Chapter 20: Let's Also Go to the First Cafeteria for a Meal

After Duan Chengliang left the grocery market, having walked quite a distance, he felt a bit hungry. Luckily, he had bought some fried dough sticks earlier at the breakfast stall, and there were still two left in his space. He found a secluded spot and took them out.

Just as he was about to eat, something struck him as odd.

“Huh, why are these fried dough sticks still warm? They seem no different from when I put them in.”

Duan Chengliang’s mind raced. He quickly checked the leftover hairtail fish he had stored the day before. Sure enough, it looked exactly as it had when he first placed it inside.

It seemed that the small bedroom space was a kind of frozen storage—time stood still inside it.

This blacksmith’s shop space was truly remarkable.

The forge workshop, where he worked, maintained normal time while he was inside, but when he stepped out, time froze. The temperature inside remained comfortable—not too hot or cold, basically constant.

Now, he had discovered that the small bedroom storage was a completely frozen space, preserving items in their original condition indefinitely.

Outside in the courtyard, time appeared to flow normally, synchronized with the outside world, yet the temperature remained mild and spring-like. He wondered if it might change someday.

Having uncovered another miraculous aspect of this space, Duan Chengliang happily finished the two fried dough sticks. Feeling content, he hummed a tune as he headed out through Dongzhimen, making his way toward the steel rolling mill. He had only taken the morning off; the afternoon still required him to return to work.

His main problem now was a lack of materials and various ration tickets—not money.

Ah, when paying wages in the forge space, he thought, what if he tried selecting the small bright frame for coin style? Could it produce different kinds of tickets?

That seemed quite possible. After all, tickets were part of the currency system.

Duan Chengliang pondered this as he approached a small river ditch near the rolling mill. Crossing the bridge, he noticed someone fishing by the water’s edge.

An idea struck him: perhaps he could dig a small pond in the courtyard, fill it with water, and maybe even raise some fish.

The only drawback of his little yard was its limited size—barely fifty or sixty square meters. He planned to raise chickens, grow vegetables, and maybe some fish. No matter how he looked at it, space was tight.

He didn’t know if, through persistent effort, he might eventually expand the area of his space. Even if possible, that was a future matter, and might come at a high cost. For now, he had to carefully manage the tiny yard.

He considered building a chicken coop on a frame suspended above the ground, saving space underneath for growing vegetables.

He decided to start small with the pond—two or three meters square would suffice for now, expandable or reducible later.

The rest of the area would be planted with vegetables: greens, potatoes, sweet potatoes, radishes, scallions, garlic, chili peppers, tomatoes. If possible, some grains too.

Sighing, Duan Chengliang shook his head at himself. So many dreams, yet so little space.

His mind was busy, but he kept walking, soon arriving at the rolling mill’s entrance.

Yesterday, he had placed all his documents into the space. Entering and exiting the mill required showing work permits, so he quickly retrieved his badge.

Getting in and out of the rolling mill was no simple matter; the security guards at the gates were armed. No one was allowed to stroll in casually.

In this era, security was taken very seriously, especially in key industrial facilities like the rolling mill.

The guards didn’t recognize faces—this mill had nearly ten thousand workers. How many could the guards possibly know? Besides, he wasn’t some factory beauty.

Of course, if you were a broadcaster in the propaganda department or a member of the factory’s cultural troupe, you’d be a star and could enter and exit just by facial recognition.

Ah, and there was Xu Damiao’s grandson, who could also use facial recognition—his face was unusually long, and he worked as a film projectionist.

Thinking of this made Duan Chengliang somewhat resentful. Damn it, when would he ever get to be someone who could just walk through the factory gates with a glance?

His timing was just right—most workers were finishing their morning shift and heading to lunch.

He planned to eat at the first canteen.

Usually, he didn’t eat there because he had to shower at noon and had little time, so he often had others bring food to him.

But today, having not worked in the coal yard that morning, he was clean and took the chance to enjoy a meal in the canteen.

He arrived at the duty room just as Old Feng came in, his face dark but smiling.

“Brother Feng, how’s the shovel? Easy to use?” Duan asked.

Old Feng grinned, flashing his white teeth. “It works well. Didn’t expect you to be skilled, Chengliang. What did you do this morning? I heard you took the morning off.”

“Had some family matters to handle. Just finished and came back quickly. Going to the first canteen for lunch now.”

Old Feng was not one for fuss; at midday he just wiped his face with a towel and washed his hands, then accompanied Duan Chengliang with their meal boxes and ration tickets to the canteen.

The staple foods there included white steamed buns, corn buns, and of course the mixed flour buns. Duan usually chose the mixed flour ones since white buns were a bit expensive.

For him, the expense wasn’t money but ration tickets.

Today, he ate four mixed flour buns and about 200 grams of vegetables. Among rolling mill workers, his appetite was considered average.

Some frontline workshop workers ate much more—they worked near high-temperature furnaces and did heavy labor, which burned a lot of energy.

For example, in the forging workshop, workers received high-temperature subsidies, plus extra meat and oil allowances because their work was so intense and conditions so harsh that proper nutrition was essential for safety.

You couldn’t have workers collapsing from heat exhaustion or overexertion on the production line—that could be fatal, just like Duan’s uncle’s case.

Though the circumstances around his uncle’s death were still debatable.

In the first canteen, the big pot dishes were cooked by Shazhu, whose skills were slightly better than most cooks. Still, with limited ingredients and conditions, big pot dishes could only be so good.

Shazhu showed his real talent when cooking for factory leaders’ private meals, where ingredients and seasonings were more abundant. He could then showcase his Sichuan cuisine skills.

When cooking big pot dishes, as long as the food was cooked through, with balanced flavors and a slight oily richness, it was considered good.

After finishing their meal, Duan Chengliang and Old Feng stepped out of the canteen.

Just as they turned the corner, they saw Yan Jiecheng.

Duan remembered he didn’t get along with Yan Jiecheng. That guy was a coward in front of others but liked to boss people around when facing his predecessors, always showing off. Nobody knew where he got his superiority complex, but it seemed like he was constantly trying to find psychological balance by picking on his seniors.

Today was a rare sight: Yan Jiecheng showing some backbone in front of others.

As Duan exited the canteen courtyard, he overheard Yan say, “Old Shen, we really can’t help you right now. Our workshop is so busy we can barely keep up. If you want our help, wait a bit. Once we finish current tasks and get some free time, we’ll make sure to assist you properly.”

Yan’s words were polite, but his tone was stiff—clearly a refusal, basically saying, “Figure it out yourself. We’re not interested and can’t help.”

The dismissal was unmistakable.