Live Streaming Food Stall… But in Dog-Blooded Novels – CH130

Chapter 130

By the time he’d finished half the bowl, Wang Peng’s forehead glistened with sweat.

His entire body had warmed up, cozy and content.

The porridge had annihilated the icy dampness clinging to his bones. He could practically feel warmth returning to his veins, like someone had pressed a heated palm-warmer into his frozen hands during the depths of winter.

…Bliss.

Sheer bliss!!!

And that wasn’t even mentioning the porridge’s flavor—the velvety rice, the savory pork and century egg, the golden, fragrant congee oil shimmering on top.

No enhancers, yet the natural taste of the ingredients alone was more than enough to captivate him completely.

The pricier factory-produced food enhancers had stamina-boosting, energy-restoring effects—albeit at the cost of long-term health. Many mercenaries willingly paid extra just for that artificial rush of warmth.

Like most, Wang Peng had always believed that after a mission, the fiery, tongue-numbing kick of enhancer-loaded porridge was the ultimate stress reliever.

But now? That notion had been shattered.

This porridge wasn’t intensely flavored—it was subtle, even mild. Yet its gentle, pervasive warmth smoothed away every ounce of fatigue, soothing him far more profoundly than any artificial heat.

For a few fleeting moments, Wang Peng forgot where he was.

This didn’t feel like a cold, dangerous, resource-starved apocalypse. It felt like a peaceful pre-collapse evening, sitting in a bustling alleyway stall after work, savoring a simple but perfect bowl of porridge…

Once he’d downed most of it, Wang Peng slowed his pace, savoring each spoonful, desperate to prolong the experience.

But no matter how slowly he ate, the bowl was soon empty.

“Boss, thank you,” Wang Peng sighed, setting down the empty bowl. “This porridge is incredible. It didn’t just fill me up—it made me feel good, like I’d slipped back into easier times.”

“By the way… do you have purchase limits here?”

The popular stalls in Zone A often imposed limits—partly due to limited supplies, partly to drive up demand.

For example, the flatbread stall only allowed three per person per day.

“Not for now,” Jian Yunlan shook his head.

He needed to sell 500 bowls in three days. In this remote corner, customers were already scarce. Adding limits would doom his mission.

Wang Peng’s eyes lit up.

Just moments ago, he’d thought three credits was too expensive. But after finishing that bowl, Wang Peng now felt it was an absolute steal. He eagerly handed over his ID card, as if afraid Jian Yunlan might refuse:

“Then please pack another bowl for me! I’ll take it back for my wife to try.”

Though the dining district had cheaper options, even the most affordable food was beyond the reach of ordinary civilians. Only mercenaries frequented this area.

Most civilians survived on cheap nutrient solutions from the canteens—tasteless, just enough to stave off starvation.

Wang Peng’s wife was one of those ordinary people, living on nutrient solutions alone.

He’d tried multiple times to bring her here, but she’d always refused—to save money.

They had a child in the nursery. Every credit counted.

Splurging three credits on a single bowl of porridge? Normally, his wife would’ve scolded him for such extravagance.

But Wang Peng was certain… after tasting it, she wouldn’t think that way.

“Boss, will you still be here tomorrow?” Before leaving, Wang Peng double-checked.

“I will,” Jian Yunlan nodded.

Reassured, Wang Peng smiled. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow! Thanks, boss—see you then!”

Jian Yunlan waved. “See you tomorrow!”

With that, Wang Peng left, happily clutching the takeout porridge.

It was still hot.

If he hurried, it’d stay warm by the time he got home. His wife could enjoy it just as steaming and fresh…

*

Wang Peng strode toward the dining district’s exit, porridge in hand.

—The Black Market’s dining district had a single entrance and exit, both in Zone A. That’s why Zone A stalls charged the highest protection fees and drew the most traffic. Every mercenary passing through would catch whiffs of enticing aromas, luring them in.

Many, already full, would still cave and buy more—wasting credits unnecessarily.

In the past, Wang Peng had needed immense willpower to resist those temptations.

But today? The smells left him utterly unmoved.

…Somehow, after that bowl of porridge, the enhancer-laden scents that once seemed irresistible now reeked of artificial cheapness.

He couldn’t muster even a flicker of interest.

Had he really fallen for this before? Wang Peng found it hard to believe.

He was about to quicken his pace when loud, angry shouts erupted ahead.

—”Weasel-face, don’t push your luck! You think just because Dong Sheng’s gone, there’s no one left to deal with you and that dog Li Zhou? Pathetic mutt!”

A man’s voice, thick with suppressed fury, rang out.

Wang Peng turned.

The speaker was a muscular man nearly two meters tall, his sun-darkened skin and buzz cut accentuating the snowflake tattoo coiled around his bicep. Twin longswords crossed his back.

Wang Peng vaguely recognized him but couldn’t place him.

The weasel-faced man—shielded by bodyguards—flinched but still sneered:

“I’m the mutt? Look at you! Without your leader, you’re nothing—”

“You—!!!”

The tattooed man and his companions—five or six mercenaries of varying ages and genders—looked ready to explode.

The youngest, a blue-haired girl with a sniper rifle, glared at Weasel-face with murderous intensity.

Even he shrank back.

The group’s rage nearly boiled over into violence—until a middle-aged man in sunglasses, coiling a snake around his wrist, stepped forward.

“Stand down! Killing him now is exactly what they want.”

His following words were too quiet for Wang Peng to catch.

But whatever he said extinguished the fury in the younger mercenaries’ eyes, replacing it with despair. Some even teared up.

They shot Weasel-face one last hateful glance before retreating.

—The group was diverse, but they shared one trait: snowflake tattoos on their arms.

As a fellow mercenary, Wang Peng could tell—these were high-rank fighters, B-class or above, with blood on their hands.

“Excuse me, coming through.” Wang Peng had no interest in lingering.

But the crowd of onlookers blocked his path.

After several failed attempts to squeeze past, he reluctantly stayed to watch.

“Who are they?” he muttered, exasperated.

A mercenary bystander gave him a surprised look. “You don’t know? They’re pretty famous… Remember their former captain, Mu Dongsheng?”

The name Mu Dongsheng struck Wang Peng like a lightning bolt.

For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. “So that’s Mu Dongsheng’s team…”

No wonder.

No wonder so many had gathered to watch. Most mercenaries in this apocalypse were cold and self-interested, rarely pausing for anything unrelated to survival.

The only thing that could draw such a crowd was news related to Mu Dongsheng.

—There wasn’t a soul in the Eastern Base who didn’t know that name.

The youngest S-rank mercenary. A top-tier ability user. The long-reigning champion of the mutant kill leaderboard. A legend known across all human survivor bases—Mu Dongsheng.

His name had been synonymous with myth.

Until a week ago.

…When that myth shattered.

It was supposed to be a routine mission: eliminate a B-rank mutant and retrieve its core. Mu Dongsheng and his partner—A-rank mercenary Li Zhou—led a small team. For them, it should’ve been effortless. Two hours, tops.

But by midnight, neither had returned.

At dawn, only Li Zhou came back—carrying Mu Dongsheng’s weapons, belongings, ability core… and news.

“We encountered a high-level pollutant. Far beyond us,” Li Zhou had sobbed, trembling. “Dongsheng sacrificed himself to cover my escape. I brought back this intel.”

No one believed it. Especially not Mu Dongsheng’s team.

They launched a search immediately.

Yet days passed with no trace. After three days, hope faded.

…No one survived that long outside the base. Not even the genius S-rank mercenary, Mu Dongsheng.

Four days ago, the Eastern Base officially declared him dead.