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

Just as the fragrance spread, a breeze picked up at the South Heavenly Gate.

The wind was blowing from the direction of Mount Putuo.

It carries the austere charm of the Purple Bamboo Forest and the salty bitterness of the Tide Sound Cave.

But they stopped abruptly as they passed the food stall.

It felt like I tripped over something much stronger.

Then it turned a corner.

Carrying its rich, slightly bitter, and lingering meaty aroma, it soared into the higher clouds.

The black bear spirit sat there, its back still straight.

His hands were on his knees, but his fingers were slightly curled.

It looked like he was holding something.

Perhaps it's holding onto that new scar, or perhaps it's holding onto nothing at all.

He was simply inhaling the fragrance emanating from his body.

  

He squinted for a moment, then quickly opened his eyes.

It was as if they were afraid that something would snatch them away the moment they squinted.

Red Boy stood by the stove, without sitting down.

He's no longer used to sitting in front of other people.

He couldn't sit even on Mount Putuo.

Standing there waiting for orders, standing there listening to lectures, standing there being cursed.

He turned his gaze away from the stove.

The cluster of Samadhi Fire was still burning gently under the pot.

Very stable, much more stable than when he bounced out earlier.

The braised bear paw is ready, served in a rough porcelain bowl, its color a bright red.

The broth clings to the meat, thick and not dripping.

Every single vein is soaked with broth, making it crystal clear.

It swayed gently in the bowl, as if it were breathing.

I served each of them a bowl.

The bowl was placed on the cutting board in front of them.

The porcelain bowl tapped on the wooden board, making two soft sounds.

The black bear spirit stared at the bowl of meat in front of him, but hesitated to take a bite.

He looked down at his hands, which were wrapped in strips of cloth.

A small patch of grease, light yellow in color, seeped through the strip of cloth, spreading out in a small circle on the coarse fabric.

He glanced again at the piece of meat on his palm in the bowl, which had been stewed until it was translucent.

This piece of meat didn't grow from a bear's paw.

It was taken from his own body.

Now it's cooked, served in a bowl, waiting for him to eat it.

He stared at it for a long time, so long that the steam in the bowl changed from rolling to wisps of smoke.

Then he picked up the spoon with his left hand.

The right hand is inconvenient because the palm is still wrapped with strips of cloth.

He scooped up the piece of meat with his left hand, very slowly.

It's like scooping up something that shouldn't be treated carelessly.

I gently bit off a corner and chewed it silently for a long time.

His eating habits are like those of a large herbivore.

It was slow and quiet; you had to purse your lips after each chew.

It was as if they were afraid of making a sound and disturbing something.

It's not about tasting the flavor.

It's about savoring something deeper than just taste.

When he took his second bite, he leaned back in his chair.

My shoulder first lightly touched the back of the chair, and then stopped.

It's as if they're confirming that this thing called a "backrest" really exists.

After confirming it, he placed his entire back on it.

The spine, from the first vertebra to the last, rests against the back of the chair.

My waist has relaxed, my shoulders have loosened, and my neck is no longer stiff.

This was the first time he had leaned back in his chair since he entered the stall.

Red Boy took a bite first.

He stuffed the meat into his mouth and chewed it once.

Then I chewed it again.

He stopped chewing on the third bite.

He tasted a flavor in this meat that he had almost forgotten.

It doesn't taste like bear paw, nor does it taste like turtle jelly, nor does it taste like Meng Po's tears.

It's the aroma of caramelized fat from the heat.

That smoky aroma comes from the marks left when the fire just touches the surface of the food.

A thin, golden, smoky mark.

He was all too familiar with this mark.

Princess Iron Fan lived alone in the Flaming Mountain for hundreds of years, occasionally cooking.

Red Boy ate it when he was a child, but he never ate it again.

This dish is bear paw, turtle jelly, and Meng Po's tears.

It's completely different from what his mother cooked.

But the aroma of that perfectly roasted food is exactly the same.

He started the fire himself, and the smoky aroma was left by his own fire.

In his own fire, he tasted his mother's kitchen.

He looked down at the soup in the bowl and muttered something under his breath.

The voice was very low, so low it sounded like he was confirming something with himself.

"This tastes just like the cooking my mother used to make."

The words had barely left his mouth when the golden headband on his head suddenly lit up.

The light didn't gradually brighten; it exploded.

Like a death warrant, a dazzling golden arc of light burst forth from the very center of his forehead.

It instantly illuminated the entire food stall.

The icy immortal power transformed into an invisible noose, digging tightly into his flesh.

It was more ruthless, more urgent, and more merciless than ever before.

I didn't plan to make him cook, so he wouldn't remember who he was.

He can use the Samadhi Fire by the stove.

You can work as an assistant to someone.

You can exchange your innate supernatural powers for a few taels of incense money.

These are all fine.

But he couldn't feel at that moment that he was still the Holy Infant King of Fire Cloud Cave.

He cannot think of himself as Princess Iron Fan's son.

You can't taste any flavor of freedom in this caramelized aroma.

Red Boy covered his head, digging his fingers into his hair.

His whole body was trembling violently.

My shoulders are shaking, my back is shaking.

His knee slammed against the chopping board leg, making a rapid "thump, thump, thump" sound.

He gritted his teeth and forced out a roar.

That roar was not shouted out.

It was squeezed out after being flattened between the teeth.

Sharp and suppressed, as if something had choked my throat.

He didn't curse the Bodhisattva, he didn't criticize the rules, and he didn't even cry out in pain.

He just looked down at his fingertips.

A cluster of Samadhi Fire, which hadn't yet been extinguished, was still flickering on it.

A faint flame flickered at my fingertips.

The brighter the light from the golden hoop, the dimmer the flame became.

He stared intently at the cluster of fire.

The despair in his eyes was deeper than the physical pain.

The flames gradually dimmed and were extinguished bit by bit.

He didn't take it back; it was the golden hoop that crushed him.

A person who can burn half the sky with Samadhi Fire.

Watching his own life-bound true fire being crushed bit by bit at his fingertips.

They couldn't even get it back.

At the same instant, the headband on the black bear spirit's head also lit up.

He had just taken his second bite of meat.

The spoon was raised to his lips, then stopped.

He didn't stop because of the pain; he let go on his own.

He gently placed the spoon on the rim of the bowl without making a sound.

What made him stop was not the pain.

He looked down and saw his hands wrapped in strips of cloth.

The fresh scar beneath the strip of cloth was still there, a thin line running horizontally across the palm of the hand.

The last time I was injured was on the battlefield, and the scar has long since faded.

He cut himself to get this scar today.

In order to make a dish.

This dish allowed him to briefly become himself.

But the shackles prevented him from being himself.

He took a few breaths of his own, but those breaths were stolen.

The time has come.

He pulled down his sleeve.

First cover the scar on your palm, then cover the bulging veins on your wrist.

The movements were very careful, from the wrist to the base of the palm, and from the base of the palm to the fingertips.

Cover it inch by inch.

It's like hiding something that shouldn't be seen by others.

The light from the binding band danced on his forehead, but he didn't even flinch.

It hurts, but he's gotten used to keeping quiet when he's in pain.

"We have to go back."

He spoke, his voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing the headband on his head.

"If this drags on any longer, my soul will be torn apart."

Red Boy's eyes were red, and he didn't move.

His eyes were fixed on the bowl of braised bear paw that was still more than half full on the table.

The broth had solidified into a thin layer of white oil.

The meat was still warm, and the aroma was still rising.

He was reluctant to part with that piece of meat, but he was also reluctant to part with that brief moment.

In that brief moment, he didn't have to worry about what others thought.

No need to worry about incense offering quotas.

To be able to cook a dish using the fire that I've been holding back for too long.

You can taste your mother's cooking in your own fire.

He can still remember that he has a mother.

That moment lasted only a few breaths before it was torn apart by a golden light.

The golden light enveloped the two figures like a cage.

They were pulled swiftly towards Mount Putuo.

The moment Red Boy was pulled up, he suddenly turned his head and glanced at me.

There was no cry for help, no farewell; it was a confirmation.

It's confirmed that someone witnessed everything that just happened.

To confirm that that moment truly existed.

Make sure that the flame has been lit, even if it's only for a few moments.

The black bear spirit did not turn around.

But at the moment when the golden light enveloped his entire body, he made a movement.

He turned the bear paw, which was wrapped in cloth, over.

Place your palms up on your knees.

There was still a bit of grease seeping through the strip of cloth, and the gold light shone on it.

He looked down at the scar he had cut himself, which he hadn't covered up.

He hasn't done anything like this in tens of thousands of years.

On Mount Putuo, he always kept his head down.

Always keep your palms hidden.

Always shrink yourself so that you don't block anyone's light.

But at that moment, when the golden light was at its most dazzling, he turned his palm over.

The scar was facing both myself and me.

I looked at his lips.

He didn't speak, but his lips were moving.

Five words, spoken very slowly, as if chewed in the mouth before being released.

There's no going back.

He didn't say it aloud, but I read it.

In the blink of an eye, the stall was once again deathly silent.

The two bowls of braised bear paws on the table gradually cooled down.

The Black Bear Spirit ate about half of his bowl.

The spoon rested on the rim of the bowl, the way he put it down.

The spoon handle faces left, forming a familiar angle with the rim of the bowl.

Red Boy's bowl was still more than half full.

A thin layer of white grease had formed on the rim of the bowl.

The lingering aroma of the burnt iron pot still filled the air.

It has the same caramelized aroma as when Princess Iron Fan cooked.

The wind blew from the direction of Mount Putuo, carrying the scent of the purple bamboo forest.

The lingering fragrance was quickly dissipated by the wind.

Only the iron pot on the stove was still steaming slightly.

I'm tidying up the stove.

Reseal the porcelain jars containing the Dragon Palace Turtle Jelly and Meng Po's Tears, and put them back in the hidden compartment.

Wipe the cutting board clean and wipe away any spilled soup.

Sweep the peppercorn shells and cinnamon residue into your palm and pour them into the stove.

Then I took the two bowls of unfinished bear paws back to the stove.

I didn't pour it out.

I put them in the steamer and put the lid on.

Turn the stove to its lowest setting to keep it warm.

A fine layer of water droplets gradually rose in the steamer.

Water droplets clung to the lid of the cage, gathering into a large droplet.

It slowly flowed down along the bamboo weave pattern, then froze halfway down.

Then I opened the recipe book and flipped to the last page.

I picked up my pen and added a line at the bottom.

The four characters were written very slowly, and the ink bleeds a little on the paper.

A bear paw wrapped in incense.

After finishing writing, I didn't put down my pen.

I added a line of even smaller characters below the four characters.

Two flames burn today, refusing to go out.

I closed the recipe book and patted the cover.

The cover is made of kraft paper, and it's so worn that the edges are frayed.

It makes a dull sound when you slap it.

The sound was like patting something on the back, and it patted three times.

It was like patting two children who refused to cry.

Something in the corner of the stove jumped slightly.

Those two clusters of Samadhi True Fire that were withdrawn have not yet been extinguished.

It's faint, even dimmer than before.

They shrank into two bean-sized red dots under the charcoal ash.

They twinkled, like two eyes that refused to close.

I looked at the small flame, but neither added charcoal nor stoke it to make it brighter.

They know for themselves whether or not they should be exterminated.