Chapter 659 - 63: Inner Alchemy Golden Core (Slightly Accomplished)

Chapter 659: Chapter 63: Inner Alchemy Golden Core (Slightly Accomplished)

I closed the door and turned around.

The Elder had already walked over to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

The dining table was made of wood. It wasn’t large—just big enough for two people.

The Elder sat on the side by the window. Gray, hazy light filtered in from the window behind him, outlining his form in a dark silhouette.

He sat with a very straight posture.

Though his back was stooped with age, he held his spine ramrod straight. His hands were folded on the table, waiting quietly.

Like a regular customer waiting for a bowl of noodles he’d been eating for years.

I looked at his back, and a thought suddenly flashed through my mind—’My home isn’t a restaurant.’

’After all, this is just a residential apartment. What noodles could I possibly sell?’

The thought flickered for a moment, then died.

I didn’t dwell on it.

I turned and walked into the kitchen.

Then, I opened a cabinet and took out some noodles—the same kind I always used to fill my own stomach: plain, white, dry noodles wrapped in paper.

The noodles cooked quickly.

I turned off the stove, ladled the noodles into a white porcelain bowl, and poured two scoops of the noodle broth over them.

I then took some pickled vegetables from a jar by the cutting board and sprinkled them on the side of the noodles.

It was a very simple bowl of noodles, exactly the same as what I usually ate.

I carried the bowl out of the kitchen.

The Elder was still sitting there, his posture almost unchanged.

I placed the noodles in front of him.

"Thank you," the Elder said.

His voice was still raspy, but a little softer than before.

He pulled a pair of chopsticks from his coat pocket.

’They’re not mine, I’m sure of it.’

The chopsticks were old and made of wood, the tips worn down and splintered.

The Elder held the chopsticks, rubbed them with his thumb, then picked up a mouthful of noodles and took a bite.

He chewed slowly, his cheeks moving slightly. After what felt like a long time, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he finally swallowed the noodles.

Then he picked up another mouthful.

I stood by the table, watching him eat.

For some reason, I didn’t sit down. I just stood there, arms at my sides, quietly watching him eat his noodles.

After three or four bites, he suddenly looked up at me. "How much?"

"Fifteen," I said.

The Elder nodded. He didn’t haggle or say anything more.

He lowered his head and continued eating.

He took a long time to finish that bowl of noodles.

So long that I was starting to get impatient.

I thought for a moment and decided I should go back to my room and sleep.

As the thought occurred to me, I had a vague feeling that something was wrong. ’Why is my home a noodle shop? Why would I go to my room to sleep when there’s a customer here? Shouldn’t I be staying in the dining area?’

But I didn’t dwell on it.

I turned, walked into the bedroom, lay back down on the bed, and closed my eyes.

The hazy gray light seeped through my eyelids, dyeing everything the same color.

The impression on the bedsheets was still there, faint and about to disappear.

I could no longer smell the sweet fragrance in the air. All that remained was a scent of decay, faint, seeping in from under the door as if drifting from somewhere far away.

I don’t know how much time passed.

When I opened my eyes again.

Everything around me was still gray and hazy.

The ceiling was gray, the walls were gray, the light through the crack in the curtains was gray—everything was just as it had been before I slept, as if time hadn’t moved at all.

I sat up in bed, and the bedframe let out another dry CREAK.

I got out of bed, left the bedroom, and walked through the living room.

’I feel like I’ve forgotten something.’

’But I can’t remember what.’

I walked to the dining table.

A white porcelain bowl sat on the table.

The bowl was empty.

A faint stain from the broth remained at the bottom, as if someone had just eaten from it not long ago.

I stared at the empty bowl for a moment.

’I must have been the one who ate it, right?’

’It must have been.’

’I’m the only one in this house. If it wasn’t me, who could it be?’

I reached out, about to clear the bowl away.

As my fingers touched the rim, I saw something pinned underneath it.

It was a piece of paper.

A grayish-white piece of paper, folded once and held down by the bowl, with a small edge peeking out.

I lifted the bowl, set it aside, and pulled the paper out.

The paper’s texture was coarse. It felt like straw paper, or maybe something pressed from low-quality materials.

The edges were unevenly cut and fuzzy, with a few paper fibers sticking out.

I turned it over, face up.

And then, I froze—

It was spirit money, the kind used for the dead.