old friend he hadn't seen in a long time—recognizable, but somewhat unfamiliar. The flame flickered twice on his fingertips, and he flickered back, as if adjusting his breathing to match the rhythm of the fire.

The fire hasn't changed; it's just that he's become unfamiliar with it.

"It's alright," he said in a muffled voice, as if confirming with himself.

"It still works." He added softly, as if afraid someone might overhear.

"The Bodhisattva didn't say that fire can't be used. He only said that it shouldn't be used indiscriminately."

I didn't respond to that sentence. Some things don't need a response, you just need to listen.

I took out two antique porcelain jars from a hidden compartment under the food stall and opened them one by one.

One jar contained Dragon Palace Turtle Jelly, an old stock that even Ao Guang himself wouldn't eat.

As soon as the can was opened, a faint, deep-sea chill wafted out, smelling like rocks that had been soaked in seawater for too long.

One advantage of this is that you have to swallow what you're forced to eat, even if you can't.

The other jar contained Meng Po's tears, clear and bright, gently swaying in the porcelain jar, creating delicate ripples. Two drops were added.

This dosage isn't meant to make you forget, but rather to make you remember.

To remember who you are, even if it's just for the time it takes to eat a bite of meat.

I took out a suitable amount of turtle jelly, dissolved it, mixed it into the soup, and added two drops of Meng Po's tears.

The broth swirled in the pot twice, its color changing from clear to dark brown, and then from dark brown to bright red, as if it had cooked out what was in those two tears.

The taste of cooking is a trigger for memories.

Red Boy stared at the bubbling broth in the pot for a while. Then he reached out and placed the small flame at his fingertips towards the stove opening.

The flames fell from his fingertips into the stove, landing on the pile of laurel branches. First, they gently licked the edge of the topmost withered leaf, then slowly spread out, forming a uniform blanket of fire.

The fire was gentle yet domineering, tightly contained and kept low, hiding all its power in its core. It was completely different from his previous method of burning half the sky with its flames spread wide.

The heat was just right.

Just as I was about to start cooking, the flame suddenly flickered.

It wasn't jumping upwards, it was jumping outwards, as if trying to break free from the stove.

Red Boy's expression changed, and he suddenly flicked his finger back, trying to suppress the fire.

But the fire wouldn't listen; the more you tried to suppress it, the more it leaped, until the iron ring at the stove's opening started to glow red.

He gritted his teeth, the veins on his forehead bulging, forming a line with the bruise on his wrist.

"I can't hold it in anymore." He squeezed out the three words through gritted teeth, his voice carrying a panic he didn't want to admit but couldn't hide.

The magic power is sufficient, but it hasn't been used for too long.

Fire recognized him, but he didn't recognize fire.

I put down the spoon, without using any magic or chanting any spells for him.

I simply reached out and grasped his wrist. His hand was small, his wrist bones so thin they looked like they would break at the slightest touch, but as I held it, I could feel the vein beneath his skin throbbing wildly.

That's like a tug-of-war with fire.

"Don't press it down," I said, holding his wrist and slowly lowering his hand.

This sinking is a drawing.

"Let it burn. Put it away when it's burning steadily. The fire is yours; it won't harm you. It's just a little excited because it hasn't seen you in so long."

Red Boy didn't speak. He lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the fire in the stove.

His wrist trembled slightly in my palm, but he did not pull away.

He wasn't used to being touched. It had been too long since he'd been touched.

No one on Mount Putuo would hold his wrist—not the Bodhisattva, not the pilgrims, not even the Black Bear Spirit.

He was so fierce that everyone felt he didn't need to be restrained.

The fire gradually stabilized. It looked like it was being suppressed, but it was actually being channeled down.

The flames transformed from frantic leaping to even spreading, from erratic darting to gentle licking, from out of control to compliant.

Red Boy's wrists stopped trembling, and his breathing slowed down, synchronizing with the rhythm of the flames.

He turned his head and glanced at me, without saying a word, but there was a glimmer in his eyes, different from the emptiness he had when he couldn't flick the fire earlier.

The black bear spirit stood by, clumsily handing over the food, but focused.

He wipes his hands on his apron before handing over each condiment, as if performing a ritual that cannot be wrong.

When he handed over the Sichuan peppercorns, he shielded them from the wind with his palm, afraid they would be blown away. When he handed over the cinnamon, he placed it with the flattest side facing up, straight and neat. When he handed over the fennel, he first smelled it to make sure it wasn't damp before handing it over.

Those bear paws, which had once torn apart heavenly soldiers and generals, were carefully protecting a few peppercorns, preventing them from being blown away by the wind.

I took charge of seasoning and stirring the broth, slowly melting the fat extracted from the black bear spirit's palm into the pot.

The fat melts in the broth, not dissipates, but blends in, mixing with every drop of soup, every wisp of fire, and every peppercorn.

It is not an ordinary piece of grease.

It is something a monster, whose patience and dignity had been worn down for too long, surrendered itself after being drawn out by the warmth of someone grasping its wrist.

During the cooking process, the stall suddenly fell silent for a moment.

Red Boy stared at the soup in the pot and said something softly, as if he were talking to himself, not to anyone else.

"When I was a child in the Flaming Mountains, my mother would cook while I added fuel to the fire. She always complained that the fire was too big, saying that delicate things like bear paws should be simmered over a low flame. I didn't listen back then; I thought the bigger the fire, the better."

He paused, then spoke even softer.

"Later I went to Huoyun Cave, and I never ate her cooking again."

The black bear spirit remained silent, but his hand was a beat slow in handing over the seasonings.

What did he remember?

Perhaps he remembered the kitchen in Black Wind Mountain, or perhaps he remembered nothing at all.

He simply continued handing out the ingredients, head down, placing a bay leaf neatly on the edge of the cutting board.

That bay leaf was the last ingredient he handed over; it was added just as the pot began its first boil.