The God of Food’s Compendium: You Are What You Eat

Huang Shun did the math: an eight-yuan penalty for being late in the downpour, plus 3,040 yuan in damages for spilling the soup, amounted to one dose of painkillers for his mother and half a year's savings. His knees slammed into the floodwater. Thunder rumbled overhead. A drop of sickly sweet “rain” slid into his mouth: a glob of phlegm the Rain God had spat out after three thousand years. A high-pressure jet of water suddenly shot from his right eye, blasting a drunk into a trash can. A System window appeared: [Debt: 1.3 years of lifespan. Interest: 1% per day. Default: execution]. The Rain God fragment inside him screamed, “I'm starving! I want grilled fish!” A girl from the convenience store handed him a tissue, chewing on oden as she said, “There's something in your stomach burping.” The progress bar above her head ticked upward: Bai Yi, 7%. From then on, Huang Shun spent his days being hunted by gods. The Rain God came to demand his phlegm, so he pretended to have rheumatism. The River God awakened, and fish scales sprouted all over his body. Taotie parasitized his left hand and ordered food whenever it got hungry: fingers today, or liver tomorrow? Worst of all was Bai Yi's progress bar. Every time it rose by 1%, she forgot a little more about him. She forgot that his tears tasted sweet, that he owed her eight yuan and fifty cents, and eventually, that he existed at all. Huang Shun pulled out his ledger and, dipping his pen in blood, wrote: “I owe Bai Yi three lives. Interest calculated by the second. In case of default, payment shall be made with a kiss.” The gods hunting him, divine powers clashing, the Celestial Court issuing warrants: I'm the creditor, not the prey. Get in line. I'll deal with you one by one. The Rain God owes 1.71 years? Put it on the books. The God of Food is running a Ponzi scheme? Liquidate him. Mom's life has been mortgaged for 25 years? I'll get it back, principal and interest, even if it costs my life. I don't keep track of the everyday bustle of the mortal world, and I don't record the immortals' eternity. I only keep track of this: tomato and egg stir-fry every day, a little burnt, just like Mom used to make it, just the way you like it.