Chapter 87.2: Young Dairy Farmer's Miraculous Experience
"Chris, you scared me to death! How could you come in alone?" Inside the family inn, Mrs. Doyle nervously clasped Chris' face. "You were too reckless, my child. Listen to me, next time you encounter something like this, you must run away immediately. Your mother can't bear to lose you, and neither can my precious daughter."
Chris hugged Mrs. Doyle and then embraced the taciturn Mr. Doyle, exclaiming, "I'm so glad you're both okay."
"We're fine, of course. Those… those undead didn't do anything to us," Mrs. Doyle said, still trembling. "As you saw, they seem to have a problem with the… shops on this street."
"Ah, a-are those people on the street customers visiting Weisshem?" Chris couldn't help asking.
"Yes, and some from the local shops," Mrs. Doyle said, pulling Chris to the window and pointing at a portly old man with graying hair on the street. "Look, that's Thompson, the owner of Jenny's Tavern."
Mrs. Doyle had a reason for singling out that person.
Chris pressed against the window, peering through the glass at the old man among the crowd on the street. Deep down, he felt a sense of resentment and… satisfaction.
"That old bastard got his just deserts!" Chris muttered through gritted teeth.
For ordinary people making a living in Weisshem and the surrounding countryside, upscale entertainment establishments like "Lover," "Elegant Dream," of the former "Golden Coast'' weren't for them. Even with such a close proximity, there was no intersection between people like them and such places.
Instead, places like taverns and strip clubs would be what folks like them could experience.
Many years ago, when Chris was still a child, his uncle's son, around the same age as Chris, curious about the extravagance of Weisshem, came to the town with nearly half a year's worth of savings with the intention of "broadening his horizons."
However, this cousin of Chris' didn't know that even the lowest of taverns in Weisshem wasn't a place a lowly country folk who scraped a living from the land could afford to experience. The amount he brought, which he thought would be enough for him to "broaden his horizons," turned out to be just enough to order the cheapest bottle of corn rum at Jenny's Tavern, along with a tip for the hostess who provided him with some company.
After a night of revelry at Jenny's Tavern, Chris' cousin was dumbfounded when he saw the bill.
The owner of Jenny's Tavern broke one of his arms and had his henchmen escort him home to demand payment for his stay. This incident not only turned Chris' family and his uncle's family into the laughingstock of the countryside but also forced them to sell several cattle to cover the exorbitant overnight fees and treatment of Chris' cousin's injured arm.
Everyone knew that the owner of Jenny's Tavern had taken advantage of their, country folks', lack of sophistication and naivety, but the money owed had to be paid. Otherwise, Chris' cousin would be sent to a prison in Indahl.
Neither the Weisshem's sheriff nor militia would speak up for them, let alone those from Indahl.
"I wish my uncle's family could see this scene," Chris muttered as he stared at the wretched old man he had resented for years. He turned to Mrs. Doyle and asked, "Ma'am, what are these undead going to do to these people?"
"If only we knew." Mrs. Doyle shook her head and sighed. "I often think to myself how great it would be if Weisshem could return back to about 40 years ago, to the time when I was still a little girl. Back then, life wasn't easy, but it certainly wasn't like this…"
She paused, and pained bitterness showed on her face as she looked at the six men and women sitting on the couch and the edge of the bed, afraid to leave the room. "But now… it's all like this. Weisshem can't do business anymore, then… sigh!"
A thin woman with lesions on her face lowered her head.
The other five similarly miserable souls remained silent as well.
Being able to survive and leave the place they came to work didn't mean that these people had other options left in their lives. They had all been on fattening drugs for years and couldn't perform the kind of work regular people did.
Even a simple task like laundry that even a little girl could handle wasn't something they could do. Their frail bodies couldn't endure prolonged exposure to cold water.
And that's not mentioning the visible scars left on their bodies by latent diseases. No matter where they went, these people would inevitably be met with strange looks.
In short, "freedom" for them meant merely finding another place to eke out an existence. If the Doyles' family inn hadn't taken them in and allowed them to bring in hard-earned customers, these people would have ended up rotting away on some street corner.
Chris had known the sort of life these people who were part of the underbelly of Weisshem had, and hearing all this, he sighed.
Indeed, even if folks like Jenny's Tavern's owner, Thompson, were taken away by these strange undead, Weisshem could never become an ordinary town again. Indeed, some people here could only survive via these sordid professions.
The atmosphere in the room immediately turned oppressive.
All of them knew that the flesh trade wasn't a noble profession, and deep down, they hoped it would disappear. But they also understood that without this trade, only a dead end remained for those who had lost their ability to survive.
At this moment, a strange, unprecedented, and intense aroma suddenly wafted in through the window's cracks.
The first to catch a whiff was Chris, who had been working tirelessly on an empty stomach since early morning. He couldn't help sniffing the air.
Mr. and Mrs. Doyle also smelled this fragrance and appeared confused. They had lived here for so many years and had never smelled anything like it.
The six skinny and sallow men and women also caught the scent and involuntarily swallowed.
Stomach growling, Chris, whose nose was more sensitive than the others, quickly deduced the fragrance was coming from outside and subconsciously inched closer to the window.
Chris had to press against the window and tiptoe to get an angle where he could see what was going on. Behind the steel frame tricycles he envied, a space had been cleared, and two large iron pots had been set up, which were each big enough to hold a person.
The pots were over a blazing fire, with water inside boiling. A group of undead seemed to be bustling around the two large pots, and from Chris' perspective, he could see an undead holding a bag about the size of a book, pouring a powdery substance into the pot, while another undead stirred the contents with an iron ladle.
As the boiling soup in the pots turned an enticing shade of golden, the aroma that reached Chris became even more tantalizing.
"This is the first time I've seen such a big packet of mushroom chicken noodle seasoning," the player that had poured in the seasoning made a comment. "Looks like the devs are slacking off again and aren't even bothered with small portions anymore."
"Maybe it's for the convenience of players doing the cooking quests. Who would have the patience to open packet after packet?" the player stirring the pot nonchalantly replied.
"Potato slices are ready! Make way!" A player emerged from a temporarily requisitioned tavern, carrying a winnowing basket filled with potato slices.
"Whoa, your knife skills are pretty sick. These slicers are even thicker than my fingers."
"Damn you, it's good enough as long as it's passable. We aren't even real chefs!"
"Xiao Liu, there are two baskets of leafy vegetables in the kitchen of this tavern. Should I bring them out?"
"Bring them! Bring them all out!" Liu Meng, who had inadvertently become the head chef among the casual players (Rex loved taking shortcuts and always assigned her cooking quests), responded promptly. "And check the other building nearby. Bring over any usable ingredients!"
"Alright!"
Seeing a player moving supplies from the tricycles, someone asked, "Are we adding these noodles as well?"
"Of course, our rewards are based per pot. Why wouldn't we add them?" Liu Meng waved her bone claws. "And, you there, go wash that sack of potatoes!"
"Which cart is the condensed broth powder on? Find it quickly!"
Instant mushroom chicken seasoning, which didn't sell very well because people of the southwestern region of China found it unsuitable, had been repackaged by the factory, ditching the original packaging for bulk packaging, and sold together with bulk instant noodles to a buyer dispatched by the expert task force before being transported to this world. Finally, it was getting the recognition it deserved.
The scent of the mishmash stew, infused with mushroom chicken seasoning and condensed broth, wafted further, and many people who had been secretly peering out opened their windows.
Twenty minutes later, as the mishmash stew simmered to perfection, Rex brought out two tricycles and placed the pots in their carts. He then called on Ossirian, Lyka, and young Brook and randomly selected a few players to distribute the food along the street.
The first to benefit were the twelve hostesses of Jenny's Tavern.
Next up was the family inn closest to the town gate.
Rex walked up and knocked on the door twice. The milkman from before opened it and bowed to Rex before asking, "Is there anything you need, sir?"
Rex reached out and grabbed the young man's shoulder to stop him from bowing. "How many people are in this building?"
"Uh…" Chris glanced at the poor souls still hanging out on the street without a shred of dignity left and didn't dare lie. "Including me, there are nine."
"Bring out nine bowls to collect your food. Hurry up," Rex said, pointing to the tricycle carrying a large iron pot behind him.
Chris was stunned.
"I said, hurry up," Rex frowned slightly, and his tone became stricter as if he were issuing a command.
"Y-yes!" Chris immediately got up as soon as he was given an order, turned around, and ran inside.
In no time, he returned carrying nine big bowls.
Rex stepped aside and said to Ossirian, "You do it, give them nine portions that won't upset their stomachs."
Ossirian now understood why Rex had called upon him…
Others might not know how much these poor people, who had been starved for so long, could eat without getting sick, but he certainly did. He had just eaten three full meals provided by the undead yesterday, and he knew better than anyone how uncomfortable he had felt after each meal.
Ossirian nodded silently and began scooping stew into the bowls that the helpful undead were passing over.
Chris tried his best to suppress his fear and receive the bowls courteously from the helpful undead and placed them steadily on the shoe rack by the door. He waited until both tricycles had left before shutting the door with a trembling hand.
Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, along with the six tenants hiding on the second floor, finally dared to peek out from the top of the staircase.
"T-they… gave everyone food," Chris, who felt exhausted despite not doing much, turned around and said dreamily to everyone.
The Doyles, and their six tenants, stood on the spot, dumbfounded.
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