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He had dinner at a roadside stall.
A serving of thin gruel, a piece of dry bread, all to strengthen his disguise.
He ate until he was half-full.
The gruel was barely palatable, and the bread was even harder, but he pretended to enjoy every bite.
Because a street artist in this era could hardly afford to eat well, let alone be choosy.
After finishing, he thought for a moment, then spent an extra dime to buy another piece of dry bread, which he tore into pieces, wiped his bowl clean like other diners, and casually ate a couple of salted beans.
He had thought that as a Demon General in training, he'd live a life of luxury and show off everywhere. He had never imagined he'd end up solving his dinner problems this way.
The dogs on Blue Star ate better than he did.
Should he feel jealous of the dogs on Blue Star?
The key point was, this was all self-inflicted.
Was it really necessary?
He remembered his mission: he was to find a way to defeat the Swamp God.
