Everyone, don't bother reading this one. The author ran off.
Ding Taonian transmigrated into an abandoned novel and haggled with the book spirit until she got an inn.
There was only one condition: it would serve transmigrators only.
It didn't get a single customer for three years.
The day the door finally opened, the first to walk in was a beloved character who was supposed to die after three chapters. She skipped the poisoned wine and went on to live for eight hundred chapters.
Next came a disgraced, face-slapped extra from a broken-engagement story. Every time he got beaten up, he came back and ate three bowls of noodles.
Before long, more and more people arrived.
Ye Zhiqiu sat at the counter, holding a cup of milk powder Ding Taonian had mixed for him. A smear of milk clung to the corner of his mouth. He stared at his little legs, then suddenly slapped the table. “I want wine!”
Song Zhiyi was wiping down the counter, her dragon tail swishing impatiently. “You're an eight-year-old child. What do you need wine for?”
“I was a Nascent Soul Sword Immortal in my previous life!” Ye Zhiqiu stomped his feet. “I'll... I'll have milk, then!”
He grabbed his bottle and gulped it down. Milk ran from his chin onto his collar.
In their original stories, they had all been sentenced to death. But in this inn, Ding Taonian remembered how much chili each person liked in their noodles. When someone was hurt, there was always someone to change their cold compress. If someone got lost, they could find their way back by following the smell of chicken soup.
Tea is free. Trade a story for a meal. And if you can't think of one, that's fine. Sit down first. The noodles are already cooking.
