Question: What’s it like to run a diner that serves the gods late at night?
I’m Chen Fan, and I nearly starved to death in my own restaurant.
Then an old man with a white beard came through the door. Holding a phone with a cracked screen, he asked if he could put a bowl of braised pork rice on credit.
He said he was the Earth God next door. His performance metrics were too low, and he was about to lose his job.
I thought he was crazy, until a ding rang in my head:
[The Divine Diner System has been bound!]
From then on, my little shop became a refuge for gods at the end of their rope:
The Earth God, who’d lost his temple, came to mooch off the Wi-Fi. The Goddess of Fortune, who’d been hit with complaints, came to borrow a power bank. Even the King of Hell showed up to gripe that the Book of Life and Death system had a bug.
They couldn’t pay in incense, so they settled their bills with “little trinkets,” like a tiny blessing.
Business was booming, but I soon realized that trouble from the divine realm was quietly seeping into my everyday life.
And the black-clad customer who always appeared after closing to silently savor mapo tofu finally set down his scythe.
“Boss,” he said hoarsely, “I hear you can grant one last wish here?”
What should I do? I need an answer fast.
