Mowen zigzagged through narrow alleys, avoiding the muddy ground and the suspicious glares of elderly residents. He returned to his basement dwelling, securing his car wheels with locks on the iron railing. Then he stepped into the dim, damp underground room.
But as evening fell, someone pounded on his door. "Open up!" A man in a blue uniform, with a sleazy expression, shouted loudly.
"What's the matter?" Mowen asked, concerned, through the security door.
The man in the blue uniform grew furious when Mowen didn't open the door. "Who do you think you are? I'm the housing manager of this area. Open up, or I'll kick you out!"
Reluctantly, Mowen unlocked the door. The stench of alcohol hit him as the man barged in.
"Show me your temporary residence permit for inspection!"
In the big city, Mowen found himself caught in a web of bureaucracy. The blue-uniformed manager insisted on a temporary residence permit, despite Mowen's confusion.
"I have a formal job; why would I need a temporary residence permit?" he wondered aloud.
The manager's patience wore thin.
"Keep talking nonsense, and do you believe I'll kick you out immediately?"
"Have you registered your rental at the local management office?"
"Registering a rental? Isn't that the landlord's responsibility?"
"You're from out of town, renting in District 19, so of course you need to register yourself. Is this your first day here? No registration? Fine! Pay 100 dollars, quickly."
Mowen watched the manager's sleazy face with a smile, wishing he could punch his nose right into his brain, if he has one. The manager set the extortion fee at a level that wasn't too high or too low; most people wouldn't want to go through a lot of trouble for such a small amount.
Calling the local managers "thugs" might be an insult to actual thugs. This blue-uniformed manager hinted that if Mowen wanted to continue renting, he would have to pay up.
Mowen had just paid a large sum for electric bike repairs and was out of money, so he stayed silent until the manager stormed off, cursing.
The landlord, a messy man in his forties, showed up smelling of alcohol. His face was red, his teeth yellow, and bits of food were stuck between them. He wasted no time:
"You're in Room 104, right? Well, consider this your notice—the lease won't be renewed next week. You've got three days to move out; I'm renting the place to someone else."
Mowen tried to reason. "Hey Boss, you can't just kick people out. The application process takes a month, and I've been keeping the place clean. Three days isn't enough."
The landlord's impatience flared. "Listen, the management office issued a notice. You outsiders are affecting the city's appearance—everyone must leave!"
Mowen blinked. "Wait, is it because I didn't pay them?"
"Who do I ask?!" the landlord snapped.
"Fine, I won't argue. I'll move out soon. When will you return my deposit?"
The landlord delayed, giving different excuses:
"Your deposit? Not yet decided. You damaged the water pipes last time, costing me a fortune in repairs. And what about the electrical fuse you blew? You still owe for that too."
Mowen's heart sank. The landlord's excuses were clearly a excuse to withhold his deposit.
Mowen looked at the greasy face with scorn and mockery in his eyes. Despite the landlord's attempts to withhold more, Mowen listened silently, as if hearing a stranger's monologue.
He remained calm, neither angry nor annoyed, wearing a mocking smile. He responded deliberately: "Boss, your water pipes and fuses—they're older than me, right? I've always paid rent and utilities on time, and I haven't damaged anything."
"The pipes are new, and so are the fuses. Who else could've broken them? And don't forget—you shook my TV when you blew the fuse!" The landlord's aggression intensified.
This was daylight robbery. Mowen had already left; who would pay expensive transportation fees to reclaim such a small amount?
"Landlord, save your effort. I'm leaving in two days! Keep the deposit; enjoy your antique TV!" Mowen retorted, his eyes fixed on the landlord's oily face.
Even after closing the door, the landlord's incessant curses still wafted through the air.
"Outsider," he spat,
"Your accent sounds like you've been eating corn like pigs all year. And yet you come to the big city looking for luck, pinching pennies at every turn. Our royal blood is better than you pitiful people!"
Whether out of ignorance or stubborn denial, he insisted that the foreign emperor had been kicked out of the palace over a century ago.
The once magnificent palace of foreign emperor had become a dark and rundown home for pigeons. Yet, some people in big cities still enjoy bowing deeply to the foreign emperor and take pride in it, which is shown in many books and TV shows, leaving him very puzzled.
Mowen's mind wandered to the company's CEO, rumored to be a local official's son-in-law. In public, he exuded confidence, but behind closed doors, he danced to his wife's tune, desperate to please her.
Mo Wen suddenly remembered something his father often said: "You only truly live when you live each day for yourself. Living just to earn your daily bread, to support your family, to impress others, or because someone else commands it—that's not really living."
"I want to visit Moon Lake one more time!"
After made up decision, he stuffed all his money into his wallet, tucked his diary into his backpack. After surveyed the sparsely furnished room that felt more like a prison cell, he turned to leave.
Unconsciously, he found himself back on the familiar snack street. His mood inexplicably lightened. The everyday beer and barbecue now held an extraordinary promise—little did he know that his monotonous life was about to undergo a seismic shift tonight.
A few streets away stood an ancient temple with centuries of history. Tourists still burned incense and prayed, while the monks urged them to close the temple gates. Reluctantly, the visitors dispersed, merging into the nearby stream of people on the snack street.
The bustling street overflowed with visitors from all corners, drawn to the colorful array of food stalls. There were crispy fried chicken, steaming plates of noodles, tantalizing skewers, and an assortment of desserts and snacks.
The stall owners hustled, their voices blending with the cacophony of haggling customers, laughter, and music. Above them, vibrant lanterns cast a festive glow, enveloping the scene in earthly splendor.
At the heart of the night market stood a small stage. Traditional fan dances and elegant qipao showcases entertained the crowd, while young rockers and street dancers captivated the audience below.
Before him, the barbecue grill sizzled with intensity. The meat chunks on skewers gleamed golden, slightly charred by the glowing embers, releasing an irresistible aroma. Each piece had been meticulously seasoned, slathered in thick sauce that made mouths water.
The stall owner expertly flipped the skewers, brushing on more sauce. The firelight danced on their smiling faces, turning the scene into a delectable barbecue performance.
Unidentified meats, vegetables, and mushrooms roasted over the coals, their high heat crisping the exteriors while keeping the insides tender and flavorful. It was a sight that set taste buds tingling.
Next to the barbecue stall, a large plastic trash bin overflowed with used bamboo skewers. On the ground lay a few stray skewers, resting silently.
And then, as if by chance, a stone was kicked against one of the skewers. Soon after, another diner unknowingly pressed it into the soil, burying the pointed end. The bamboo skewer now stood slightly raised, like a spear poised for attack.