Live Streaming Food Stall… But in Dog-Blooded Novels – CH142

Chapter 142

The less-experienced mercenaries crowded around the pot, stomachs growling at the sight of the unadorned porridge.

“How can plain porridge smell this good?!”

Yesterday’s porridge had taught them that flavor enhancers weren’t necessary for deliciousness.

But today’s base redefined their standards.

The steam rising from the uncovered pot carried the delicate fragrance of rice and grain, soothing yet invigorating.

And when the fresh mushrooms and chicken hit the boiling porridge—the meat’s natural savoriness, the mushrooms’ earthy depth—infusing the thick, hot broth…

The porridge’s surface glistened with a glossy sheen, the chicken and mushrooms’ juices blending seamlessly. The aroma alone was comforting enough to make mouths water!

A drizzle of golden sesame oil, a sprinkle of scallions, and the first bowl of Chicken and Shiitake Mushroom porridge was ready.

Jian Yunlan filled porcelain bowls one by one, handing them out. “Your mushroom and chicken porridge—careful, it’s hot!”

The squad eagerly accepted their bowls, inhaling deeply before impatiently bringing the rims to their lips, too eager to wait for it to cool.

Praise erupted instantly:

“So fragrant! So velvety! The porridge absorbed all the mushroom and chicken’s goodness—unbelievably delicious!”

“After a brutal mission, this makes every hardship worth it.”

“No enhancers, yet it outshines any porridge I’ve ever had… I want to lick the bowl clean…”

Jian Yunlan watched their blissful expressions with quiet satisfaction.

He’d assumed serving this group would buy him some downtime before the next customers arrived.

But rest was not in the cards.

…While the 11th Squad was still savoring their porridge, thunderous footsteps approached from afar, accompanied by excited chatter:

“Zone F should be this way!”

“Think so? This place is a maze—is Simple Porridge Stall really here?”

“My squadmate said this porridge repairs cores. Can that be true?”

“Do you smell that porridge aroma…?”

Indeed.

After hearing about “Simple Porridge Stall” through various channels, mercenaries who’d spent all day searching had finally pinpointed its location.

Zhang Zhuoran was among them.

Having witnessed Liang Mingchun’s miraculous core recovery earlier, he’d resolved to find this stall and test its legendary porridge.

…Taste was secondary. In this apocalypse, core-repairing porridge was a game-changer!

Yet like others, Zhang Zhuoran had wandered the black market’s food district aimlessly, baffled by the stall’s obscurity—tucked in the farthest corner of Zone F, accessible only through a labyrinth of alleys.

Ultimately, they’d trailed the District 13 veterans to finally reach their goal.

Their group numbered over a hundred, a small army marching toward the aroma of hope.

Zhang Zhuoran played a clever trick—using his small stature as a scout-type mercenary to weave through the crowd and reach the front.

With so many people, those slightly farther back might not even catch a glimpse of the porridge. Zhang Zhuoran was nothing if not foresighted.

Soon, they spotted the brightly lit little stall, unmistakable in the darkness.

A handsome owner stood at the stall, enthusiastically greeting customers:

“Mushroom and chicken porridge! Fresh and piping hot—three credits a bowl!”

The stove fire burned strong, the clay pot bubbling as the aroma of porridge and steam spread…

Zhang Zhuoran’s eyes lit up. Seizing the moment, he slipped to the front unnoticed and said to the owner:

“Boss, one bowl of porridge, please!”

“Coming right up!” The owner deftly scooped a bowlful and handed it to Zhang Zhuoran.

Behind him, other mercenaries grew impatient, crowding forward until the stall was packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

Yi Chunqing and the 11th Squad spontaneously stepped in to manage the chaos: “No pushing! Line up properly—don’t cause trouble for Boss Jian!”

As he spoke, Yi Chunqing brandished his cane, thwacking those who tried to cut in line.

Thwack! Thwack-thwack!

A few youngsters clutched their heads and slunk back into formation.

Zhang Zhuoran: “…”

As the lone lucky one who’d snagged his bowl early, Zhang Zhuoran wisely kept quiet, retreating to a corner to inspect his prize.

The freshly served porridge was topped with vibrant green scallions, tender pink boneless chicken pieces nestled in the grains, its fragrance irresistible.

Truthfully, like the others, Zhang Zhuoran hadn’t expected much flavor-wise.

Their goal was singular: the rumored core-repairing effects. Taste? Unnecessary, irrelevant.

If it fixed cores, they’d chug it like gasoline without blinking.

So, upon receiving his bowl, Zhang Zhuoran barely hesitated before closing his eyes and bringing it to his lips.

…Once a regular in Zone A, Zhang Zhuoran was accustomed to hyper-seasoned, aggressively stimulating foods—greasy, heavy fare most mercenaries relied on to fill their bellies.

But this first sip of porridge stunned him.

—Delicious. Unbelievably so.

The porridge base was luxuriously soft, the rice’s natural fragrance fully extracted, melting on the tongue without needing to chew.

Even better, it was infused with the savory richness of mushrooms and chicken—a perfectly balanced umami, with just enough rendered chicken fat to enhance without overwhelming.

Every spoonful carried that deep, comforting flavor, even without chunks of meat.

…For a moment, he forgot his original purpose. The sheer pleasure of the taste made thoughts of cores vanish entirely.

“Huff, huff.” Too impatient to cool it properly, Zhang Zhuoran blew briefly before shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. “How is this so good? So rich? Boss, your porridge skills are god-tier!”

It was best enjoyed scalding-hot.

The silky porridge slid down his throat, warming his stomach to the core—the very definition of comfort.

Mercenaries risked their lives daily, earning meager credits through backbreaking labor—cold, exhausted, and starving. But this single bowl warmed him head to toe, as if even his blood ran hotter.

…And as the heat spread, a gentle current flowed through his veins, gradually restoring his depleted energy core to peak condition.

So immersed in the culinary bliss, he didn’t even notice the change at first.

After finishing the bowl and even licking it clean, Zhang Zhuoran’s consciousness slowly returned from heaven to earth, still craving more.

If only he’d bought a few more bowls—one was nowhere near enough!

Regret washed over him.

The noise around him was deafening.

Zhang Zhuoran thought that if the line wasn’t too long, maybe he could grab another bowl. So, he glanced at the queue in front of the Simple Porridge Stall.

…And what he saw nearly made him collapse in shock.

“Holy sht!”

His eyes widened, and he almost fell backward.

People. Mountains. Seas. Of. People.

The line in front of Simple Porridge Stall wasn’t just packed—it spilled out of Zone F, snaking all the way to the outside, with no end in sight!

Zhang Zhuoran had no doubt that over 70% of the black market’s foot traffic was now queued up here.

Mercenaries craned their necks, hoping the line would move faster, while those toward the back—completely clueless about what was being sold—chattered among themselves:

“I heard this thing can repair cores.”
“Smells amazing—like chicken and rice. No idea when it’ll be our turn, though.”
“Just wait…”

“With this many people, the porridge probably won’t last,” Zhang Zhuoran muttered, patting his chest, relieved he’d acted fast and skipped the line earlier.

At the same time, he abandoned the idea of a second bowl.

With this crowd and only one bucket of porridge, even if he joined the line now, he’d never get any.

Thinking this, Zhang Zhuoran followed the queue outward—not to join it, but to see where it ended.

As he walked, he left Zone F behind.

The line stretched like a giant serpent through Zones E, D, and C… all the way to Zone A.

Business in Zone A was unusually bleak today. The usually crowded pancake and porridge stalls had only a handful of customers—most of the crowd had been sucked away by Simple Porridge Stall.

Finally reaching Zone A, Zhang Zhuoran spotted the end of the line.

…And there, at the very back, stood Weasel-face, his face twisted in fury.

“Simple Porridge Stall? That stall in Zone F?!” Weasel-face snarled at his lackey, his face pale with disbelief. “You’re telling me all these mercenaries are lining up—just for a bowl of porridge from some nobody in Zone F?!?!”