Live Streaming Food Stall… But in Dog-Blooded Novels – CH128

Chapter 128

The pure aroma of the porridge made Wang Peng pause in a daze.

—Having lived in the Eastern Base for over twenty years, like most human survivors, Wang Peng had long grown accustomed to the taste of porridge loaded with cheap spices and flavor enhancers. Among mercenaries, such porridge was jokingly called “tech porridge.”

There had been vendors who tried selling light, stomach-friendly rice porridge before, but they were quickly forced to switch to “tech porridge” due to lack of demand.

There was no helping it.

The main customers in the Black Market’s dining district were mercenaries—people who lived on the edge, risking their lives daily. After a day of missions, most survivors just wanted something hot and strong-flavored to gulp down, something that would jolt their senses awake.

Whether sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, or salty—the stronger the taste, the more it reminded them they were still alive.

That was what they needed most in this apocalyptic world.

As for gentle, stomach-nourishing porridge? That was for the golden ages, for carefree people who didn’t have to worry about survival every day. It had nothing to do with them anymore.

Yet the porridge he smelled now wasn’t heavy-handed at all. It didn’t rely on obvious seasonings, but for some reason, it was incredibly fragrant.

The entire dining district was saturated with the stench of alcohol, grease, spice, and artificial flavors—chaotic and overwhelming.

Amid all that, the porridge’s aroma wasn’t overpowering, but it stood out. It made one’s heart skip a beat.

It conjured up images of a steaming bowl of savory porridge warming the cold, empty depths of one’s stomach.

Like Wang Peng, other mercenaries who couldn’t afford the stalls outside and had come to this remote corner for food also caught whiffs of that scent.

Gradually, murmurs spread:

“What’s that smell? It’s so unique.”

“I think it’s century egg? And scallions. Is that porridge? It’s steaming hot too.”

“…Maybe it’s coming from outside. None of the vendors in this dump would waste charcoal to keep their food warm.”

“Yeah, we can’t afford hot porridge anyway. Might as well just enjoy the smell.” One mercenary sighed and walked off with his companion, muttering, “I envy those high-rank mercenaries…”

Hearing this, the others also lowered their heads, their expressions gloomy.

Even if someone was selling hot porridge here, it was probably priced beyond their means. If they had the money, they’d just buy from the popular stalls outside—where alcohol was also served. But those places were only for mid-to-high-rank mercenaries.

Better to just fill their stomachs with whatever was available.

Many mercenaries bought cold porridge or dry bread from nearby stalls. The food here was cheaper—averaging five credits per serving—but at least it wasn’t moldy or crawling with flies.

The vendors here weren’t as friendly as those outside, but most were still polite, packing orders with a curt:

“One porridge, four credits.”
“Five bread loaves, discounted to twenty credits. Thanks.”
“Come again.”

Even vendors in this area had to pay protection fees, though less—only a hundred credits a week. After deducting rent and ingredient costs, they could still earn a few dozen credits weekly. If they worked hard, they might even outearn those in the logistics department.

It was just exhausting.

…Before the weasel-faced gang took over, the entire dining district hadn’t required protection fees. Back then, vendors earned far more, keeping all their profits, and their enthusiasm showed.

But now, everything had changed. The vendors had become lifeless.

The mercenaries noticed the shift but could do nothing about it. Everyone was just trying to survive.

Most mercenaries bought their meals in this area.

But Wang Peng scanned the options—the cold, artificially colored porridges, the rock-hard bread—and found nothing appetizing.

Yet that tantalizing porridge scent still lingered in the air…

Finally, he gritted his teeth and made a decision.

Wang Peng strode deeper into the stall area.

The bread vendor he usually frequented was surprised to see him pass by and couldn’t help calling out, “Brother Wang, not buying bread today?”

Wang Peng nodded apologetically. “Sorry, I feel like trying something different today. I’ll come back next time.”

With that, he quickened his pace inward.

Behind him, the bread vendor nodded stiffly, his smile still in place but his mind swirling with doubts.

Has Wang Peng’s mission performance dropped recently, causing his mercenary rank to fall? he wondered. Has he really sunk to eating in Zone F…?

Zone F—the innermost part of the dining district—had the worst locations and the least foot traffic, reserved for vendors who couldn’t afford protection fees. The food here, though cold, was at least freshly made that day.

But in Zone F, many vendors, to cut costs, would keep selling the same food for days until it was gone. Mold and bugs were common, and cases of mercenaries falling ill from eating here were endless.

As such, only the lowest-ranked mercenaries—or newbies who hadn’t started earning yet—would reluctantly buy food from Zone F. Any experienced mercenary knew better than to eat here, no matter how tight their budget.

With that in mind, the bread vendor watched Wang Peng’s retreating back with deep sympathy.

He’s a regular, after all. Next time I see him, I’ll give him some bread for free.

The vendor sighed.

*

Following the porridge’s aroma, Wang Peng wound his way through the stalls. The deeper he went, the fewer people there were.

Not only was charcoal expensive, but lighting lamps also cost money. Vendors who couldn’t afford protection fees certainly wouldn’t splurge on lamps, so the closer he got to Zone F, the dimmer the lighting became—until it faded into near-total darkness.

In the pitch-black environment, small stalls lined the path, their vendors sitting lifelessly at the front, too apathetic to even greet customers. They looked like ghosts who had died long ago.

Much of the food on display had rotted, taking on a strange bluish-black hue, with flies buzzing above.

…Someone with weaker nerves might have been terrified by this haunted-house-like scene and never dared to return.

But Wang Peng was a mercenary. He could handle it.

Besides, the deeper he went, the stronger the porridge’s aroma became. His spirits lifted, and he stopped paying attention to the gloomy surroundings, quickening his pace.

After turning another corner, Wang Peng’s eyes suddenly lit up—

A small porridge stall appeared before him.

Bathed in warm yellow light—not harsh but glowing like a beacon in the darkness—the stall gave off a cozy, inviting vibe.

Under the bright illumination, the stall was neatly arranged with bowls and plates: pristine porcelain and wooden bowls, a dish of fresh green scallions, another of pickled radish, and one of sour vegetables. It was a pleasing sight. But the most captivating thing was the stove nearby.

On it sat a clay pot, steam rising steadily from its vents. The porridge’s fragrance came from here.

There’s actually charcoal burning under it?!

“In Zone F, a vendor actually spent money on charcoal?” Wang Peng rubbed his eyes, double-checking that he wasn’t hallucinating.

A warm, cheerful voice suddenly rang in his ears:

“Welcome! Care for some porridge?”

Wang Peng froze.

His attention had been so fixed on the charcoal that he hadn’t noticed the person behind the stall until now.

Standing at the front was a young man with a beaming smile.

—The young man was extraordinarily handsome, like a pre-apocalypse celebrity, with sharp, almost intimidatingly beautiful features. But his genuine smile softened the aloofness his looks might otherwise project.

His dark, almost blue eyes curved amiably as he greeted Wang Peng enthusiastically: “Freshly made century egg and lean pork porridge. Would you like to try a bowl?”

Wang Peng almost blurted out yes on instinct.

Food in Zone F was already cheap, but someone had actually gone all out to buy charcoal. Even if the porridge didn’t taste great, at least it was hot. It wouldn’t hurt to spend a little to try it.

“Boss, how much for a bowl?” Wang Peng asked.

The young man held up three fingers. “Three credits per bowl.”

Wang Peng: “Alright, I’ll take—wait, how much?”

Hearing the number, he slammed on the brakes.

Three credits?!

Was he hearing right? In Zone F, someone dared to charge three credits for a bowl of porridge???

In the Black Market’s dining district, the most expensive food was in Zone A—the bustling stalls near the entrance, averaging ten credits per serving. Further in, Zone B sold fresh but cold food for around five credits.

But in Zone F, it was common knowledge that nothing cost more than one or two credits. Most vendors sold combos—two credits for a bowl of porridge, three slices of bread, and a drink.

Three credits for just porridge wasn’t *expensive*, but in Zone F? That demanded scrutiny.

…Wang Peng took an involuntary step back, eyeing the strange stall with suspicion.

On the surface, it did look clean, tidy, and welcoming.

The scallions on display seemed fresh, the bowls spotless, the stove blazing, steam wafting from the clay pot.

There was no denying it—just based on presentation and atmosphere, this stall outshone even the most popular ones in Zone A by miles.

But this was Zone F.

If a vendor truly wanted to run a proper stall and had even a shred of skill, they’d scrape together the protection fee to try their luck in Zone B or even Zone A. How could they end up here?

Unless… this vendor had poured all their funds into superficial polish, while the actual food was mediocre?

Full of doubts, Wang Peng tentatively asked, “Boss, can I take a look at the porridge before deciding whether to buy?”

The young man smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

With that, he lifted the clay pot’s lid.

“……”

Wang Peng’s eyes widened.

As the lid came off, a cloud of steam billowed up, carrying the porridge’s warm, delicate fragrance.

But the most arresting sight was what lay beneath—

Under the bright light, the century egg and lean pork porridge bubbled gently.

The snow-white rice grains had bloomed perfectly, while pale pink meat and dark green century egg floated in the thick, velvety porridge. A glossy sheen coated the surface, and the rich, savory aroma filled the air…