Live Streaming Food Stall… But in Dog-Blooded Novels – CH141

Chapter 141

At nine o’clock the next evening, Jian Yunlan walked into the Black Market’s food district carrying two large buckets.

One held slow-cooked plain rice porridge, while the other contained marinated mushrooms and boneless chicken thighs arranged on porcelain plates.

Chicken and Shiitake porridge was a delicacy best served fresh—its essence lay in letting the mushrooms and chicken cook rapidly in the piping-hot, velvety porridge to preserve their flavors.

The moment he entered the food district, he ran into Weasel-face again.

Still looking down his nose at everyone, Weasel-face snorted dismissively when he saw Jian Yunlan. “You still at it, kid? With that persistence, you could’ve made something of yourself. Instead, you’re here wasting effort for nothing—working all day for less than what dishwashers in Logistics earn.”

Jian Yunlan: “Out of curiosity, how much do dishwashers make a day?”

Weasel-face: “Fifty credits a day. What, jealous? You can still apply, you know.”

Jian Yunlan: “…”

He’d sold two hundred bowls yesterday at three credits each. Even after deducting costs, that was over five hundred credits in profit.

Of course, he wasn’t in it for the money—just living his stall-owner dreams.

“That is impressive. Ten days of dishwashing would match what I earn in one day selling porridge.”

With an awkward but polite smile, Jian Yunlan sidestepped Weasle-face and headed toward Zone F.

“…”

Weasel-face watched him leave, his lips curling further in disdain.

“Keep lying to yourself. That garbage porridge of his, in Zone F, earning five hundred credits a day?! He can fool his buddies all he wants, but he’d better not start believing his own crap!”

Even the busiest stalls in Zone A rarely cleared five hundred credits daily.

And Weasel-face distinctly remembered—including the wave of impoverished, disabled veterans brought by the 11th Squad, barely seventy people had gone to Zone F yesterday. Even if every single one bought a bowl, that’d only be two hundred credits.

In short, Jian Yunlan’s claim of five hundred credits in profit? Weasel-face didn’t believe a word of it.

Other Zone A vendors, reading Weasel-face’s expression, began piling on with smug ridicule—the kind only possible among jealous competitors:

“Delusions of a starving man before he croaks.”

“If he can make five hundred in Zone F, what does that say about my years of grinding in Zone A…?”

“Bet he won’t sell a single bowl today. He’ll be crying his way home!”

“Anyone who dares set up shop here without paying tribute to Brother Weasel-face is doomed!”

After all, they paid exorbitant “protection fees” daily just to operate in Zone A, barely scraping by after handing most profits to Weasle-face’s crew.

If some newbie could earn that much in the least desirable spot without paying a cent, wouldn’t that make them the jokes?

The chatter died down quickly, though. In the apocalypse, survival took priority—no one had energy to spare gloating over others’ failures.

…Better to strategize for the upcoming rush at ten o’clock, when mercenaries flooded in and profits soared.

Time ticked steadily toward ten.

At ten sharp, the Eastern Base’s gates would open, releasing waves of returning mercenaries—and the black market’s food district would erupt into life.

Most vendors earned the bulk of their income during the three-hour frenzy from ten to one in the morning.

And tonight was special.

With many previously off-duty mercenaries returning to active missions, foot traffic was expected to double compared to recent days.

“Eyes sharp, everyone!” Weasel-face barked, pacing through Zone A. “We’re expecting nearly a hundred thousand customers tonight. Seize this chance, and doubling your earnings isn’t just a dream!”

The vendors perked up, tense but eager as the clock neared ten.

Then—

BONG. BONG. BONG.

The wall clock’s heavy chimes rang out ten times.

The black market’s gates swung open.

Instantly, the district exploded into chaos—like water hitting a rolling boil. A cacophony of voices, laughter, and hurried footsteps surged in as a dark tide of humanity poured through the entrance.

The mercenaries had arrived!

Covered in dust, some streaked with blood, their eyes gleamed with the desperate hunger of men who’d fought all day—now craving hot, delicious food to replenish their strength.

As usual, the vendors immediately began shouting at the top of their lungs with enthusiastic cries:

“Pancakes! Hot, fresh pancakes—ten credits each!”

“Flavor-boosted synthetic porridge, limited-time offer—second bowl half-price!”

“Boss, tired after a long day of missions? How about a bowl of our hearty potato root stew?”

Normally, exhausted mercenaries wouldn’t overthink it—they’d just grab whatever smelled good or was shouted the loudest.

Pancake Boss Wang, with his booming voice and bright red, spice-laden pancakes, usually drew the biggest crowds in Zone A.

But today, Boss Wang sensed something was off.

…The moment the gates opened, despite his usual energetic hawking, while a large group of weary mercenaries did head his way—

“Boss, want a pancake? Fresh off the griddle, spicy and piping hot!” Boss Wang greeted eagerly, already flipping dough with practiced ease.

Normally, customers would agree on the spot, pay, and queue up.

But today was different.

“Uh, actually, I’m not here for pancakes,” the mercenary rubbed his hands together, scanning the area before asking expectantly,

“Do you know where the Simple Porridge Stall is?”

Boss Wang: “…?”

The same scene played out across almost every corner of the food district.

Boss Hu of the Potato Root Stew stall watched excitedly as a crowd surged toward him, ready to cash in—

—only for the mercenaries to glance at his sign, mutter, “This isn’t Simple Porridge Stall—owner’s surname is Hu, not Jian… Damn, wrong place. Let’s look elsewhere,” and walk off.

Boss Hu: “??”

Boss Li of the Synthetic Porridge stall dumped a heap of green flavor enhancer into his vat and bellowed promotions, drawing a crowd—

—who just craned their necks, sniffed, then frowned. “It’s porridge, but not the right smell or color.”

The group dispersed as quickly as they’d gathered.

Boss Li: “???!”

…Soon, anguished howls erupted from vendors throughout the black market:

“WHAT THE HELL IS SIMPLE PORRIDGE STALL?!?!”

How had it stolen all their customers?!

*

Jian Yunlan deftly navigated the twists and turns to his Zone F spot from yesterday, lit the lantern, and stoked the charcoal fire.

The clay pot of plain porridge warmed on the stove.

As for the mushrooms and chicken, he kept them marinated—ready to toss into the boiling porridge the moment customers arrived, letting the heat cook them instantly.

…Yesterday, he’d waited nearly an hour for his first patron.

He expected a similar wait today.

But the second his fire lit up—customers appeared!

It was the 11th Squad, fresh from their mission.

Yi Chunqing, Murong Miao, Wang Li, and the others had sprinted back to base, terrified of missing out. Now, they dashed toward him faster than they’d moved all day on the battlefield.

“Welcome!” Delighted to see returning customers on just his second day, Jian Yunlan greeted them warmly.

“Boss Jian, we’ll each take a bowl of porridge,” Yi Chunqing said, leaning on his cane as he swiftly swiped his ID card to pay. “By the way, what’s today’s special?”

Jian Yunlan: ” Chicken and Shiitake Mushroom porridge.”

Yi Chunqing’s eyes lit up, practically drooling. “Mushroom and chicken! That’s the good stuff!!!”

“…One bowl? I could down three by myself!” Murong Miao protested, echoed by the other youngsters.

After some debate, they settled on two bowls each as an “appetizer,” with plans to order more if still hungry. Wang Li and Murong Miao outright went for three bowls each.

Twenty bowls sold the moment he opened—Jian Yunlan was overjoyed.

“Just a moment, it’ll be ready soon. I’ll add the ingredients now.”

As he spoke, Jian Yunlan lifted the clay pot’s lid—

Revealing a snowy-white porridge base, bubbling gently, each grain of rice bloomed like a flower.

The rich aroma of rice filled the air, with a subtle hint of fresh grain.

With a ladle, Jian Yunlan scooped marinated mushrooms and boneless chicken thighs from a porcelain dish into the porridge. A few quick stirs later, the chicken turned a tempting pale pink.

Fragrant steam billowed up as the flavors melded!

The 11th Squad members stared, transfixed.

…The younger mercenaries might not fully appreciate it, but Yi Chunqing, having lived before the apocalypse, recognized the skill instantly.

Plain rice porridge seemed simple, but the heat control, the ratios—every detail tested a chef’s mastery. Just this velvety, fragrant base proved Boss Jian’s exceptional skill, honed over at least twenty years!