Ling Feng set up a noodle stall in Fengyang Town, selling a bowl of lard and green onion noodles for eight cents.
He really felt like he was just an ordinary person with good luck.
But those monks who had eaten his food quit.
——"You call this noodles? I ate it and broke through the bottleneck on the spot!"
——"For a fifty-cent painting, I'll give you one tael of silver, just in case he goes back on his word."
——"I spent twenty years trying to cure the hidden wounds, but he gave me a bowl of soup to sort them out."
The female steward of Jubao Pavilion stared at him. Those who had bought noodles and medicinal soup were rushing to give him more money. The inner disciples of Qingyang Sect chased him. Even the red-feathered bird he picked up looked at him more and more strangely.
Ling Feng, a layman who added money, scratched his head: I'm just going to sell some noodles, what's the deal with you?
