Standing in the long line, Feng Wanba had already licked his lips for the sixth time. The scent of food drifting from the porridge distribution shed in the distance made him swallow uncontrollably.
Seeing that the people ahead of him had not dwindled at all after so long, Feng Wanba finally understood what it meant for each day to feel like a year.
But he did not dare cut in line, afraid of angering the Great Masters and having them send him home without giving him any porridge.
At last, after a long wait, it was Feng Wanba's turn. There was not much porridge, only one ladleful.
Yet the moment that ladleful of millet porridge was poured into his bowl, he ignored the heat and reached in with his hand.
The millet porridge was thin, with some wood shavings and minced meat mixed into it.
But in Wanba's mouth, it was an incomparably delicious feast. Though clearly nothing had been added, it felt rich and smooth, with a lingering aftertaste and fragrance filling his mouth. It was more delicious than anything he had ever eaten.
After Feng Wanba, eyes shut, sucked every one of his fingers clean with all his strength, he slowly opened his eyes and let out a long breath.
He was still hungry, terribly, terribly hungry, but the warm current in his stomach told him that he would not starve to death.
After licking the porridge bowl until it gleamed, Feng Wanba still did not leave. He edged as close as he could to the porridge distribution shed and inhaled the fragrance drifting out with all his might.
Feng Wanba had a secret he had told no one: if you inhaled enough of the porridge's fragrance, you could draw out the essence within it. His grandfather had