Two days later, in the early morning.
The moment Wang Zhong stepped off the Stiponk car, he smelled a familiar scent in the air.
It was the aroma of Cantonese fried dough sticks. He immediately turned his head toward the direction of the fragrance and indeed saw a tea house on the first floor selling fried dough sticks, where a bare-chested chef with a cigarette between his lips was busy frying.
It seemed like the chef got splashed with hot oil, as he suddenly cursed loudly, "Damn it all!"
Wang Zhong felt a deep sense of nostalgia as he watched.
He had thought he was probably an Antean by now, but only now did he suddenly realize that everything from his homeland was still in his heart, even the sizzling sound of fried dough sticks in the oil was so familiar.
The people in Chinatown probably hadn't seen someone with as many medals on his chest as Wang Zhong; anyone who wasn't busy was watching him.
