Famine 197: The Old-Fashioned Wonton Stall

That… that was it? It was solved!

At the entrance to the farm, players who had pitched tents or brought sleeping bags, those steeling themselves for a wait of three or even five days in the long queue, all stared wide-eyed in shock.

Gazing up at this bustling metropolis, people were utterly dumbfounded.

They had been estranged from human civilization for so long that even a streetlight able to shine steadily now seemed a luxury.

A female player walked along the street, looking up, her eyes unable to take it all in: “These streetlights… they’re really on… The elevators actually work… My god… Could there be running water, too?”

Nearby, Wu Jing, who had come along to watch the excitement, laughed at her words. “Obvious newcomer!”

“The farm’s always had running water.”
It was supplied by the Imaginary Pond’s resource network.

The female player couldn’t quite believe it; she looked as if she were almost frightened by this generous gift, and whispered, “Then… what about bathrooms? Washbasins, hot water, soft beds, safe and stable shelter, a roof overhead…”

Things that once seemed so ordinary, but hadn’t been seen in seven years.

Wu Jing burst out laughing. “Yes! All of it!”

“Anything you can think of, you’ll find here!”

…

In the decision-making circle, Li Cui’e also reacted swiftly. “We can’t possibly cover such a huge city right away, and our manpower can’t keep up. Let’s stake out a region first, and gradually expand.”

“Mr. Li Tingkai? Here—take a team and go tally up the number of residences in the neighborhood, then re-assign the categories. Get the street administrator over for a report, too; let’s look into street management…”

Everyone became busy at once!

With that as the starting point, Mrs. Li launched into arranging every matter with characteristic decisiveness.

The environment of the old town was still excellent, so there was no need to relocate—let it serve as the new district. The portal would soon become a major transport hub, so the streets needed widening, additional posts needed establishing; player-resident violence had to be strictly forbidden; restaurants and various supporting facilities needed upgrading…

The players were delighted, but for the managers, new problems arose by the dozen.
Yet there was not a word of complaint. With this major issue resolved and the farm’s player community thriving, everyone was flushed with energy, eager to throw themselves into the work.

In the midst of the cheer, someone joked to Li Cui’e:

“Sister Li, at this rate, you’re going to be promoted from town mayor to city mayor.”

For a moment, Li Cui’e fell silent, stunned, and her eyes turned red.

The person who spoke panicked, “What—what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Li Cui’e wiped away tears with a smile. “It’s just… at last, we have cities again.”

A gathering place of human urban civilization had once more emerged in this world.

…

So, sharing laughter and talk, dusk fell rapidly and night approached.

Players strolling through the streets suddenly caught a whiff of steaming, savory aroma.

“What’s that smell? It’s amazing!”

They fanned out in search of the source, darting through streets and alleys, until finally they traced it to a dark, pitch-black alleyway.

It was wedged between two tall buildings, as if by accident of construction—a narrow, gloomy crack, looking every bit as hazardous as it was shadowed.

At the alley’s far end, a single shaky electric bulb hung, like the lure-light atop an anglerfish.

Everyone exchanged glances, none daring to venture in. Soon, a crowd ringed the mouth of the alley.

“What are you all standing around for?”

Suddenly, a blast of wind swept from behind, sending the whole crowd staggering aside.

Turning to protest, they saw the source of the gale:

Nidhogg, arms folded, stood there. His enormous, dark red dragon wings spread out imposingly in the wind.

The crowd: “…”
Every hint of belligerence vanished in an instant; anger became suppressed timidity, and they meekly parted to clear a path.

“Sorry about that.” Shi He hastily apologized, hiding his face.

Nidhogg, uncaring of onlookers, seized Shi He and strode straight into the alley.

After a few steps, the light’s true nature came into view—

It was an old-fashioned, iron-colored tricycle cart. A wooden frame on the front supported a little topped table. Electrical wire snaked overhead, suspending a lightbulb.

On the tabletop sat a cutting board, several dough balls, a rolling pin, a deep basin filled with minced meat, a heap of condiments, and five small pails—shrimp skin, dried seaweed, chopped scallion, cilantro, vinegar. Off to the side, a big pot was bubbling away with boiling water.

Low stools and tables sprawled along the alley.

Lin Qiushui, having followed them in, slapped his thigh in sudden realization: “It’s the old-fashioned street wonton stall!”

That’s right—they’d all forgotten one thing.

The world’s sapling was, after all, a crop grown by the farm.
And crops from the farm inevitably yielded something edible!

Nidhogg cared about none of these details—he only cared to try any “new treat that crossed his path,” so he plopped himself right down.

Over the table, as if by invisible hands, meat filling was deftly wrapped into a thin wonton skin, pinched closed, then dropped into the pot. The translucent, featherlight wontons were stirred gently with an iron ladle, then skillfully scooped up and served.

The boiling water, together with ingredients prepared beforehand, were poured into a waiting bowl, and with a splash, steaming, savory aroma filled the air.

From the air, an old man’s voice rang out: “Any allergies?”

Shrimp and seaweed unraveled in the hot broth. Two bowls of steaming, freshly cooked wontons appeared, fragrant and scalding.

Nidhogg picked up a bowl, blew on it perfunctorily, and filled a transparent plastic spoon, sending it directly to his mouth.

The filling in old-fashioned wontons was never much—what mattered was the freshness, the broth simmered with more than plain water, a little chicken stock lending body. The umami of seaweed and shrimp melded in, flavor building on flavor.
Cooked perfectly, the wonton skins were thin as feathers, almost impossibly delicate yet still intact. Enclosing their savory filling, they melted on the tongue and slid down with the soup.

“Delicious!” Shi He’s eyes lit up.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stood and beckoned the crowd at the mouth of the alley: “All clear—my [Eye of Insight] detects no debuffs.”

The crowd cheered and surged in, immediately filling all available seats.

One steaming bowl after another, scattered with scallions, soon lined every table in the alley.

In this urban crevice, warmth and the traces of everyday life drifted up with the steam.

Lin Qiushui went back out to call Wang Wen and the others, and by the time they’d returned, there were no seats left. He ordered a few extra bowls to take away instead, inviting everyone to sit in the central park.

The night deepened, streetlights flickered on.

The park teemed with tall, lush trees, shrubberies, lawns, and benches. The group of old comrades picnicked together, eating, drinking, chatting, and laughing—reminiscing about the years before the famine game erupted.

Back then, even the biggest cities always had an alley out of the reach of the city inspector. Locals called it “gutter oil street.” The stallowners were always elderly, their operations never quite clean, but tough and time-tested, cheap and plentiful. Even the spices for grilled sausages were the best.

When you worked late into the night, you could sit at a stall, eat a bowl of wontons, have a grilled sausage, and feel the world still held promise.

In the blink of an eye, those days had vanished.

So much had changed—people, things, everything—but here, by the street, the wontons were still delicious.

As they ate, Lin Qiushui suddenly dropped his head, letting out a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Wang Wen asked.

Lin Qiushui shook his head, gazed up at the soaring towers, and said, “I just remembered—I first met Bian Xu in a place like this.”

That was in the CBD, at midnight.

That blond-haired youth had snapped his fingers nonchalantly, and light had swallowed up the eerie danger that pursued them.
Under the night sky, his smile shone as bright and warm as the sun.

And Lin Qiushui, to save everyone camped in the park, had received from him a statue wrapped in cloth.

The Seed of Famine.

Back then, Lin Qiushui hadn’t even known Bian Xu’s name. Yet he had honored his promise, keeping the Seed of Famine safe for many years, considering deeply before finally entrusting it to Si Zhiyan.

It wasn’t until he joined the farm, growing close with Anderson, Shi He, and the others, that he began to piece together what had happened. Only then did he learn what had become of Bian Xu.

“…” Lin Qiushui served a bowl of fresh wontons, carrying it to a large tree, placing it on the grass, and patting the ground at its base.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life.”
“Thank you for letting me survive, and for giving me the chance to walk these city streets again. I kept my promise. Meeting you—it was our good fortune.”

“Have a taste of these wontons too.”

After a long silence, he smiled wryly. “Sorry. Am I saying all this too late?”

Night wind swept the park, whispering through the shrubs and grass.

As it should be, there was no reply.

……

…

Several hours later, Lin Qiushui and the others finished eating, tidied up the litter, and departed.

Life had to go on—there was still work the next day, training, adventures ahead…

Night had deepened.

On the pitch-black street, not a soul remained.

Within the dense crown of the tree where Lin Qiushui had paused, Bian Xu leaned against the trunk, slowly straightening.

He pushed off the branch in a light leap, landing softly.

He picked up the bowl of wontons.

They had long gone cold. Only their lingering savor remained.

Yet Bian Xu lifted the bowl and, with great care, finished every last wonton.

“Still not ready?” Si Zhiyan’s voice rang out behind him.

Bian Xu’s shoulders twitched gently. He lowered his head and slowly set down his spoon.
Vines at his sides drooped, trying hard to curl themselves up under the wide hem of his jacket.

After a moment, Bian Xu said, “Looking like this… I can’t face people.”

Si Zhiyan replied, “Don’t say that. You’re excellent.”

“Really?” Bian Xu said.

Facing away from Si Zhiyan, his throat bobbed, trying to suppress something within. In the end, he couldn’t hold back, and slowly turned to look at Si Zhiyan.

Under the moonlight, Bian Xu was still smiling, his golden eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He asked:

“Then… sir, what do you think I am?”

“What do you take me for?”

After the kiss that day, after so many tentative hints and cautious forays—so long evaded, met with silent smiles or distracted with shifting topics—
At last, Bian Xu had asked the question.