830: Chapter 825 Are you sick?

The light box was covered in grease, vaguely showing the words “Ban Liang” (Half Liang). The word “Tavern” underneath was no longer lit, with only half of the character “Guan” (Official) left dangling precariously in the wind.

Before even entering, the clamorous sound of finger-guessing games and the choking smell of stir-fried chilies rushed out to meet them.

Shen Yan lifted the heavy, greasy cotton door curtain.

Inside, there were only six or seven tables, all occupied by bare-chested strongmen, mostly local laborers or retired old men.

All eyes instantly focused on the two men in suits standing at the doorway.

They were completely out of place.

Like two cranes suddenly landing in a chicken coop.

An old man wearing a yellowed undershirt, with hair as messy as a bird's nest, was tossing food in a wok behind the stove.

Flames shot up half a person high, illuminating his face, which was covered in wrinkles yet bright red from years of heavy drinking.

This was Feng Quji.

Once the head of the Military Industry Institute, now a cook with a strange temper.

“No seats left! If you want to eat, go somewhere else!”

Feng Quji didn't even lift his head. The iron ladle in his hand clanged loudly against the edge of the wok, the sound like a broken bellows.

Just as Chen Guangke was about to erupt, Shen Yan raised a hand to stop him.

Coincidentally, a table of customers in the corner was settling their bill and leaving.

Shen Yan walked over, not minding the grease stains on the red plastic stool, and sat down directly.

Chen Guangke pulled out a tissue somewhat disdainfully to wipe the stool before reluctantly sitting down.

“Boss, bring two of your specialties and a pot of wine.”

Shen Yan’s voice wasn't loud, but it carried strong penetration.

Feng Quji finally looked up, his cloudy eyes sweeping over Shen Yan.

That look wasn't like observing a customer, but rather like looking at some annoying pest.

“I don't have specialties, only pork intestines and peanuts. Eat it or don't.”

“Then bring both.”

Shen Yan unbuttoned his suit jacket, his posture relaxed.

Feng Quji snorted coldly and turned back to tossing the food.

Before long, two plates of food were heavily slammed onto the table, spilling a good amount of gravy.

A pot of low-quality, unbottled white liquor, without even a label.

“Brother Yan, can we even eat this stuff?”

Chen Guangke looked at the plate of dark stir-fried intestines, his stomach churning.

Shen Yan picked up his chopsticks and put a piece into his mouth.

It was cleaned very well, cooked over extremely high heat, carrying a wild, charred fragrance.

“Try it, the flavor is not bad.”

Shen Yan poured himself a cup of wine. The pungent liquid rolled down his throat like a line of fire.

He ate and drank quietly, as if sitting in a Michelin three-star restaurant.

The surrounding noise seemed irrelevant to him.

Although Feng Quji was busy, his peripheral vision kept glancing over here.

In recent years, quite a few people had come looking for him.

Some were former subordinates, some were headhunters, and some were bosses like Shen Yan who had somehow gotten wind of him.

Most people left as soon as they saw the environment.

Of those who stayed, some negotiated money with a look of condescension, while others postured while talking about sentiment.

Few were like Shen Yan, who actually sat down to eat intestines and could drink this adulterated liquor without changing his expression.

Half an hour later.

Shen Yan stood up to pay.

He didn't slap a stack of cash on the table, but instead scanned the grease-covered QR code on the wall and paid sixty-eight yuan.

“Old Mr. Feng, your cooking skills are excellent.”

Shen Yan left that remark and turned to leave with Chen Guangke.

He didn't mention blueprints, didn't mention cooperation, and didn't even hand over a business card.

After leaving, Chen Guangke finally couldn't hold back.

“Brother Yan, are we just leaving like that? What was the point of coming here? To eat pork intestines?”

Shen Yan looked at the dim alley in the night, his fingers lightly twisting.

In the corner of his vision, the system interface slowly appeared.

[Today's Intelligence Update: Every time it rains, Old Feng’s old injury from an explosion on his right arm aches severely. He needs to drink high-proof liquor to dull the pain, but the liquor here is too low in purity, and the effect is poor.]

“We’ll come back tomorrow,”

Shen Yan sat back in the car, his tone flat.

“Go buy two bottles of seventy-proof ‘Men Dao Lu’ (Drunk Donkey), the original mash.”

The next day.

At the same time, at the same corner table.

When Feng Quji saw Shen Yan, the ladle in his hand visibly paused.

“Why are you here again? I don't do business with men in suits.”

Shen Yan wasn't wearing a suit today; he had changed into a dark gray casual outfit, appearing much more approachable.

“I’m here to drink.”

Shen Yan placed the two unmarked white porcelain bottles he was carrying on the table.

That was the aged original mash Chen Guangke had searched the entire Jinghai to find.

As the caps were opened, a sharp, domineering aroma of liquor instantly overpowered the smoke and grease filling the room.

Feng Quji’s nose twitched.

It was the instinctive reaction of a long-time drinker to good liquor.

That smell made the liquor bug in his stomach writhe.

Shen Yan poured a cup for himself and took out an empty cup, filling it for the opposite side.

“This liquor is too strong; I can’t finish it by myself.”

Shen Yan made an inviting gesture.

Feng Quji stared at the cup of liquor for a full five seconds.

Finally, he yanked off his apron and walked over grumbling.

“Damn it, I won't take advantage of you. This meal is on me.”

He picked up the cup and downed it in one go.

The pungent liquid exploded instantly, and the feeling of pure exhilaration shooting straight to the top of his skull made him narrow his eyes involuntarily.

The piercing soreness in his right arm seemed to genuinely be suppressed somewhat by this rush of heat.

“Speak up, what do you want?”

Feng Quji set down the cup, his voice still gruff, but the hostility from yesterday was gone.

“Do you want that titanium alloy formula, or do you want me to come out of retirement to be your consultant?”

“Stop dreaming. I swore I wouldn’t touch a furnace for the rest of my life.”

Shen Yan slowly ate the peanuts.

“I don’t want the formula, and I don’t want a consultant.”

“I just want to show you something.”

Shen Yan signaled Chen Guangke to bring over the black briefcase.

But he didn't open it.

“I’m not looking,”

Feng Quji interrupted directly, pouring himself another cup of liquor.

“If I look, I have to act. If I act, I have to break the rules.”

“You merchants, you only care about making money. You don't understand technology at all.”

“Hurry up and finish drinking and get out.”

Shen Yan didn't force the issue. He drank two cups with the old man and then stood up to take his leave.

Still no entanglement, still leaving cleanly and efficiently.

But this bottle of liquor was left on the table.

The third day.

The rain in Jinghai became even heavier.

The drainage system in the old Jinghai area was already poor, and the accumulated water in the alleyway was already past the ankles.

The “Ban Liang” Tavern was deserted, not a single customer.

Feng Quji was slumped over the table, clutching the remaining half bottle of liquor, his right arm twitching unnaturally.

The pain felt like ants gnawing between his bones.

The door curtain was lifted.

Cold wind mixed with rainwater poured in.

Shen Yan retracted his long black umbrella and leaned it against the doorframe.

The bottom of his trousers was soaked in a large patch, but his expression remained composed.

Feng Quji lifted his head, looking at the young man who had appeared three times in a row with drunken, hazy eyes.

“Are you sick?”