The aroma that drifted across the western walkway of the Pagoda Entrance Plaza was nothing short of a sense ambush.
It began with the warm, smoky sweetness of roasting mountain chestnuts. Tumbled continuously in a wide iron wok filled with heated black river sand, the glossy brown shells cracked with rhythmic, cheerful pops, releasing the fragrance of roasted sugar, wild mountain honey, and a hint of crushed cinnamon bark. Mingling with that rich warmth was the crisp, refreshing scent of freshly sliced honeydew melon, tart green limes, and frosty mountain mint.
For hundreds of fighters who had just spent the last two hours either standing in snake-like registration queues or dodging phantom beast claws in the lower floors, that fragrant plume was more irresistible than a thousand-year spirit ginseng.
Behind a sturdy, polished red-pine pushcart shaded by a striped yellow-and-white linen umbrella, sat the proprietor of the establishment.
He wasn’t an austere, white-bearded grandmaster. He wasn’t a royal merchant in silk robes.
He was a semi-clear sapphire-blue slime roughly forty inches in width. It bounced gently against a crimson silk cushion.
Lin Xiao loved this cart. In his last life, some of his fondest memories had been buying cheap street snacks outside crowded arcades and bustling convention halls. When you were exhausted, overstimulated, and your legs felt like lead, nothing on earth could compare to a paper bag of piping hot roasted chestnuts and a tall, frosty cup of fizzy sweet soda.
