Chương 76: The First Bite (3/3) [Bonus 2/6]

Instead of answering the stall owner, Shi Yan inhaled once again.

Even without his [Acoustic-Blood Tracker] fully triggered, his base [Physique: 55] naturally heightened his olfactory senses.

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding beneath the oiled cloak as the layered scents hit him with almost physical weight.

He could perfectly separate the complex layering of the aroma—the sharp bite of star anise, the earthy grounding of boiled pork bones, the sweet richness of rendered fat, and the harsh bite of cheap, rice-brewed alcohol. Each component rose and fell in waves, twisting through the smoke-heavy air like invisible threads woven into a tapestry of memory and hunger.

It smelled exactly like a rundown roadside diner from his old life on Earth during a late-night winter patrol. The scent dragged him backward through time—cracked vinyl seats, fogged windows streaked with condensation, the hiss of something frying on a too-hot griddle. It was intoxicating.

He looked at the trembling room. Shoulders hunched. Spines bent low. Eyes locked on tables or fists or nothing at all. The air itself felt pressed down, smothered beneath the oppressive weight of his false aura. If he didn't act quickly, they were all going to press their faces into the dirt and ruin the atmosphere entirely.

"Everyone enjoy your day. Just treat me as your normal customer," Shi Yan said, speaking both to the surrounding people, who had been gulping nervously, and to the stall owner. His voice was level, clipped—matter-of-fact in the way only a soldier giving simple orders could manage.

The mortals flinched but obeyed immediately, frozen in place like terrified statues, their eyes wide and locked onto the table wood in front of them. No one moved. No one breathed louder than a whisper. The only sound was the crackle of fat dripping into brazier coals and the faint hiss of steam rising from the broth pot.

Shi Yan walked deliberately toward the back of the stall, his boots thudding softly against the packed earth floor with each measured step. He picked a relatively clean corner table that had a clear line of sight to the street and the cooking fires—tactical instinct selecting the position before conscious thought could catch up. He sat down heavily, the wooden bench groaning under his unnatural bone density, the joints creaking in protest as the frame settled beneath him.

He looked at the stall owner, who was still trembling behind the boiling vat. Sweat beaded along the man's temple, tracing a slow path down through the grime on his jaw. His thick hands gripped the edge of the iron pot as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.

The man's eyes still looked afraid, and when Shi Yan looked at him, the stall owner immediately lowered his head, which caused Shi Yan to frown. His brow furrowed beneath the shadow of the bamboo hat, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth pulling taut.

"Relax, I am not here for taxes. I am not here for blood," Shi Yan said evenly, his tone softening just slightly—enough to sound human, not enough to sound weak.

"I just want a hot meal. That is all."

The stall owner blinked, a look of profound, terrified confusion washing over his sweaty face. His mouth parted, then closed again. His brows drew together as if trying to reconcile two completely incompatible truths. An immortal? Eating here?

"Y-yes! Absolutely, Great Venerable! Yes, right away!" His voice cracked halfway through, strangled by disbelief and raw survival instinct. It was the weirdest and scariest joke he had ever heard. If not for the presence of the great immortal before him, perhaps the stall owner would have laughed—laughed until his belly ached and tears ran down his face, the kind of nervous, hysterical laughter that comes when the world stops making sense.

The next moment, the portly man practically vaulted over the cooking counter, his barrel chest heaving as his feet hit the packed earth with a dull thud. He snatched a relatively clean towel from his apron—still stained with old grease and faint brown smudges—and rushed over to Shi Yan's table, his legs pumping hard enough that his knees wobbled with each step.

He began scrubbing the already wiped wood with frantic, desperate energy, bowing continuously, his spine curling and straightening like a man trying to pray and flee at the same time.

"Great Venerable, this is... this is a supreme honor, but... but I must beg your divine forgiveness in advance!" the owner stammered, wringing the towel in his hands as he presented the verbal menu. His knuckles whitened around the damp fabric, twisting it into a tight coil as if wringing out his own terror.

"We... we are but filthy mortals. The meat we roast is just wild mountain boar and river fish pulled from the southern aqueduct." His voice dropped lower, trembling like a man confessing sins before execution. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The owner sank into a half-bow, his voice trembling with genuine fear. The edge of his apron dragged against the floor, picking up fresh streaks of ash and mud.

"We have absolutely no demonic beast meat. I possess no Calamity-Rank tiger thighs, nor any hundred-year-old Snow Lotus roots to season the broth!

"The food here possesses zero spiritual essence. It is full of crude earthly impurities! If... if consuming my mortal slop clogs your noble Dantian or taints your cultivation base, I beg you not to wipe out my bloodline!" The last sentence came out as a choked whisper, his eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for a blow that might never come—or might come in the next heartbeat.

Shi Yan listened to the pathetic, terrified apology, evaluating the choices through his deeply pragmatic lens. His dark eyes remained steady, unblinking beneath the brim of his hat. Right... I almost forgot. The reason cultivators didn't eat was because of this, right?

But for him?

"I did not ask for spirit herbs," Shi Yan said. He tapped a finger against the scarred wooden table—once, twice—the dull thunk of knuckle on wood cutting through the tension like a knife through silk.

"Cut the largest slab of the roasted boar off the spit. Leave the fat on it. A bowl of the bone-marrow broth, and three thick slices of the salted flatbread."

The stall owner's mouth hung open for a fraction of a second—his jaw slack, his yellowed teeth visible in the flickering brazier light—before his survival instincts kicked back in.

"Y-Yes! Yes, Great Venerable! A mountain of meat! Right away!" He straightened so fast his spine popped audibly, then spun on his heel and practically threw himself back toward the fires.

"And no wine," Shi Yan added smoothly, frowning while recalling some unpleasant memories—blurred faces, slurred voices, the cold bite of pavement against his cheek in an alley that smelled like piss and gasoline.

Drinking cheap, highly fermented alcohol in an unsecured public location while carrying an untraceable fortune and sitting atop multiple kill warrants was a rookie mistake.

"Just boiled water."

"Understood, my Lord!" The owner bowed three more times, his torso folding and unfolding with the mechanical urgency of a man trying to appease a natural disaster. He practically sprinted backward to the cooking fires, his feet slipping slightly on the grease-slick earth before he caught himself against the edge of a brazier.

Left alone in the corner, Shi Yan leaned his back slightly against the stone wall, keeping the entire perimeter of the stall in his peripheral vision. The soot-stained surface was cool and damp against his shoulders, even through the cloak. The mist outside had seeped into the mortar, leaving faint streaks of moisture trailing down the cracks. While he waited, his mind immediately shifted from the food back to logistics.

That old man selling the bamboo hat—what was his name again...? Right, he had pointed him toward the Iron-Ash Furnaces. Today's primary objective was securing armor. But what kind?

Standard knight plate or full heavy armor was completely out of the question. Shi Yan visualized the mechanics of his own body—muscle fibers superheating, blood pressure spiking, steam erupting from every pore like a biological pressure valve.

When he activated [Black-Iron Body Art] at Level 2, his internal cardiovascular engine overclocked by four hundred percent. His [Sieve Effect] caused superheated steam and extreme bodily heat to vent violently from his pores.

If he wore a solid steel breastplate, he would essentially be putting himself inside a pressure cooker. The steam would have nowhere to escape, and he would boil himself alive within three minutes of combat.

It would basically just make me a steamer, he thought with a faint chuckle—a dry, humorless sound that never reached his lips.

What he needed was armor that could absorb heavy hits, protect him from cuts, and handle very high heat.

An inner armor of layered plates would suit his needs. Thin iron pieces could be hidden beneath leather or heavy cloth, giving protection without making the body too stiff.

It would allow him to move, grapple, and turn freely, while still blunting slashes and keeping blades from biting too deep.

Beneath that, he needed heavy impact padding—a gambeson made from thick beast-hide stuffed with silk.

His current bottleneck was the exorbitant price of [Emergency Vessel Triage]. Curing major bone fractures cost nearly five hundred Embers.

If a cultivator hit him with a heavy, blunt Qi blast, the outer steel would do nothing; he needed the inner padding to absorb the shockwave before it could shatter his ribs.

Furthermore, it had to be asymmetrical. His right arm needed absolute fluid mobility to execute the supersonic [Blood-Ignition Flash Step] and cross-draw his blade from the spatial pouch.

His left arm, however, needed to act as his shield—heavy steel pauldrons and a thick vambrace to literally catch and deflect incoming swords.

Perfect... but what about a helmet?

Shi Yan frowned beneath his bamboo hat. The brim cast his face deeper into shadow, hiding the way his jaw tightened.

A solid helmet limits peripheral vision and restricts neck mobility. Worse, thick iron over my ears will muffle the [Acoustic-Blood Tracker]. If I block my own hearing, I might as well blindfold myself before a fight.

He couldn't wear a full helm, but he still needed to conceal his identity, especially for the cursed Midnight Ghost Market tonight. Su Yin had been explicitly clear on that rule.

Right, talking about the rules... A mask, then. An iron half-mask covering from the jaw up to the cheekbones might be perfect.

But the heat issue remained. If he wore a solid iron faceplate, he would drown in his own carbon dioxide and superheated breath mid-fight.

I'll have the blacksmith cut vertical slits into the mouthpiece and cheeks. Like gill vents. Or the fangs of a Yaksha demon from the local mythology. When I activate my combat arts, the sieve-steam will exhaust outward through the iron teeth.

He nodded to himself, the blueprint fully rendered in his mind—clean lines, measured tolerances, failure points accounted for and mitigated.

Not even five minutes had passed when the hurried, rhythmic thumping of heavy footsteps approached his table. The sound grew louder, accompanied by the faint clink of wood scraping wood and the slosh of liquid threatening to spill.

"Y-your meal, Great Venerable!"

The stall owner reappeared, carrying a massive, oil-stained wooden tray that looked ready to buckle under its own weight. His arms trembled slightly beneath the load, his thick forearms corded with strain as he shuffled forward with exaggerated care. He set it down gently, taking extreme care not to spill a single drop or make a sudden noise. The tray settled onto the scarred table with a soft thud, and the owner immediately stepped back, wiping his palms against his apron in tight, nervous strokes.

Shi Yan looked down.

A slab of roasted boar meat dominated the center of the tray—charred black along the edges, glistening with rendered fat that pooled in the grain of the wood beneath it. The meat was still steaming, thin wisps of smoke curling upward into the dim air. Beside it sat a chipped clay bowl filled to the brim with bone-marrow broth, the surface shimmering with golden fat that caught the red glow of the braziers.

Three thick slices of salted flatbread were stacked to the side, their crusts dark and cracked, flecked with coarse salt crystals that glinted faintly in the firelight. A dented tin cup of boiled water sat at the edge of the tray, steam rising lazily from its surface.

Despite how indifferent and cold he looked under the bamboo hat that no mortal here dared to peer beneath, he actually blinked and gulped slightly.