Chapter 30: Delicious but…

Exams done, Chen Qiao collected papers and handed them to Wang Yi Lin.
His mind was already at the internet café, but he played it cool.
“Teacher Wang, need help with anything today?”

He was grinding favor with her, aiming for “Little Lei” (not Big Lei, a slip of thought).

“Not today, but don’t slack over the weekend.
Finish your homework first,” she said, feeling a bit guilty for bossing around a scrawny kid but sticking to her word.

“Got it.
See you, Teacher Wang.”

With exams, Chinese and math teachers piled on weekend homework.
The math teacher even printed a test paper for everyone—cheap green or gray recycled paper, rough with mystery black spots, oddly satisfying to write on.

Wang Yi Lin returned to the office with the papers, planning to grade them that afternoon.
She pulled Chen Qiao’s first.

“Right, right, all right…” she muttered.
Correct answers weren’t surprising, but a perfect listening score?
Unbelievable.
She knew her own oral English limits—Wu Xin Yu had tripped up here.

Unbeknownst to her, Chen Qiao, like her, had scraped through CET-4, finding her Chinese-accented English familiar.

A full score might make him cocky.
After hesitating, she docked a point on the picture-description question, leaving room for growth.

Chen Qiao slung on his backpack, sprinting to the black internet café.
Outside school, motorcycles and a van waited for kids, the latter often overloaded with village children.

Afternoon summer drowsiness hit.
The café owner, chin in hand, eyes half-closed, watched Wulin Gaiden reruns.

She was either sleeping or about to—living the dream.
As a kid, Chen Qiao wanted a shop like hers: endless snacks, toys galore.
Later, he dreamed of a bookstore.

“Two hours,” he said boldly, slapping down his sister’s ten yuan, still panting.

“Your buddies are here, paid for you,” she yawned, pointing to the back room.
“Seen Meng Jia?”

“Nope.”

“That girl’s off playing again.
I’ll find her.
Watch the shop—call out if someone buys something.
Change is in the tin.” She tapped a small metal box.

Her trust wasn’t blind—cameras watched overhead.

Unlike the new supermarket or legit cafés, older shops used wall mirrors for theft prevention.
Computers, cameras, and internet were costly, with slow ROI, and recovering stolen goods was a hassle.
Mirrors deterred better.

Goods had clear price tags, even ice cream and drinks in the fridge, listed obsessively—no price traps.

Was the owner an accounting grad?

Her computer sat by the monitor screen, desktop a mess of icons and files—stock trading apps like Tonghuashun.
Chen Qiao didn’t know stocks but recalled the big bull market was over.
Some future-proof stocks could diversify earnings, though less than Bitcoin.

Files included unnamed folders like “New Folder 123” and inventory lists.

He checked the novel site—his book wasn’t up.
Author dashboard?
Still under review.

Why so slow?
Impatience hit.

Calm down—consistent exposure mattered.
New books with low word counts got ignored; being bookmarked was a win.
Bursting updates pre-monetization was inefficient—better save for post-monetization bounties, boosting votes, tips, and subs.

“How much?” a kid asked, holding cow ear snacks (cat ears elsewhere, only Cantonese called them cow ears).

“Big pack, 50 cents,” Chen Qiao said, pointing to the label.

A swarm of kids flooded in, the shop turning noisy.
He stepped out from the counter to serve, preventing pilfering.

After they left, the owner returned with Meng Jia, carrying her backpack.

Meng Jia grabbed the remote, flipping channels, finally free.

“Don’t sit so close—you’ll need glasses and cry,” the owner scolded.

Meng Jia grudgingly scooted back—moms were universal.

“Thanks for watching the shop, kid.
Grab a drink,” the owner said.

“No problem.
Call me first next time,” Chen Qiao said, thumping his chest.

He took an Binglu mineral water from the fridge basket, entering the back room.
Tian Zhen and Zheng Yan were at a computer, two other familiar but less-close classmates watching behind, no earphones, just visuals, happy enough.

Kids without cash watched others play—Famicom to arcade to PCs.

“Abiao, you’re here!
Machine’s ready,” Tian Zhen said.

“Paid too,” Zheng Yan added.

“Good bros.”

Too thoughtful.

Chen Qiao opened Notepad, typing in a small window, text tiny, unreadable.
The two classmates grumbled, returning to watch Naruto behind Tian Zhen and Zheng Yan.

If it were a little girl, he’d let her sit on his lap, open a small anime window while typing.
Boys?
No way.

By 4:30, his review passed—zero favorites.
He favorited it himself, hitting a sad one.

Newbie authors might swap book plugs in comments tomorrow, or rival site editors would “admire” him, trying to poach for their libraries, earning per signed author.

No review today, and the editorial team was off weekends—likely Monday approval.

He copied chapters to the draft box, scheduling updates: noon and 8 p.m., peak traffic times.

Sunday or Monday, he’d check for a contract offer.
No offer by 50,000 words meant near-certain death.
Rare cases like Mortal defied odds, growing over a year to spark a genre.
Chen Qiao wasn’t that talented—his past-life flops proved it.
Now, reborn, he used proven tropes and templates, fresh enough to stand out.

He wrapped up at 4:50, regular dismissal time, heading home to cook rice, play with Xin Yu, and exercise.

“Some net fee’s left on this PC—use it,” he told the two lingering classmates, who treated him like a god.

“Guys, don’t play too late.
Get home for dinner, or if your parents catch on, we’ll all lose this spot,” he warned Tian Zhen and Zheng Yan.

After dinner, he planned to find his sister-in-law, Zhang Hai Xia, to prevent her lonely despair from driving her to drink pesticide.

The cement plant’s lab ran three shifts—day, night, mid.
If she wasn’t home, she was on night or mid-shift.
A morning visit by 7:30 would confirm.

As he stepped out, Chen Fei Fei grabbed his collar.
“Off to the café again?
Shouldn’t have lent you money.”

“No, I’m seeing Sister-in-law.
Haven’t spent your ten yuan.”
He showed the bill, proving his innocence.

“Why see Hai Xia Jie?”

“Check on her.
You know her dad’s a mess, pushing her to remarry, making her life hell.
Wanna come?”

“I’m planting with Mom before dark.
Say hi for me.”

“Got it.”

“Xin Yu, come to the garden with us,” Chen Fei Fei said, roping her in.

Zhang Hai Xia lived in a new house; her old brick one, lived in for over a decade, was gambled away by her dad, Zhang Da Fu.
The new single-story house, barely finished, had no windows—just black plastic and nailed boards, good enough to block wind.

Unpainted brick-cement walls screamed debt—built not for living but to secure loans.

Lights were on—she was home!
Zhang Da Fu alone wouldn’t bother.

Chen Qiao quickened his pace, hearing a sharp crash from the doorway.

“You’re marrying, like it or not.
I took his dowry—he’s rich, won’t mistreat you,” Zhang Da Fu’s voice boomed.

“Dad, it’s about dignity.
What’ll the village say?
I won’t remarry,” Zhang Hai Xia retorted.

“Ungrateful girl!
I raised you to sell for a good price.
If Chen Zhong pays the rest of the dowry, fine.
They’re heartless—I’ll be ruthless.”

Even if Chen Qiao’s uncle and aunt paid up, Zhang Da Fu would still force her to remarry.

He stormed out, slamming the rickety door.
Chen Qiao, whistling like a passing kid, turned and slipped inside.

Zhang Hai Xia, in an apron, crouched, picking up broken bowl shards and spilled rice on the rough cement floor.

“Sister-in-law.”

“Abiao…” She looked up, mouth agape, surprised, eyes red, tears brimming, held back at his sight.

Unmindful, she cut her finger on a shard, blood seeping.

He rushed over, grabbing her hand, sucking the wound.
Nothing tastes better than Sister-in-law—there was some truth to it.