Chapter 68: Fire the hole!

Ye Cheng had a goal in the morning: Lao Zhao's breakfast shop, an old establishment that had been open for many years.

He remembered that when he was a child, if he came to the dock, his parents would bring him to eat breakfast, and their shop was most famous for its fried dough stick.

Freshly fried.

Two rectangular strips of dough were stacked together, a bamboo board lightly pressed in the middle, one end lifted and twisted, then dropped into the oil pot, instantly becoming two intertwined fried dough sticks.

Leaving aside whatever stories of Qin Mi and the like behind the fried dough stick, Ye Cheng simply liked the crisp, tender texture of fried dough stick itself.

Most importantly, it can be eaten directly, or placed in soy milk congee to eat.

He remembered that back then he was still young, his parents ordered him a bowl of soy milk, and that day he ate seven fried dough sticks.

Now thinking about it feels funny—how could such a small person eat seven fried dough sticks?

"Boss, two fried dough sticks, a bowl of soy milk, and another serving of rice noodle rolls," Ye Cheng ordered skillfully.

As for rice noodle rolls, many are eaten nowadays, but back then they were upscale, requiring meat and egg fillings; Ye Cheng only liked the plain kind, then drizzled with sauce.

Frankly, those meat and egg additions only increase its price and otherwise ruin the originally delicate texture of the rice noodle rolls.

The one who brought up the breakfast was Lao Zhao's son, also over forty, who had taken over Lao Zhao's mantle.

"Here you go, a bowl of soy milk, two fried dough sticks, a serving of rice noodle rolls, and the condiments are over here."

Ye Cheng picked up a fried dough stick with chopsticks, pressed one end into the soy milk, the oil from the fried dough stick floating on the surface—not particularly pretty, but he liked that feeling.

Day after day, the soy milk soaked up the fried dough stick; taking a bite, the flavor was deeply nostalgic, just like the taste of his childhood.

And this rice noodle roll isn't the white, translucent kind sold in the city; it's green, slightly thicker, with nothing else added, paired with the boss's own braising sauce and a bit of chili—slurp it down, and that's the flavor.

Since his rebirth, what Ye Cheng has felt most deeply about is food; the food nowadays looks good, really good.

When eating, he eats one after another without making a sound.

He completely cannot taste any emotion in this food.

For someone like Ye Cheng, who is rather obsessive about food, this is practically a disaster; even if he later gets rich at a big company, he still often misses the taste of his childhood.

A bowl of soy milk costs five cents, two fried dough sticks one dollar, a serving of rice noodle rolls two dollars; this breakfast Ye Cheng paid three dollars five dimes, eating with ease and happiness.

After finishing the meal, the bored Ye Cheng began to stroll along the street.

On this dock street, everything is sold—vegetables, clothing.

Ye Cheng picked and chose, buying some salted fish and some eggplant, planning to go home and make a salted fish eggplant pot.

Um, there was also some braised meat, pork intestine rolls, with a few chicken feet; this bag would be enough for him to eat for two days.

Just as he was about to head back, Ye Cheng heard a familiar voice:

"Fire the hole!"

"Go, go, go!"

"Damn, this familiar music, these familiar gunshots—Merde, the bloodline of a generation's gunfire has awakened."

Ye Cheng rushed into the internet cafe without hesitation, "Boss, boot up a machine."

The boss, sporting a bird's-nest hairstyle, struggled to open his bloodshot eyes after an all-nighter, let out a cracked yawn, and asked, "How much to top up?"

"How much per hour?"

"Two yuan."

"Top up twenty yuan, and also get…"

Ye Cheng glanced at the shelf; there was a drink both familiar and unfamiliar—Rising Sun.

Back then it was a viral product rivaling Coca-Cola, but later it somehow went out of business.

"Also get one of this Rising Sun iced tea."

The boss casually reached back, his accuracy comparable to an eight-times scope, and handed over a bottle of Rising Sun without error,

"Twenty-two yuan."

This laid-back attitude, this impatient tone, plus his own excited heart—Merde, that's the flavor.

Ye Cheng found a machine and sat down; as soon as it powered on, the case's roar blended with the gunfire from next door—this machine was pretty beat up.

Waiting for Ye Cheng to smoke almost a whole cigarette, the machine finally booted up—there's no help for it, machines of this era were just like that; later software would randomly pop up, boasting boot times of XX seconds and beating 97% of computers nationwide, and I'd guess it's beating exactly this kind.

Once in the game, Ye Cheng waited a moment and finally got some map building underway.

He remembered that back when he played CS with classmates, whoever was building the map would still argue.

"You build!"

"You're despicable!"

"No, you're despicable!"

It was a standard warehouse map, frame by frame, characters teleporting across the screen; back then there was no concept of dropped frames, and everyone thought that's just how 3D games were.

Starting at B41, Ye Cheng expertly bought an AK and a grenade, then rushed out.

As a police officer just appeared, Ye Cheng sprayed a burst at him—headshot!

"Damn! I just bought that sniper!"

From the opposite side came a frustrated voice, the keyboard slammed hard onto the desk.

"No smashing the keyboard—if you smash again, get out." The boss stood up and shouted fiercely.

Here, he is the boss.

Immediately after, Ye Cheng with his AK was practically invincible—camping in various spots, scoring headshots after headshots, the opposing police couldn't even reach the warehouse door.

There's no way around it—brother's AK is just that godly, it can suppress fire.

Back then on the desert map, on A Avenue, he dared to go head‑to‑head with the enemy sniper.

After playing for two hours, Ye Cheng began to find it unbearable—too hard on the eyes, the graphics card was too weak.

Amid the admiring gazes of everyone, Ye Cheng logged off.

"My goodness, he's a master—every shot a headshot."

Damn awesome, I don't know which village it's from.

Having this kind of person is boring, the strength disparity is too huge, fighting is no fun at all, come on, everyone continue.

Leaving the internet cafe, his eyes felt the beauty of the sunshine, Ye Cheng casually ate a 4-dollar boxed meal and then went back to the village.

Upon riding to the village entrance, Ye Cheng saw many people still gathering seafood under the big sun.

"Yo, uncle, aunt, still busy?" Ye Cheng teased cheekily, and went home amid people's resentful glances.

He can lead the villagers to get rich, but you can't just openly rob them, can you?

Going back, nap, then waking up to water the chives and radish.

Little sprouts, grow quickly, the eggs at home are still idle.

For dinner Ye Cheng plans to make it himself, salted fish eggplant casserole.

It's a very ordinary dish, but not commonly seen.

Ye Cheng also forgot where he had eaten it before.

It's simple to make; first, you need a sand pot.

Coincidentally, Ye Cheng bought it when he went to the dock today.

Then wash the salted fish clean, cut into chunks, big or small as you like; what matters is that salty fragrance of the salted fish.

Put the salted fish chunks at the bottom of the sand pot, then cut the eggplant into strips, arrange them in the pot, add water, add a bit of oil, no need to add salt.

However Ye Cheng likes it spicy, so he also added some chili.