Chapter 340: A Xing

The voice was flat, without any flaw.

Yan Feng Qili lowered his head again and kept stir‑frying the tofu in the pan, as if the brief eye contact moments before had never occurred.

But his movements seemed a bit more forceful, the wok spatula clanged against the iron wok, and the red oil churned more violently.

The atmosphere subtly fell quiet.

Only the sizzle from the pot and the scent of chilies drifted through the air.

San Yue Qi glanced left and right, feeling something was off but unable to pinpoint it.

She scratched her head and decided to focus on the upcoming dish: "Boss, make it extra spicy!"

Yan Feng Qili paused, then nodded: "... Alright."

A few minutes later, two packed orders of mapo tofu were handed over.

The red take‑out boxes had transparent lids, revealing the bright red tofu and minced meat inside, sprinkled with vivid green scallions.

"Thank you for your patronage," Yan Feng Qili's voice remained steady.

San Yue Qi paid, took the boxes, and handed one to A Xing: "Let's go! We'll eat at the park over there!"

A Xing took the box and gave Yan Feng Qili one last glance.

Yan Feng Qili also glanced at her, his eyes calm and still, then gave a barely perceptible nod.

The two left the stall, walked to the nearby Street Center Park, and sat on a bench.

"I'm starting!"

San Yue Qi impatiently opened the box, scooped a spoonful of tofu with the complimentary little spoon, blew on it, and shoved it into her mouth—

and her face instantly flushed.

"Pfft—cough cough! So, so spicy!!!" Tears immediately welled in San Yue Qi's eyes; she opened her mouth, fanned herself with her hand, "Water! Water!"

A Xing silently pulled a bottle of dark brown liquid from the side pocket of the backpack and handed it over.

Without a second thought, San Yue Qi took it, unscrewed the cap, tipped her head back, and gulped a big mouthful—

and then she froze completely.

The next second, she "pfft"ed, spitting the liquid out, her little face scrunched up: "So bitter!!! What is this!!!"

A Xing looked at her and answered earnestly: "Jizi Brand Coffee. You deserve it."

"Jizi… coffee?"

San Yue Qi, eyes watery, stared at the bottle in her hand, then at A Xing, "What a messed‑up brand! And why would anyone carry coffee around? Is this… this bitter coffee that rivals herbal medicine?!"

"It's an energizer," A Xing said briefly, "and once you get used to it, it's not bitter."

"Who would want to get used to this!"

San Yue Qi shoved the coffee bottle back into A Xing's hand, leapt, and rushed toward the nearby convenience store, "I'm going to buy water! Mineral water! Normal, drinkable water!"

A Xing watched San Yue Qi's back as she disappeared into the store, then looked down at the coffee bottle in hand and gave it a gentle shake.

Only a trace of liquid remained inside—most of it had been spat out by San Yue Qi.

She screwed the cap back on and stowed the bottle in the backpack.

Then she lifted her gaze to the night sky.

Dongmu City's sky was tinted dark‑red by the city lights, and no stars were visible.

On distant streets, occasional vehicles passed, their headlights slicing the night.

Everything was so calm.

So artificial.

A Xing's golden eyes narrowed slightly.

Perspective shift.

When she dropped San Yue Qi off at her doorstep, the pink‑haired girl was still rubbing her chili‑red lips, muttering, "Never extra spicy next time."

Chang Ye Yue stood inside the door, her crimson eyes sweeping over A Xing, and she gave a slight nod.

"Student Xing, thank you for bringing San Yue back."

Her voice was gentle, like an older sister caring for a younger one, "It's so late, do you need me to see you home?"

A Xing shook his head: "No need."

"Take care on the way."

The door closed.

A Xing stood under the streetlamp, his golden eyes blinking.

Then she realized a serious problem.

—Where does she stay at night?

The Illusion Realm gave her the identity of "the newly transferred high‑school student Xing," but apparently no lodging was arranged.

No home, no key, and even… she felt her school‑uniform pocket—empty.

No money.

She turned her head sideways, looking toward San Yue Qi's house window.

Warm yellow light filtered through the curtains, faintly revealing silhouettes moving inside.

Knocking now and saying "I forgot I have nowhere to stay" would seem… odd.

A Xing stood there for ten seconds.

Then she turned and retraced the path she had come.

Night had deepened, and the street was empty.

Streetlights cast amber circles, her shadow stretching and shrinking.

Occasional night breezes rustled the leaves along the roadside.

There is no destination, just walking.

After walking two blocks, she passed that public restroom—her Salted Fish Tail fell here.

She and San Yue Qi once ate Mapo Tofu there that was so spicy it spewed Flame.

She still remembers the curve of San Yue Qi's hair as it swung when he rushed into the convenience store to buy water.

Then, she saw that red canopy again.

Mapo Tofu Stall.

The stall owner is still there.

Yan Feng Qili, wearing a white chef's uniform and a dark apron, is leisurely wiping the cooking counter.

The cookware has been put away, the gas canister tightened, the sign light still on, making it look like an isolated island on the late‑night street.

A Xing stopped walking.

Yan Feng Qili seemed to notice the gaze and lifted their head.

The two, separated by the empty road, stared at each other.

The night wind blew, swirling a few fallen leaves between them.

The streetlamp's light cast Yan Feng Qili's shadow long, stretching all the way to A Xing's feet.

Their black short hair fluttered slightly in the wind, their face expression Calm, but in those eyes there was only clear Calm.

One glance feels like ten thousand years.

Probably five seconds passed, maybe ten.

Yan Feng Qili set down the cloth and nodded at A Xing.

A Xing crossed the road.

She sat on the only small folding chair in front of the stall.

The chair is plastic, red, a bit worn, but very clean.

Yan Feng Qili said nothing, turned around, opened the already stored stove, and reignited it.

Blue Flame surged, the iron pot was placed on it, and oil was poured.

The movements were fluid as clouds and water, as if already knowing she would come and already prepared another serving.

The oil heated. They added minced meat, stir‑frying until it changed color, then a large spoonful of bean‑paste sauce, and the red oil instantly burst with fragrance.

Next came the neatly cut tender tofu cubes, carefully slipped into the pot, gently tossed to avoid breaking.

Broth was poured from the kettle, not covering the ingredients, brought to a boil over high heat, then reduced to medium‑low for a slow simmer.

Finally, a double assault of Sichuan pepper powder and chili flakes, the bright red hue roiling in the pot, steam rising, the spicy aroma domineeringly claimed the entire street.

But this is not Mapo Tofu.

Yan Feng Qili started another pot of boiling water; beneath the surface were hand‑pulled thick noodles, rolling in the boiling water, gradually becoming translucent.

They scooped out the noodles, drained them, and placed them into a deep bowl.

Then poured a generous spoonful of the freshly made Mapo Tofu, broth and all, over the noodles.

Red oil quickly seeped into every crevice of the noodles, the tofu cubes tremblingly piled atop, emerald green scallions sprinkled on top, and a small handful of crisp fried minced meat as garnish.

A bowl of Mapo Tofu noodles.

Yan Feng Qili brought the bowl to A Xing's front and placed a pair of disposable bamboo chopsticks.

The bowl is a dark‑colored ceramic bowl, making the red oil inside even more vivid.

Steam rose to the face, carrying the numbing of Sichuan pepper, the fierceness of chili, the richness of bean‑paste sauce, and the freshness of broth.

The noodles soaked in the bright red broth, the tofu white and tender, the scallions emerald, the minced meat golden—visually, it is a provocation.

A Xing expressionlessly pulled apart the chopsticks.

She picked up a handful of noodles with the chopsticks.

The noodles were coated in red oil, flashing an enticing sheen under the light.

Sent to the mouth—

The first sensation is heat.

Then the numbness.

The power of Sichuan pepper exploded on the tongue, like countless tiny needles pricking.

Next comes the spiciness.

It is not a gradual spiciness, but a direct, fierce, relentless heat, burning from the mouth all the way to the throat, then spreading further.

Finally comes the flavor: the salty aroma of bean‑paste sauce, the crispness of minced meat, the silky tofu, the chewiness of the noodles, all faintly visible amid the ma‑la torrent, like a small boat struggling to survive in a storm.

A Xing chews.