Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 51

The rush to buy is finally curbed under the threat of gunfire. The residents instantly become well-behaved—no more crowding, no more pushing. Ordinary people aren’t allowed on the battlefield. For the sake of base stability, many of them haven’t touched a gun again after retiring.

Zou Ming no longer goes into the supermarket. He just stands guard beside the team.

“Brother Zou, thank you.” Wu Yan, who is maintaining order, whispers to him, “If I’d known, I would’ve brought a pistol.”

Zou Ming replies, “Remember that next time.”

Wu Yan nods.

Although Zou Ming is always a man of few words, no one in the store thinks he has a bad temper. On the contrary, it’s precisely because he doesn’t talk much that the others find him reliable.

If someone always runs their mouth, no matter how capable they are, people think they’re just bragging.

The temp workers quickly realize this job isn’t as easy as it looks.

Chen Gang is drenched in sweat. He thinks it’ll take at least an hour to move all the goods—after all, the shelves are full.

But within 20 minutes, several children are already calling for restocking.

Everything else is manageable, but the rice bucket always seems to be empty. He keeps having to turn around and refill it.

By 11:30 a.m., when the supermarket is about to close, Chen Gang can no longer lift his arms. He has never felt so weak—like his body has been hollowed out, floating as he walks.

Until Cao’er’s mother shouts, “Twice-cooked pork for lunch today! Boss said you all need to eat well to keep your strength up! No slacking off! I’m watching you!”

If this were modern times, Cao’er’s mother would definitely be seen as a bootlicker.

Not only does she work hard herself, she makes sure everyone else is working hard too.

Wu Yan wipes sweat from his forehead. “Auntie Li, I’ll take three bottles of grape juice. Just note it down and deduct it from my pay.”

Cao’er’s mother recalls what Ye Zhou said and replies, “No need. Go ahead and grab a box. The boss said we should eat and drink well for now—none of this gets deducted.”

She’s already learned to use Arabic numerals. Though she still can’t write Chinese characters, she uses various symbols to represent names, and her memory is impeccable. She’s in charge of tracking daily staff consumption.

Ye Zhou double-checks the accounts multiple times. Even if he can’t fully decipher some of her notes, the numbers always add up. The records are flawless, so he has her handle all employee consumption expenses directly.

When the supermarket gets crowded, they set up folding tables and chairs behind the back door for meals—easy to clean and convenient.

Chen Gang sits at one of the tables, still a little dazed, but his spirits lift when he catches the scent of meat.

There has been a lot of work lately. When Cao’er’s mother chooses meat, she always picks fatty pork belly. There’s no need to add oil—just fry the meat, and the fat renders out on its own.

Meat fried this way isn’t greasy at all. The fat turns sticky and fragrant, enough to make anyone’s mouth water.

“The rice is over there. If it’s not enough, help yourselves.” Cao’er’s mother passes out empty bowls.

The employees and their families go to get more rice, but Chen Gang’s craving for rice is already fading.

He stares at the slices of meat in the stainless steel basin, wanting to grab some with his chopsticks but hesitating.

After seeing someone else pick up a piece, he finally gives in, takes a small piece, and pops it into his mouth.

He resolves to lie low when he first arrives at the supermarket—but the meat is too tempting. He can’t keep that low profile.

Chen Gang closes his mouth, letting the fatty aroma spread. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been starved of oil, or if Cao’er’s mother really cooks that well—but it isn’t greasy at all. He chews slowly, savoring every bit, and only swallows when everyone else sits back down. Then, he reaches for another piece.

Compared to Chen Gang and the group of half-grown kids, the regular supermarket employees are much more restrained.

They aren’t short on oil or meat and prefer lean cuts to fatty ones. Their chopsticks reach more toward the vegetables.

Those with smaller appetites stop eating meat after two or three pieces, switching entirely to vegetables.

After quickly scarfing down several pieces, Chen Gang realizes no one is fighting over the meat. He relaxes, slows down, and even goes to get himself a bowl of rice.

Once everyone is nearly finished and about to leave, Chen Gang quietly asks the person beside him, “Can I mix the leftover oil with rice?”

The person replies, “You’re not afraid of getting the runs?”

Chen Gang looks a little embarrassed but still says, “It smells so good… I’m still not full.”

The person says, “Go ahead—just don’t fall behind this afternoon. There’s more work tonight.”

The supermarket still doesn’t have enough staff for shift rotations, but they can’t expect people to work nonstop. Ye Zhou establishes a one-hour break at noon, during which the supermarket closes and stops receiving customers.

After lunch, the employees can walk around or rest in the back warehouse.

In the end, only Chen Gang and a few children stay. They gather the leftovers on one table and eat together.

Chen Gang pours the gravy with spices and green peppers into his bowl, mixes it with rice, and eats heartily.

The kids aren’t any better. Probably in their growth spurts—boys or girls, their stomachs are bottomless pits. They bury their heads in the food, sweat dripping, but unwilling to stop.

“They’re really good eaters,” Wu Yan mutters, stunned by their intensity.

It looks like they’re fighting a personal grudge with the food.

“Forgot already?” Wu Yan’s wife hands him their child. “We weren’t much better before. You don’t remember? The first time you saw meat, your eyes turned green.”

Wu Yan lets out a dry laugh. “Almost forgot.”

His wife says softly, “Yeah… almost forgot.”

It feels like those days—of danger, hunger, and barely surviving—belong to another life.

She whispers, “I wonder how Chen Liu and the others are doing.”

Wu Yan replies, “Maybe they’re farming in some southern village. He always wanted to marry. With the stuff The Lord Immortal left behind, he should’ve been able to start a family—maybe have a couple kids. Life should be better now.”

They often miss the Daliang Dynasty—the people and the land—so they occasionally talk about their former “colleagues,” hoping sincerely that they’re living well.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever go back.”

• ··

At four o’clock in the afternoon, while the supermarket is still buzzing with activity, Ye Zhou receives a message from Yang Guoqin.

He has finally collected enough money to buy a photon cannon and is heading over with a convoy.

Ye Zhou thinks it’ll be a truckload of corn cakes.

But when the convoy arrives, Ye Zhou nearly drops his jaw in shock.

What Yang Guoqin brings isn’t corn cakes, nor any kind of food, nor even the so-called “money” that long lost its purchasing power.

It’s a truckload of guns.

Sniper rifles, rifles, machine guns, pistols—basically, every type of firearm Ye Zhou knows.

Yang Guoqin jumps down from the truck. Though he’s a general, he doesn’t look any different from the average worker. He’s not in uniform, his whole body is covered in dust, and his face is streaked with black smudges. Clearly, he doesn’t care about his appearance. 

Smiling with relief, he says, “I got these from other bases. If the photon cannon works, I can lend it to them. They’re all good guns, but there’s no ammo. They’ve just been gathering dust in storage,” Yang Guoqin sighs, pulling out a cigarette and handing it to Ye Zhou—his soldiers often come shopping at the supermarket and grab a few cigarettes whenever they can.

Ye Zhou waves him off. “I don’t smoke.”

Yang Guoqin is briefly stunned. “Then do you mind if I do?”

Ye Zhou replies, “Go ahead.”

He doesn’t spend much time around secondhand smoke, and no one inside the supermarket smokes anyway.

After lighting up, Yang Guoqin says, “These guns are worth more than corn cakes here. Compared to food, they’re hard currency.”

After all, people can’t face zombies with bare hands. A gun brings an immense sense of security.

“I hear that some countries made a killing before they lost contact with us,” Yang Guoqin says mockingly. “They traded guns for gold and silver. I wonder if they regret it now.”

These days, gold and silver can’t buy a single gun.

Ye Zhou asks, “How many guns are there? How many of each type? I’ll calculate the price.”

Yang Guoqin hands over a printed inventory list. Ye Zhou picks out a few samples to check, then returns to the supermarket with the quantity sheet.

According to the system, guns are expensive. A pistol costs 500,000.

Ye Zhou uses the barcode scanner to scan a pistol—sure enough, the system’s buyback price doesn’t compare to its selling price.

A pistol is worth only five thousand—two zeros less.

Sniper rifles and rifles are both thirty thousand, and a machine gun is sixty thousand.

Ye Zhou tallies up the total value from the inventory list. It’s enough to buy a photon cannon and still have over five million left.

Altogether, the guns are worth more than seventeen million.

Although the system’s quote is twelve million, Ye Zhou quotes fifteen million to Yang Guoqin.

Adding the earnings from the past two days, he’s just halfway to meeting the turnover needed for the protective shield.

But Ye Zhou doesn’t plan to trade all the guns exceeding the photon cannon’s cost for cash—he feels it would be a loss. Guns are likely to be considered hard currency on many planes.

“How’s the quality of these guns?” Ye Zhou asks Chen Shu.

He has no expertise with firearms, so he turns to someone more experienced.

Chen Shu replies, “Not bad. Not great either, but decent. A lot of them are old models—some might even be older than me.”

Ye Zhou is speechless. “So there are different versions in each category.”

Chen Shu nods. “Boss, you should keep them. I’ve been to a few different planes before, and a single pistol could go for over a hundred or two hundred thousand. It’s a waste to exchange them through the system.” Chewing her gum, Chen Shu casually toys with a rifle. “This one’s got a strong recoil—accuracy won’t be great.”

She raises the gun and looks through the sight.

Ye Zhou says quickly, “This is still inside the store!”

Chen Shu grins. “Relax, there are no bullets.” Then she asks offhandedly, “Boss, what’s your relationship with Zou Ming?”

Ye Zhou doesn’t mind. “He works for me, and now we’re friends. Why?”

Chen Shu looks a little surprised. “I thought he’d known you for a long time. He never takes long-term jobs—only short-term ones, like escorting people or goods. I asked him once, and he said he doesn’t want to stay on any one plane too long. I always felt like he was looking for someone but didn’t know where they were, so he kept taking jobs and changing planes. But now he’s staying here for the long term. I think he might’ve found them. He found the person he’s been thinking about all these years.”