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

The teacher appreciation banquet has ended.

Wenchang Xingjun personally escorted Shuiyuan and his son to the entrance of Wenchang Pavilion.

Before parting, he patted Shui Qingyuan on the shoulder and said, "Cultivate well." Shui Qingze nodded, his face still expressionless.

The child probably hasn't realized yet whether today's farce was his misfortune or his good fortune.

Shuiyuan did realize what was happening. As he walked out of the Wenchang Pavilion, he stumbled and stood there for a while, leaning against the stone lions at the entrance.

He didn't cry, but simply looked up at the ever-clear sky of Heaven and exhaled a long breath.

It felt like finally spitting out a stone that had been pressing on my chest for days.

Venus did not appear in the departing crowd.

He was the first to leave.

He left through the side gate, not the main gate. There were too many familiar faces at the main gate, his colleagues who had bowed and called him "boss" for tens of thousands of years, but today they didn't know how to face him.

Saying hello is awkward, but not saying hello is even more awkward. He saved everyone this trouble.

He walked alone out along the path beside the Wenchang Pavilion, passing the grove of bamboo that had been planted for three thousand years. The bamboo shadows fell on his brand-new brocade robe, cutting the undried sweat stains on the robe into alternating stripes of light and dark.

He walked slowly, and his steps were much heavier than when he arrived, as if he had aged thousands of years in the time it takes to eat a meal.

When he reached the depths of the asparagus fern, he suddenly stopped.

The bamboo leaves rustled, and the wind blew in from the direction of the South Heavenly Gate, causing the hem of his robe to sway gently. He stood there for a long time, so long that a bamboo leaf fell from a branch onto his shoulder, but he did not brush it away.

The bamboo leaf was withered and yellow, its edges curled up, making it stand out starkly against his brand-new brocade robe.

Then he raised his hand and took off the white jade crown that he had worn for tens of thousands of years.

  

The movements are very slow.

It wasn't the kind of action of tearing it off in a fit of anger; it was taking the hairpin out of the bun one by one with his fingers, then holding it in his palm and looking at it for a moment.

The jade on his crown gleamed warmly under the bamboo shadows, a gentle, non-glaring light, much like the impression he left on everyone throughout his life.

He tucked the jade crown under his arm and continued walking. He emerged from the bamboo grove and entered the depths of the sea of ​​clouds outside the South Heavenly Gate. His figure grew fainter and fainter until it was finally swallowed by the surging clouds.

I was stopped by the God of Literature on my way back to my stall.

He chased after them all the way from the Wenchang Pavilion, his immortal robe billowing in the wind, his steps so hurried he almost stepped on the hem of his own robe.

The anger on his face had mostly subsided, but his eyes were still bright—the kind of bright that comes from just having fought a tough battle and not yet fully recovered from the fighting spirit.

"Boss Chang!" he called out to me, his voice a half-tone higher than usual.

I stopped and switched the food container to my left hand.

"Could you make that soup in bulk?"

"Making it in bulk?" I glanced at him. "What are you planning to do?"

The Immortal of Literature lowered his voice and glanced around. Only after confirming that there were no other ears nearby did he take half a step forward.

"If Wenchang Pavilion were to thoroughly investigate the archives, it would easily uncover dozens of unauthorized revisions. Some of the parties involved in these old cases are no longer in Heaven, while others are still there, and in quite high positions."

He paused, then added a sentence.

"You saw the expression on Taibai's face today. Getting him to write his own confession is harder than getting him to remove his crown in public. If your soup could be mass-produced, the Wenchang Pavilion's file review would be half as difficult."

After listening, I didn't reply immediately. I placed the food box on a stone bench by the roadside and flexed my fingers, which were numb from being squeezed by the food box.

"Soup can be made in batches, but there's one main ingredient that's hard to find."

"What's it?"

"Old inksticks. They must be old ink residue that has been used for writing, the longer they are used, the stronger the medicinal properties. The one the size of a fingernail that we used last time was found in the old book warehouse of Wenchang Pavilion after going through three or four hands."

After listening, the Immortal of Literature remained silent for a moment.

Then he straightened his clothes, the same gesture he made when reporting to the Jade Emperor at court—upright, solemn, and meticulous.

His tone had changed; he was no longer as eager as before, constantly asking me if the soup could be mass-produced.

Rather, it is a tranquility that has been accumulated over tens of thousands of years, a tranquility that knows what it is talking about.

"I've been reviewing official documents for tens of thousands of years. I may not have much else, but I have plenty of old ink sticks."

I glanced at him. His eyes were serious; he wasn't joking.

I suppressed a laugh, nodded, and arranged to meet him at his residence the next day to pick up the ink. I would bring my food box and also give his cook some pointers on cooking techniques.

The chef in the Wenqu Immortal's household was transferred from the Imperial Kitchen. His skills were impeccable, but his control of the heat was always a little off—not a technical issue, but because people from the Imperial Kitchen were too disciplined in their cooking and dared not let the flames rise too high.

He turned to leave, but after a few steps he turned back and added a sentence.

"Boss Chang, this soup is really delicious today."

After saying that, he strode away. His immortal robe billowed in the wind, like a flag.

I picked up the food box and continued walking back.

The light from the direction of Nantianmen has changed from the golden brilliance of daytime to the orange-red hue of evening.

The immortals on the Heavenly Street were packing up their stalls and hurrying home in twos and threes, some carrying unsold celestial fruits.

Someone was walking along, breaking off half a piece of osmanthus cake and stuffing it into their mouth. As they passed by me, several people glanced at me.

That look in his eyes wasn't the disdain of before. It was recognition.

By the time we returned to Nantianmen, it was already dark.

I placed the food box on the cutting board and rekindled the fire in the stove. The flames licked the bottom of the pot, and the dark red light reflected on the tarpaulin, making the half of the character "巡" (xún, meaning patrol) flicker.

Red Boy hadn't left yet; a man was squatting behind the stall, with a chessboard in front of him that he had been playing for ages without finishing.

The opposite side was empty; the Black Bear Spirit had probably been called back to his shift.

When Red Boy saw me return, he threw down his chess piece and jumped up: "Boss Chang, how was today? Did Old Man Taibai cry?"

"I didn't cry."

"Who cried?"

I thought about it.

No one actually cried. Shuiyuan didn't cry; he stood there for a while, leaning against the stone lion, but his eyes remained dry. Shui Qingze didn't cry either; the child's face remained calm and undisturbed from beginning to end.

Venus didn't cry, Wenchang Xingjun didn't cry, and Wenqu Xianguan didn't cry either. From beginning to end, everyone held back their tears during this farce.

"No one is crying." I retied my apron and added some firewood to the stove. "But someone took off their hat."

Red Boy tilted his head, his brows furrowed.

He clearly didn't understand, but he didn't press the matter. Having spent so much time at my stall, he'd gotten used to the fact that you don't necessarily have to understand everything.

Just like he still doesn't understand why the fish eyes in that grilled fish dish could shut Nezha and Ao Guang up at the same time, it doesn't stop him from holding his chin up and looking proudly like "this is our stall's signature dish" every time he serves food to customers.

Old Zhang from next door peeked over, leaning on his cane. He had already packed up his stall, and covered the baskets of fairy fruits with tarpaulins, but he hadn't left.

It has become a habit for him to linger a little longer at my stall every evening.

It's not that I crave the warmth of my stove; I just want to be the first to know which deity has suffered a setback at my hands today.

"Baiwei," he glanced at my empty food box, "your stall is probably going to get busier and busier from now on."

I poked the spatula into the pot, and flames leaped up, casting a warm red glow around the stove.

In the distance, outside the South Heavenly Gate, a sea of ​​clouds surged, and immortals came and went. The lights of the Wenchang Pavilion were still on, probably because the Wenqu Immortal Official had already begun to review the records.

Old Zhou from the household registration office probably hadn't slept either, as he was painting his plum blossoms by lamplight.

Beside a small sluice gate on the banks of the Milky Way, Shuiyuan was probably sitting on the threshold with his son, not saying a word all night.

Who knows who will push aside the banner in front of my stall tomorrow?

I put the spatula back on the stove and wiped my hands with a rag. The fire was blazing, and the oil in the pan was sizzling. Time for the next dish.