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

The bottom of the rough porcelain plate had three old chips.

The oil stains seeped in like decades-old black marks, impossible to remove even with fingernails.

There was only one dish on the plate.

"Shortsighted and narrow-minded, like the old man's straight-hook grilled fish."

The fish skin, roasted over pine branches, sizzled with oil, releasing a smoky aroma mixed with the musty smell of the pine needles, which seeped into the nostrils.

A straight skewer, unbent, pierced through the spine. The head of the skewer was blackened by the fire, and the tail still bore the dark marks left by years of being soaked in the river water—I secretly pulled it from Jiang Taigong's fishing line while he was dozing by the river.

As for those lifeless, rat-like eyes, tainted by misfortune, they were now staring at people with a dull, gray gaze. A layer of impenetrable gloom seemed to be sealed within their pupils, radiating a chilling coldness that seemed to penetrate to the very bone.

I am a disgraced disciple expelled by Yi Ya.

Today, this humble little stall stands at the foot of the South Heavenly Gate in Heaven.

It was called a stall, but it was really just a table made of three broken wooden planks pieced together. One of the four legs was half an inch shorter, and it was supported by broken tiles, so it would sway when the wind was strong.

The canopy overhead was made from an old sail discarded by the Tianhe Patrol Team, with half of the character "巡" (patrol) printed on it. It leaked when it rained heavily and let in when the sun was strong; it couldn't block out anything and was purely for psychological comfort.

The immortals would all walk around me, some even covering their mouths and noses with their sleeves, afraid of getting tainted by my inescapable bad luck.

I had just bent down to add half a handful of pine firewood. The warmth of the iron pot on my wrists was making me secretly worried: if no more customers came, I would really have to eat the frozen soil of the cold Northeast from now on.

I think of that cheap old charlatan, Ma, who only agreed to recognize me as her godson after eating three hundred of my steamed buns. Ever since she took me away from Yi Yamen, this woman has disappeared with half a bag of flour, leaving me here guarding the half-cold stove, living with misfortune every day.

Occasionally, a fairy maiden would come out from the South Heavenly Gate to empty the chamber pot, glancing at me from afar with the same look she gave me as if I were a plague god.

Suddenly, a gust of wind swept in, carrying with it scalding hot ambergris vapor mixed with the smell of gunpowder, and with a loud crash, nearly overturned the iron pot.

The broken tiles supporting the table legs flew off on the spot. The character "巡" (patrol) on the tarpaulin was torn in half. I only had time to protect the salt shaker; half a handful of pine firewood fell directly into the fire. Sparks flew up and burned my eyebrows, making me hiss and gasp in pain. I quickly pressed down on the pot and looked up—

Then I saw a white water dragon chasing a crimson fireball relentlessly in the sky. The dragon's tail swept across the South Heavenly Gate, and half of the glazed tile was torn off by the fiery tail. The broken pieces fell down with a crackling sound, hitting my tarpaulin and flying high.

A figure was engulfed in the fireball. The Samadhi True Fire emanating from its body distorted the air, and even the guard of the South Heavenly Gate shrank back halfway into his duty room.

My heart sank: before the customers arrived, the people who wanted to smash my stall came first.

  This book is first published on 101kanshu.com, a website with a vast library of books. 101kanshu.com offers you a free reading experience with error-free and orderly chapters.

The fireball slammed into the woodpile with a thud. It sent up a cloud of ash and shook three chipped porcelain bowls in the cupboard, causing them to jump up and clang.

The fireball that landed transformed into Nezha, wielding a fire-tipped spear. The Samadhi Fire on his body hadn't completely dissipated, and a few wisps of white smoke still lingered on his shoulders. The charcoal ash beneath his feet glowed a dark red from the residual heat.

He swayed slightly as he stood up—not because his legs were weak, but because after flying three thousand miles, his knees had taken over on their own the moment he landed. He braced himself against the ground with his fire-tipped spear, but the spear tip left a white mark on the bluestone slab.

He didn't brush the dust off his clothes. His nostrils twitched, as if he was smelling something.

Before I could even push the sesame cake hidden under the cutting board even half an inch further, he flicked it with his fingertip, and the cake seemed to sprout wings and fly into his hand. He finished it in two bites, crumbs all over his apron, his cheeks bulging, and mumbled, "I was chased by that old mudfish for three thousand miles, and my stomach is growling."

Before the words were even finished, the moisture in the air suddenly solidified. A beam of cold light descended from the sky, landing silently.

But centered on the point of impact, the ground within three zhang (approximately 10 meters) crackled and was covered with a layer of white frost. The corner of my apron froze into a hard shell in a second. When I reached out to touch it, ice shards fell off in a flurry, the fabric so stiff it could stand upright.

Ao Guang was dressed in a black dragon robe, the wave patterns on the cuffs still flowing slowly. His face was ashen, and the fine scales at the corners of his eyes flared slightly with rage.

He stepped forward and gripped Nezha's wrist tightly, sparks flying from the dragon scales: "The Jade Emperor ordered us to settle our scores in the Lingxiao Palace, but you sneaked away halfway!"

Nezha twisted his arm and broke free, the Hun Tian Ling automatically wrapping around his forearm without any wind. A quick glance caught sight of the frosty rat-headed fish on the table, and he chuckled, raising an eyebrow and teasing, "Old mudskipper, this rat-headed turtle, could it be your illegitimate offspring with a rat at the bottom of the river back then?"

As he spoke, he forcefully pressed Ao Guang's shoulder down onto the stone bench. The force wasn't great, but the angle was tricky, fitting perfectly into the joint socket where the dragon scales grew in reverse. Ao Guang struggled for a moment but couldn't move, and was firmly pressed onto the bench.

Nezha himself swayed slightly, bracing himself on the stone table for half a second to catch his breath. The Samadhi True Fire danced on his shoulder, then retreated, then danced again, like a candle that had been blown by the wind for too long and finally found its way to the base of a wall.

He turned to me and shouted, "Bring me the grilled fish. I want to see if you, the Dragon King of the East Sea, dare to take a bite."

Ao Guang flew into a rage and slammed his palm on the stone table. The tabletop didn't shatter, but the force of his palm traveled down the stone, while his dragon might surged upwards along the sea level, causing the porcelain bowls and bamboo chopsticks on my stall to rattle and clatter.

The string of dried chilies hanging under the eaves was falling with a crackling sound. Three or four of them fell directly into the fire, the pungent smell making my eyes sting. My heart ached, and my lips twitched—that string of chilies was the only thing Ma left me before she left, the only thing she hadn't taken, and it had been drying in the sun all autumn. When making soup, half a chili was enough to make a pot of bland boiled vegetable scraps.

Just then, Nezha's Samadhi Fire shot up another half a foot high, its flames licking the edge of the tarpaulin. Three inches above that was the other half of the dried chili peppers I had hung on the crossbar.

My heart skipped a beat, and I lunged forward to snatch the string of chilies from my arms and hold them close. I didn't even bother to pick up the salt shaker that I had knocked over with my elbow, and turned back to pick up the plate of icy grilled fish.

The moment my fingertip touched the rim of the plate, the icy edge on the bottom of the plate suddenly slashed, leaving a cut that stretched from my fingertip to my second knuckle. The pain made me gasp.

A drop of shimmering golden blood landed on the fish's head, seeping through the frost into the mouse's eye.

The white film seemed to melt away as if it had been scalded. Those lifeless, rat-like eyes actually moved very slightly and slowly, as if they had just woken from a long dream.

I was stunned. But in the tense atmosphere between Nezha and Ao Guang, I didn't have time to think it through. I placed the fish steadily in the center of the stone table, my face beaming with the most sincere smile I'd ever had, my voice still a little hoarse from the chili peppers: "My two lords, calm down, eat the fish, eat the fish."

Ao Guang didn't move. He stared at the fish as if it were some dubious military report. His expression changed from fury to scrutiny.

With a rat's head and a fish's body, and a straight hook piercing its spine, its appearance was hardly appealing. But the aroma of burnt pine branches, mixed with a musty and frosty scent, somehow managed to create a unique and indescribable flavor once it entered the nasal cavity.

Like a piece of driftwood buried for thousands of years at the bottom of the sea suddenly exposed to the wind, or like the first drop of water dripping from the eaves after a long rain.

Moreover, after the shadows lifted from those rat-like eyes, a faint glimmer of light shone deep within their pupils—unlike candlelight or stars. It was like the barely visible gray-blue line where the sea and sky meet before sunrise over the East China Sea.

The old dragon king's Adam's apple bobbed.

Nezha didn't touch his chopsticks, but his Hun Tian Ling (a magical ribbon) moved first. The ribbon's tail silently reached to the edge of the plate and moved the fish head half an inch towards Ao Guang.

Silence lasted for three breaths.

Finally, Ao Guang reached out. He pinched the edge of the rough porcelain plate with two fingers, not minding the sharp edges, and picked up the rat's eye. He put it in his mouth very slowly, as if waiting for someone's ambush—not Nezha's ambush, but whether the taste in his mouth would deceive him.

The moment the fish-eye entered his mouth, his dragon whiskers moved without wind. His shoulders, which had been taut for countless years, suddenly slumped down by half an inch.

Nezha stared at his face for two seconds, then picked up another fish eye and put it in his mouth. He chewed it three times. The fierce fire in his eyes flickered uncertainly, and finally went out with a soft "poof".

The stone table was eerily quiet.

Nezha and Ao Guang sat opposite each other, like two teenagers who had just finished fighting and suddenly realized it was dark and they hadn't cooked dinner yet.

Only the mournful sound of the sea breeze whistling through the gaps in the shed could be heard.

After a long pause, Ao Guang cleared his throat. The cough was unlike that of a dragon king; it sounded more like the habitual throat clearing of an old clerk in a government office before reading an official document.

He spoke, his voice slightly unsteady, his gaze fixed on the wood grain of the stone table without lifting it.

"Third Prince, over the years... you have come to the East Sea every year during the flood season to 'exchange skills'. The Crystal Palace has been in disrepair for many years, the luminous pearl has been damaged, and the aquatic creatures have been frightened... These trivial accounts are not worth mentioning."

He paused. His fingertips traced the nicks in the rough porcelain plate, as if he were organizing some unspeakable words.

When I finally looked up, there was just the right amount of weariness in my eyes.

"However, in the 'Sea Peace Assessment' conducted every three hundred years, the East Sea has ranked last for two consecutive rounds. The higher-ups are pressing hard..."

I added charcoal to the stove, the firelight illuminating half his face. Good heavens, just a moment ago he was ready to die together, and now he's managed to package his personal grudge as a year-end KPI assessment. This old dragon king is a master at making PowerPoint presentations.

Nezha didn't move, his fingertips lightly stroking the Hun Tian Ling (a magical ribbon). The ribbon obediently wrapped around his index finger once, its end draped over the stone table. The Third Prince's smile hadn't completely faded: "Old Dragon King, are you saying I've disturbed the peace of the East Sea?"

"I wouldn't dare." Ao Guang raised his hand, his posture humble, but his words were heavy. "Being at the bottom of the evaluation means your cloud and rain quota will be reduced next year, your spiritual vein allocation will be cut, and even your seat at the Peach Banquet will be moved to the back."

He sighed. The salty, fishy smell of the sea wafted out with his sigh, trapped by the tarpaulin and hanging heavily over the entire stall.

"Last month, Ao Run of the Western Sea went to Yaochi to report on his duties, and reported that his sea area was 'calm and peaceful, and all spirits were in harmony.' This statement clearly reflects the shortcomings of my Eastern Sea. The current circle of immortals is too corrupt."