Chapter 133
In this cold, hopeless apocalypse, in the deepest, lowest part of the Black Market—Zone F…
There was actually a small, warm porridge stall.
Looking at the cozy stall and the young owner in a floral apron, smiling brightly, many of them momentarily wondered if they were still dreaming.
The young owner was dressed simply but neatly, handsome, his eyes crinkling when he smiled, warming their hearts.
The entire stall gave off a pre-apocalypse vibe of tranquility.
“…”
It took the 11th Squad a moment to process the owner’s words.
—”Century egg and lean pork porridge?”
The younger members—led by the blue-haired girl and the buzz-cut mercenary—exchanged confused glances, repeating the term uncertainly.
They were in their teens or early twenties. The world before the apocalypse was something they’d only heard about from elders.
Born after the apocalypse had already lasted over two decades, some had grown up in the Eastern Base, while others had fled here with their parents from other bases.
To them, “porridge” only meant the tech porridge popular in survivor bases.
They’d heard of spicy red porridge, sweet green porridge, potato porridge, and the deluxe “family porridge”—a pricey blend with eight enhancers. But “century egg and lean pork porridge”? That was new.
In stark contrast was their leader, Yi Chunqing.
The moment he heard those words, his entire body trembled. His grip on his cane tightened, his wrinkled face flickering with hope—but mostly disbelief.
“C-Century egg and lean pork porridge? Really… that kind?”
Realizing his wording was unclear, he hastily added:
“The kind… without enhancers?”
The handsome young owner nodded. “Yes. Century egg and lean pork porridge—no enhancers.”
“Would you like to try? Free sample.”
As he spoke, the owner lifted the clay pot’s lid, scooping a small wooden bowl of porridge for Yi Chunqing.
After the incident with Wang Peng, Jian Yunlan had realized diners in this era were wary of enhancer-free porridge. Thus, the free sample tactic.
Who could resist free food? Once they tasted it, they’d be hooked.
Jian Yunlan handed the bowl to Yi Chunqing.
“…”
Yi Chunqing’s hands shook as he accepted it.
A spoonful of porridge, steaming and fragrant.
Creamy white, perfectly thick, with flecks of dark green century egg and bright scallions—it looked irresistible.
Trembling with anticipation, Yi Chunqing brought the spoon to his lips—
Clatter!
His cane hit the ground.
From sheer emotion.
The moment the hot porridge touched his tongue—silky, almost melting—it slid down his throat, warming him from the inside out. A hint of pepper enhanced its comforting richness.
Even more astonishing were the century egg pieces, their subtle alkaline tang.
…Truthfully, Yi Chunqing’s mind went blank.
All that remained was disbelief, euphoria—pure joy.
“Yes, this taste,” he murmured, abandoning the spoon to gulp directly from the bowl. “So good… so good…”
Earlier, he’d caught a whiff of something familiar from Wang Peng’s takeout box.
But he hadn’t dared believe.
Now, standing before this bubbling pot, tasting this real porridge, he knew.
This was pre-apocalypse century egg and lean pork porridge!
The steaming clay pot, the simple sign, the rich aroma, the warm bowl in his hands—for a moment, Yi Chunqing felt time rewind.
Back to before the apocalypse, to carefree days.
…Back when he was fifteen or sixteen, with an ordinary name, not “Yi Chunqing.”
Like most high schoolers, his happiest moments were walking home after night classes with his father, stopping at a roadside stall for a bowl of this porridge, chatting about school and family.
Nearly fifty years had passed, but he’d never forgotten.
His father’s wrinkles and smile, the steam, the bustling chatter, the porridge’s reflection in the lantern light—that first scalding spoonful, the tender rice, the savory pork, warming him to the core.
Then the apocalypse came. His father died. Life became survival.
In those early years, they’d subsisted on ration bars. Later, as bases stabilized, rice and meat returned—but cooking had changed. Enhancers took over.
He’d tried recreating the porridge himself, but it was never the same.
He’d thought he’d never taste it again.
Yet here, in this tiny corner of the Black Market, was this stall.
The value of this porridge stall in the apocalypse—to put it in perspective—was like entering what you thought was the final, deadly level of an infinite horror game, bracing to face a bloodthirsty boss…
Only for the darkness to fade, revealing the faded red track of your childhood schoolyard. The setting sun, your schoolbag-toting childhood friend tugging you toward the snack street for bubble tea, while the campus speakers played, “Little clouds drifting over, take a rest by the hill, see the wildflowers blooming…”
Who wouldn’t be moved to tears?
As the fragrant porridge warmed his tongue, Yi Chunqing felt, for a fleeting moment, as if nothing had changed. The apocalypse had never come. He was still that high schooler waiting at the gates for his father.
His eyes grew damp.
Bending to pick up his fallen cane, he removed his sunglasses, wiping his tears with a trembling hand:
“Good… so good. Century egg and lean pork porridge… after all these years…”
“Grandpa Qing, what are you talking about?” The younger squad members hurried to steady him, baffled. “What’s so special about it? No enhancers at all?”
Their disappointment was palpable.
Like Wang Peng and most post-apocalypse natives, they assumed “delicious” required enhancers. No enhancers? Cutting corners.
After trekking here on empty stomachs, their initial excitement had plummeted into letdown.
The buzz-cut and blue-haired girl, never ones to mince words, muttered openly:
“Yeah, zero enhancers? Probably tastes like garbage.”
“Such a nice-looking stall too. What a waste…”
Before the young owner could respond—
Whack! Whack!
Yi Chunqing’s cane lashed out, sending the two scrambling, yelping:
“Ow! Grandpa Qing! What was that for?!”
“You ignorant brats!” Yi Chunqing roared, veins bulging. “You have no idea what this porridge means in this world!!”
After thrashing them, he immediately turned to the owner, all smiles:
“Boss, these fools know nothing. Please, ignore them. Could I… buy a bowl? No—three!”
The squad gaped.
As the 11th’s acting leader, Yi Chunqing had always been the steady one—especially after Captain Mu’s death. Stoic, unreadable, never bowing to anyone, not even Li Zhou.
Yet here he was, losing it over porridge?
Beating his own disciples, groveling before some no-name F Zone vendor?
Even to Mu Dongsheng, he’d never shown such deference!
…Unless this wasn’t just some random stall owner?
The squad studied the young man anew.
Now that they looked closer—something was off.
In this world, everyone bore the marks of hardship: exhaustion, scars, grime. But this owner? Impeccably clean, radiant, brimming with energy.
He had the ease of a pre-apocalypse human.
And in the apocalypse, that kind of ease only came from power.
The pieces clicked.
Plain porridge, no enhancers—it had to taste bland.
Yet Yi Chunqing’s reaction…
—”This porridge vendor must be a hidden powerhouse!”
So the two younger mercenaries going be amazed that Jian Yunlan’s porridge is really that simple with no enhancers and order five bowls?