Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 9

The scarred man stumbles after the old woman in front of him, soaked in sweat, staggering with every step.

Dead branches along the roadside scratch his skin. Beads of blood cling to his old scars, but he doesn’t notice. He just follows the light ahead.

His name is Zhao Er. His family can’t read, nor can they afford to hire someone to name him, so they simply name him after his birth order.

Before getting into this line of work, he was just a small-time hoodlum. His family has little land and many brothers—only the eldest stays home. The rest have to fend for themselves.

Zhao Er once apprentices as a carpenter, but his master beats and scolds him constantly. He sleeps by the haystack and eats leftovers that never fill his stomach. He grows thin, just skin and bones. After four years of study and four years of labor, he still hasn’t learned a single skill.

The master never lets him watch when he works, let alone teaches him anything.

One day, when the master is away and his wife takes the children to the temple, Zhao Er runs off.

He doesn’t dare return home, afraid his parents will beat him and his eldest brother will look down on him. So he stays in town and falls in with a group of petty thieves.

Then Brother Zheng helps him.

At first, they only take on small jobs—helping townsfolk transport goods to nearby cities.

After a few years, they gain a bit of local reputation. Brother Zheng even suggests starting a proper escort agency and hiring more people. With bandits plaguing every mountain, it’s still manageable to transport cheap goods or commoners. Bandits don’t usually trouble the poor—they just take a bit of toll.

Conflicts still happen. Zhao Er gets the scar on his face during one such incident.

But at least he lives. If they were guarding valuables, the bandits wouldn’t have let them off so easily.

Then, just after opening their escort business, a big client comes to them. They don’t know who he is, never even meet him. The man only sends a servant to negotiate, offering a sky-high price—two thousand taels—to fetch a nobleman from the north.

None of the brothers has ever seen that much money. Even two hundred taels is unheard of to them.

Brother Zheng and the others discuss it. All the strong, able-bodied men agree to take the job.

Zhao Er thinks that after this job, he can quit. Use the money to buy land, build a house, marry a wife, and settle down.

But once they reach the north, they realize the situation is worse than expected.

The refugees are stuck at the pass between north and south. The soldiers don’t dare let them through. The two sides are deadlocked. Refugees starve to death, or die of illness. The imperial relief grain hasn’t yet arrived, and plague has already broken out at the pass.

They can only avoid people. Luckily, they have a travel document from that mysterious man, which allows them to pass.

Zhao Er only wants to make money—not lose his life.

He doesn’t care which god it is. As long as this god can save him, that’s the right god. Once he gets back, he’ll build a shrine and kneel to worship every day. Not just him—his children and grandchildren will worship, too.

The old woman walks slowly ahead. Zhao Er grits his teeth, endures his hunger and thirst, and follows her without falling behind.

The sun rises again, casting golden light over the land.

Zhao Er finally reaches the end. He arrives at the massive building lit by the sunlight.

It looks like a huge square box. The transparent door stands open, gleaming. Several figures in strange clothes stand on the steps. All have shaved heads—eight shining bald domes in total.

Zhao Er collapses to the ground, tears streaming down his face. He pounds the dirt with clenched fists.

He isn’t going to die! He’s going to live!

Cao’er’s mother tilts her chin at Wu Yan.

After being nursed back to health, the new workers look much better. Though still thin and dark, they now eat their fill of white rice and meat. Their strength has mostly returned.

And since they believe they’ve been saved by immortals—even if they can’t cultivate into immortals themselves—they’ll still be better off than regular people.

In their eyes, they’ve already been reborn. They’re no longer ordinary.

They look at Zhao Er’s group with faint pity.

Wu Yan wears a blue short-sleeved shirt, which he has been quick enough to snatch. In the center is a brightly colored and complex print.

Such vibrant colors aren’t something even wealthy folks can all wear.

The most popular T-shirt colors are blue and bright red. The least favored are black, white, and gray.

First, because those colors are easy to come by. Second, they are considered unlucky.

All the security guards welcoming the newcomers wear raincoats over their clothes. Though stuffy, the novelty outweighs the discomfort.

These clothes are so light—like floating silk—and so fragile that a bit of force can tear them open.

They can’t even imagine how such clothes are made.

Surely only immortals can do such things.

It must be mist woven into cloth by the immortals themselves!

Anything they can’t understand, they attribute to immortal magic.

Because these are guests, they don’t need to shave their heads, but they do have to completely cover their hair—no gaps allowed.

Wu Yan hands Zhao Er a disposable shower cap and says in slightly awkward official speech, “Use this to wrap up your hair. Lord Immortal says mortals are filthy and mustn’t bring dirt inside.”

The last two lines are entirely his own addition. The Lord Immortal doesn’t want to see lice, so clearly, the Lord Immortal loves cleanliness. And if the Lord Immortal loves cleanliness, then obviously mortals are considered dirty.

Zhao Er doesn’t dare disobey, but he’s never seen such a thing before. He doesn’t even dare reach out. “I… I dare not touch it…” he says nervously.

Wu Yan thinks for a moment. “Then lift your hair, I’ll put it on for you.”

Brother Zheng arrives in a hurry, still carrying the sickly man. He’s panting from exhaustion, and as soon as he reaches the building, he hastily sets the sick man down. Without even glancing at his brothers, he kneels and kowtows three times in front of the immortal’s “cave.”

“The immortal’s cave is truly extraordinary!” Brother Zheng’s face flushes red. He points at the supermarket sign and asks the boy, “Do you know what these words mean?”

The sickly man sits on the ground, looks up at the sign, and murmurs, “It seems familiar… but also not.”

The characters look like they’re missing strokes, but he doesn’t dare say so.

Brother Zheng scratches the back of his head. His forehead is bleeding, but he doesn’t care. He laughs. “It’s only right if even nobles can’t read the writing of immortals.”

Wu Yan and the others finish helping Zhao Er’s group with the caps, then finally turn to Cao’er’s mother.

Though they have never worked under a woman before, since the immortal values her, they don’t want to be cast out. So being bossed around by her doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore.

Cao’er’s mother walks with a slight air of pride. She has always been someone who likes managing things. Back at home, she used to take care of the entire household. Now, even in this strange place, she has gained the Immortal’s favor—of course, she has to do her best! She wants the Immortal to see just how sincere she is, no matter what.

If The Lord Immortal told her to jump off a cliff right now, she would do it without hesitation!

Meanwhile, Ye Zhou quietly slips into the supermarket through the back door.

To keep up appearances, he only tells Cao’er’s mother that if the people want anything from the supermarket, they have to exchange something in return.

Cao’er’s mother doesn’t object.

Of course, there have to be offerings—those are essential.

“The Lord Immortal is merciful; you may choose whatever you want,” Cao’er’s mother says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “But nothing is free.”

Zhao Er and his group are taken aback. They have little money left. Before coming into the city, they bought dry food from a wealthy family, but the prices were steep, so they don’t have much left.

Cao’er’s mother continues with an air of superiority: “The Lord Immortal has no need for gold or silver. Give whatever you have. The Lord Immortal desires sincerity, not money.”

Zhao Er quickly repeats, “Sincerity! I am sincere!” He searches his pockets and pulls out a silver hairpin. It isn’t valuable, but it’s crafted beautifully. “Immortal Lady! Look!” He grins, trying to flatter her with an exaggerated smile. “I’m sincere!”

Brother Zheng rummages through his things for a long time and only finds a dagger—the most valuable item he owns. But he can’t part with it. What will he do without it on the way back?

At that moment, a male voice suddenly comes from inside the supermarket.

“Lady Li, come in.”

Zhao Er and his companions freeze.

Immortal! This has to be the voice of The Lord Immortal!

Zhao Er watches wide-eyed as Lady Li walks inside. He cranes his neck, wanting to catch a glimpse of the Immortal’s appearance—does he have three heads and six arms?

But no matter how he strains, he still doesn’t manage to see the Immortal. He only sees the old woman go in and then come back out again.

“The Immortal wants to know what illness you have,” Cao’er’s mother says, walking up to the sickly man.

She eyes the sickly man. Though he looks pale and frail, his clothing is luxurious. Back in the day, someone like him wouldn’t have even spared a glance at her—she wouldn’t even have been worthy of the dirt on his shoes. Now, she can look down on him from above.

Fate turns and twists in unpredictable ways. No one can say what kind of fortune lies ahead.

The sickly man coughs weakly a few times, but his eyes light up with a strange gleam. “To tell the truth, Immortal Lady, the doctor says it’s consumption.”

Cao’er’s mother freezes for a moment, but she quickly controls her reaction and doesn’t step back.

Just consumption? With the Lord Immortal here, what is there to fear?

“Wait here. I’ll go report this to The Lord Immortal,” she says.

“Consumption?” Ye Zhou frowns.

Although he isn’t well-versed in history, he knows that in ancient times, consumption referred to pulmonary tuberculosis. It was long considered a terminal illness, and it wasn’t until the discovery of anti-tuberculosis drugs and mycobacteria that it was finally overcome.

He opens the emergency medicine box and pulls out a box of penicillin.

“The patient can’t enter the supermarket. He should rest in the security room. Give him this medicine. By the way, tell him this medicine might either cure him or kill him. Make sure he understands. The choice is his whether he takes it.”

Ye Zhou follows the dosage instructions on the box and carefully explains to Cao’er’s mother how many times a day, how many pills each time. Only then does he let her leave.

There’s no way to do a skin test under these conditions. He has no idea if the man will be allergic to penicillin.

If he is allergic, Ye Zhou has no way to save him. The man will likely just have to wait for death.

Ye Zhou remembers his father’s words. Tuberculosis is a “poor person’s disease,” but not in the literal sense. It refers to people with poor diets, weak bodies, and low immunity.

One of Ye Zhou’s college classmates contracted it. The guy was a real oddball—never liked eating, never touched meat. He survived mostly on cabbage and potatoes, but eventually contracted tuberculosis, which became so severe that he started coughing up blood and had to be hospitalized.

At this point, Ye Zhou has done everything he can. Now, it is in the hands of fate.

Whether the man lives or dies depends on his luck.

Ye Zhou only hopes that if the man is allergic, it won’t be severe enough to cause anaphylactic shock.