176: Chapter 176 Encountering a Prodigy at the Linjiang Night Market

Jiang Feng walked leisurely westward along the crooked alleys of the old Location district with his hands in his pockets.

Linjiang Night Market is sandwiched between the old Location district and Binjiang Road, spanning two streets. This place is separated from the gold-paved Financial Street by only a river.

By day, it's a dilapidated building materials market; as soon as night falls, it transforms into Jinghai City's wildest late-night eatery.

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Jiang Feng passed through the bustling central area, nimbly dodging three barbecue stall owners soliciting customers, and made his way to a remote corner at the far eastern end of the night market.

Jiang Feng scanned the area and locked his gaze on a cart in the furthest corner.

This cart was so dilapidated it could be called a "battle-damaged version"—the sheet metal was rusted, one of the four wheels was missing, and half a red brick was wedged underneath to prop it up.

His entire livelihood could be seen at a glance.

A blackened cast-iron wok, a dented aluminum basin containing half a bowl of leftover rice, and several cheap plastic seasoning bottles leaning haphazardly.

A man stood behind the cart.

He looked to be in his early thirties, his hair so oily it was knotted, with strands of hair plastered firmly against his forehead.

The man was looking down, scrubbing the wok with a steel wool ball, making a monotonous and piercing screeching sound.

His movements were mechanical, like a wind-up mannequin.

His arms pushed and pulled at a steady speed, his eyes staring blankly at the bottom of the wok; his whole being exuded the numbness of a walking corpse.

Jiang Feng's stomach was actually somewhat full; while wandering around just now, he had snagged two skewers of large kidneys and finished half a bowl of hot and sour rice noodles.

But he still took two steps closer and leaned lazily against the nearby low wall.

"Boss, do you have fried rice?"

The man looked up and replied dully, "Yes. Sprout fried rice, twelve yuan."

"Give me one."

The man turned around and twisted the knob on the gas stove.

A blue flame flickered to life.

Jiang Feng's gaze fell on the man's arms exposed by his short sleeves.

From wrist to elbow, they were covered in scars, densely interwoven like a net.

There were several round scars, their size perfectly matching cigarette butts, burned so severely that the flesh in the center was concave.

There were also several long, thin knife scars with neat edges; these were definitely not left behind from a street brawl.

They were more consistent with being slowly sliced by a sharp knife while unable to resist.

They were all old injuries; there wasn't a single new cut.

Jiang Feng lowered his eyelids.

The man scooped a spoonful of snow-white lard into the wok.

The moment the oil temperature sizzled, the deathly aura around the man dissipated.

His originally hunched back unconsciously straightened, his right hand firmly grasped the wok handle, his wrist pressed down, and his elbow angled outward at thirty degrees.

Jiang Feng whistled inwardly.

This posture of holding the wok was something he had only seen in that private restaurant in the Location that only accepted VIPs.

That was the starting stance an executive chef with a million-yuan annual salary used when tossing a wok.

The leftover rice hit the wok, and a crisp crackling sound erupted.

Fat enveloped the starch, and the heat control was perfectly seamless.

The man's left hand blindly grabbed a handful of sprouts and tossed them in, while his right wrist gave a forceful shake.

That iron wok practically came alive in his hands.

The rice grains soared into the air, tracing a large semi-circle under the dim yellowish light.

Each grain was distinct, with no sticking at all.

The iron spatula scraped along the bottom of the wok, its surface locked firmly at a fifteen-degree angle against the iron.

With every toss and stir, the bottom layer of rice was precisely brought to the very top.

In less than thirty seconds, the aroma exploded—a pure Chinese Wok Hei.

The richness of the lard, the char of the rice, and the savory spiciness of the fermented sprouts unraveled layer by layer, rushing straight to the senses.

The man tossed the wok with one hand, and the fried rice traced a parabola in mid-air, landing steadily into a cheap plastic food container without a single piece of green onion falling outside.

The moment he handed over the container, the man's shoulders slumped, his back hunched again, and he turned back into that numb night market vendor scrubbing his wok.

Jiang Feng held the container and scooped a large mouthful into his mouth.

The outer shell of the rice grains was slightly charred; as soon as his teeth bit through that crisp layer, the soft texture and moisture locked inside seeped out.

The salty-savory flavor of the sprouts perfectly suppressed the greasiness of the lard, and after swallowing, a hint of sweetness lingered at the back of his tongue.

This skill would be a complete dimensionality reduction strike even in high-end restaurants in the Location where the average check was five hundred yuan per person.

Now, it was confined to a pushcart, packed in a low-quality container, and sold cheaply for twelve yuan.

Jiang Feng chewed slowly, his gaze piercing through the cooking fumes to stare at the back of the man scrubbing the wok.

This man's aura was incredibly eerie; the base color at the very bottom was an extremely rare deep purple.

Zi Wei Entering the Temple.

Jiang Feng's mind flashed through a Ziwei Doushu chart in a second.

The Zi Wei Star was in the life palace, and it was in its exalted Temple position.

In ancient times, this was called the fate of emperors, generals, or ministers; in modern times, it was a top-tier destiny capable of reaching the pinnacle of an industry.

Yet now, this noble deep purple was being smothered by a mass of deathly gray turbid qi.

This layer of gray qi was definitely not a natural look of bad luck; it was too orderly.

It was as if someone had mixed a large bucket of quick-drying cement and, shovel by shovel, very patiently plastered it over the man's life palace.

Plastered so airtight that not even a single crack remained.

This wasn't a case of the Heavens refusing to provide; this was a pure man-made disaster.

Someone had meticulously crafted a death trap, forcefully treading this fate—which should have transformed into a dragon—into the gutter, never to rise again.

Jiang Feng scooped another spoonful of rice.

The man finished scrubbing the wok and scooped a ladle of cold water to rinse his hands.

"Boss, want to add anything else?" the man asked with his head hanging low.

"Add a fried egg."

"Sure, two yuan."

The gas stove ignited again.

The egg hit the wok, and the hot oil crackled.

A shirtless burly man from the neighboring stall selling grilled gluten came over to borrow a light and casually patted the man's shoulder.

"Lin Shuo, how's the business tonight?"

With just that light pat, the man's shoulder flinched violently; it was a severe stress response.

"It's alright. Sold over twenty portions."

"What's the use of twenty portions! Replacing a gas tank for this broken cart costs over a hundred!" The burly man curled his lip.

"It's enough." The man efficiently packed the fried egg and handed it to Jiang Feng. "As long as I'm alive."

The burly man sighed, lit a cigarette, and wandered back.

Jiang Feng took the fried egg and poked it with his spoon.

Textbook heat control: the bottom was golden and crispy, and with one poke, the golden runny yolk flowed out.

He finished the last bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Lin Shuo.

Jiang Feng made a note of the name.

Beep, fourteen yuan paid.

After paying, he wasn't in a hurry to leave; he leaned back against the low wall, his gaze once again locking onto that hunched back.

A heaven-defying destiny of Zi Wei Entering the Temple, forcibly sealed with cement.

The skills of an executive chef with a million-yuan salary, sold cheaply for twelve yuan.

Arms full of old scars from inhuman torture, plus a phrase numb to the bone: "As long as I'm alive."

All the elements are present.

Jiang Feng almost laughed out loud.

He turned and walked deep into the alley, but after a few steps, he looked back once more.

The man was bending over, desperately scrubbing the grease off the table with a rag.

[Potential Desperate Candidate Discovered: Lin Shuo]

[Current Locked Count: 0/5]

The first person in a desperate situation didn't even require him to search through the entire Location.

It seems my luck is pretty good.

Jiang Feng withdrew his gaze and put his hands in his pockets.

The fish is on the hook, but how to pull it ashore is a difficult problem.