After the final portion of Garlic-Soy Chicken Wings and the last spoonful of Silken Egg & Scallion Soy Porridge had been handed over, Li Jianping stepped out from behind the counter with a regretful expression.
He raised both hands slightly to calm the murmuring crowd still waiting in the queue.
"I'm really sorry, everyone," he announced loudly, his voice steady but apologetic. "We're completely sold out for the day. We didn't expect such a crowd. Please come early tomorrow—we'll prepare more portions."
A murmur ran through the line. Some people sighed in disappointment. A few quietly turned around and walked off, their expressions resigned. But others stayed rooted, reluctant to leave.
"Ahh, I knew I shouldn't have taken that detour!" groaned a young man in office clothes, slapping his forehead lightly.
"I told you we should've come earlier!" a woman whispered to her friend with a hint of irritation. "Now look, even the porridge is gone!"
Another middle-aged man shook his head, chuckling wryly. "Well, if the food's that good, I suppose this was bound to happen. I'll just try my luck tomorrow."
However, not everyone took it so lightly.
A middle-aged woman with tightly tied hair crossed her arms and muttered under her breath, "Ridiculous… They should've made more if they knew they were this popular."
Li Jianping overheard her and stepped forward with a calm smile. "Madam, I understand your frustration. Today's turnout was unexpected. We'll increase the preparation tomorrow—I promise. But everything is made fresh in small batches to keep the quality high."
The woman seemed ready to snap back but, upon seeing his composed demeanor, only gave a quiet "hmph" and walked off.
The elderly Mu couple was still sitting on their place from earlier. Watching the overwhelming number of customers crowding around Li Jianfang's food stall filled them with a quiet sense of satisfaction tiday. They had known Li Jianfang for years— and knew she was raising her children alone, working tirelessly just to make ends meet. They had always sympathized with her situation, though there was little they could do to help. But today, witnessing this long-overdue success unfold before their eyes, they felt as though the heavens were finally smiling on her.
Sudden squeal pierced the air.
Startled, Li Jianfang, along with Li Ziqing and Li Jianping—who were packing up the stall—turned to see Li Zian jumping in place, eyes wide with excitement.
"Zian, what is it?" Jianfang called, a bit alarmed by the outburst.
Li Zian's enthusiasm couldn't be contained. "Mom! Mom!" he shouted, waving the ledger book in his hand. But when he noticed people turning to look at him—especially the plump woman from the neighboring stall, Xiulan, who was glaring daggers at him—he quickly lowered his voice, leaning closer.
In a hushed but thrilled whisper, he said, "Mom, today we earned a total of four thousand two hundred yuan! After deducting our costs, we made nearly three thousand yuan in pure profit!"
Li Jianfang's eyes widened. "So much?" she gasped.
Even Li Jianping, who had been wiping down the counter, dropped the cloth in shock. "Are you serious?" he asked.
It felt almost surreal.
In the past, their earnings had always been modest. On a good day, Jianfang would bring home a few hundred yuan. Rarely—on exceptionally lucky mornings—the profit might touch 150 yuan after working from early dawn until late afternoon. But today? In just two short hours, they had earned more than three thousand yuan.
It was staggering.
After all, this was still 2006. The average white-collar worker earned between 500 to 600 yuan a day. A fully furnished 20 to 25 square meter apartment in the Southern District of Wuhan could be bought for as little as 700,000 to 800,000 yuan. The cost of living hadn't yet soared, and luxuries were luxuries. For a modest food stall to generate such income in a single morning—it was nothing short of astonishing.
And what was even more remarkable—they had sold at prices higher than usual, and yet people had continued to buy, not hesitating, not bargaining. Some even came back for seconds or took food home.
It wasn't just a good day—it was a breakthrough.
Behind them, the Mu couple exchanged a quiet smile.
From across the stall, Xiulan watched the entire scene unfold, her expression darkening further with each passing second, "That bitch..." Her eyes turned red as she looked at her own cash box with few cents and 2 crumpled 10 Yuan note.
But Li Jianfang quickly composed herself. There would be time to discuss everything once they were home. For now, there was still work to do. She turned and walked back toward the stall to continue packing up, but a sudden thought crossed her mind. She paused, looked toward the elderly couple sitting nearby, and asked, "Grandpa Mu, I didn't see Grandpa An today. Did he not come by this morning?"
Grandpa An was one of her regulars—an early riser who would always stop by after his morning walk to sit, chat, and share idle talk with the Mu couple and herself. But now that she thought about it, the morning rush had come and gone, and he was nowhere in sight.
Old Mu sighed heavily at the mention of his friend, his expression clouding with a tinge of melancholy. "Little Fang," he said, "he's a busy man now. I don't think we'll be seeing him around anymore. You should go visit him while you still can."
Li Jianfang paused mid-motion, her hands still holding a half-folded tablecloth. A frown creased her brow. "Grandpa Mu, is everything alright? Why do you say we won't be seeing him anymore?"
Grandma Mu gave a small wave of her hand, her voice soft but resigned. "Oh, nothing serious, child. Don't worry. He's not unwell—just… leaving. He's moving to Shanghai."
"His eldest son is already settled there," Grandpa Mu added, picking up the thread. "Then his daughter got married and relocated too. And now the youngest son is planning to settle there as well. They've all gone off to the big city, and he wants to be with them."
Li Jianfang was quiet for a moment, absorbing the news.
"He's even looking for a buyer to sell off his courtyards," Grandpa Mu continued. "He owns four houses—four separate courtyards—all in the same alley. Years ago, he bought them with the dream that once his children had families of their own, they'd live close together. Each family in their own courtyard, but still just a stone's throw from one another."
"But things didn't quite go that way," Grandma Mu said, shaking her head with a wistful smile. "Now, he's planning to sell them all."
Both Li Jianfang and her daughter, Li Ziqing—who had been packing up nearby—looked up in surprise. Li Ziqing couldn't help but marvel, Four courtyards in the Northern District?
It was indeed astonishing.
The Northern District was primarily home to migrant workers and lower-income families—most of whom could only afford to rent, let alone own property. And when people did manage to buy homes, it was usually in the Eastern District, where the housing was more affordable. While it couldn't match the elegance of the Central or Southern Districts, it was still a considerable step up from the rugged and congested Northern side.
To own four adjacent houses in such a place… and to sell them all at once? Who would dare?
She didn't voice her doubts aloud, but the surprise was evident on her face.
"Why doesn't he just rent them out?" Li Jianping chimed in, puzzled. "That would bring in a stable monthly income while he's living in Shanghai."
Li Jianfang nodded in agreement. "Exactly. The rental income could support him comfortably."
Old Mu let out another weary sigh. "They want to buy property in Shanghai. And you know how expensive that city is. According to his youngest son, owning a home in Shanghai is an investment—the value of real estate there only goes up. So they're pushing him to sell everything here."
"In fact," Grandma Mu added, her tone thick with quiet disappointment, "both sons have already come to Wuhan. They've made it clear they won't leave until the properties are sold."
A brief silence settled over the group, each person quietly lost in their own thoughts.
Soon after, the packing was finished. Li Jianfang and her children bid farewell to the elderly Mu couple and began their walk home. Yet, Li Ziqing remained unusually quiet, her gaze distant as they passed the familiar alleyways.
Only three thousand yuan in profit... She still couldn't think of a way to complete the mission the System had issued for the day—earn a profit of ten thousand yuan.
Her brows furrowed as she walked, troubled by the gap between her modest gains and the demanding target.
---
Meanwhile, in the opulent Southern District of Wuhan, inside a luxurious villa with crystal chandeliers and imported hardwood floors, Dagui stood stiffly in the grand living room, watching his employer eat his breakfast with unrestrained satisfaction.
Dagui's heart ached with silent agony.
That was his breakfast. His breakfast.
Earlier that morning, when he'd arrived late, he had been convinced he was done for. But as soon as he entered the villa, he sensed something was off. The atmosphere was tense. Whispers were hushed, footsteps hurried, and the usually composed household staff looked flustered. It didn't take long for him to learn what had happened—just hours before the day's high-profile banquet, the prestigious catering agency they had hired suddenly backed out due to an emergency.
Dagui breathed a sigh of relief. With the household thrown into disarray, no one had even noticed his tardiness. Grabbing a quiet corner in the side corridor, he sat down and finally prepared to eat the breakfast he had waited half an hour in line to buy. After a packed bus ride and nearly getting caught in traffic, he was starving.
The moment he opened the still-warm container, a rich, mouth-watering aroma wafted into the air.
And then he felt it—a presence behind him.
Turning slowly, he found his employer standing there, gazing intently at the open container.
And now here he was… watching in disbelief as Feng Zhaotian, the most powerful real estate tycoon in Wuhan—perhaps even all of Hubei Province—ate his breakfast like it was a delicacy reserved for emperors.
Dagui clenched his fists by his side. His eyes were red. It was his breakfast, damn it.
But the rest of the staff were even more stunned than he was. Word had spread like wildfire: President Feng snatched his chauffeur's breakfast? No one could believe it.
This was Feng Zhaotian, the president of Hongtian Real Estate Group—a man whose very name could shake the business world of central China. He hosted dignitaries and magnates, negotiated billion-yuan contracts, and rarely even glanced at commoner food, let alone snatched it from his own employee.
Their shock deepened when they saw the food container. It was ordinary, even cheap—just a simple white foam box with no label, logo, or branding. Yet the moment it was opened, the aroma that burst forth silenced everyone in the hall.
Such gourmet fragrance… from such poor packaging?
But Feng Zhaotian cared little for appearances. He had been in a foul mood all morning. The news of the catering agency's last-minute cancellation had completely derailed his day. He hadn't eaten breakfast, hadn't sat down once, and had spent the last few hours calling every connection he had in the industry.
This banquet was not a casual affair. It was one of the most significant business gatherings for him—provincial officials, leading entrepreneurs, and influential media figures were all expected to attend. The catering agency he had hired was one of the top-tier companies in the entire nation. With its headquarters in the capital, it regularly served the weddings and galas of aristocratic families and government elite.
It had taken Feng Zhaotian countless favors and connections to even get them to agree. And now they had backed out just hours before the event.
He was at his wit's end.
Just as he was about to leave to visit their branch office in person and demand an explanation, a mesmerizing scent hit him. It was rich, savory, and layered with spices—arousing hunger he had pushed aside all morning.
He stopped in his tracks.
The aroma practically wrapped itself around him like a silken thread, luring him toward its source. His eyes scanned the room—and then landed on Dagui, who was seated in the corner, carefully lifting the lid of a plain white container.
The moment he caught sight of the golden-brown chicken wings glistening in soy-garlic glaze and the fragrant porridge dotted with scallions and silken egg, he was entranced.
Without a word, he strode over, And without asking, without shame, he took the chopsticks and containers and walked into the living room.