Dimensional Storekeeper

Chapter 237: Draft

The next morning, Hao stepped out of the storage room with a fresh apron and two things on his mind: restocking the ramen shelf, and making sure Liu Shun hadn’t flooded the billiards table during the night.

He was halfway through adjusting the display of cup noodles when a loud voice rang out across the store.

’I did it! It’s done! Behold!’

Hao sighed.

There he was.

Liu Shun stood proudly in the center of the store, now dressed in half-dried robes, one side still stiff with some kind of spiritual bleach. Tied around his neck was a sash made of napkins. Strapped to his back was his bucket—cleaned and gleaming. And pinned to his chest with a toothpick?

A crumpled sticker that read: “Wildcard Entry #1.”

’You really slept here, didn’t you,’ Hao said, walking over.

Liu nodded solemnly. ’Your floor is blessed. I saw a vision in the mop bucket while meditating.’

’…Was it a vision of you mopping the floor?’

’No. It was the bracket board. But it was glowing. And I was holding a glowing mop cue… surrounded by floating snacks.’

Hao blinked. ’Honestly? That sounds exactly like the future at this rate.’

Before he could say more, the door shimmered again.

Three more visitors entered.

They looked young. Definitely outer sect disciples. Serious expressions. Uniform robes, each one marked with the Cloud-Frost Pavilion emblem. One of them held a lacquered cue case. The tallest stepped forward and gave Hao a deep bow.

’Senior Hao. We have come… to challenge the table.’

Liu Shun immediately stepped forward, bucket in one hand, mop-cue in the other.

’You’ll have to go through me,’ he said solemnly, chest puffed, napkin-sash flapping slightly in the breeze from the open fridge.

The disciples stared.

Then turned to Hao. ’…Is he part of the staff?’

’No,’ Hao said. ’He came out of the toilet realm.’

The shortest disciple whispered, ’Is that a real realm?’

’Unfortunately, yes.’

The tall one frowned, but nodded. ’Very well. Then let us settle it by contest.’

’A friendly round,’ Hao said quickly. ’No blowing up the cue ball. No talisman interference. No spiritual pressure bursts. We’re still replacing the ceiling from last week.’

All four players moved toward the table. Liu Shun took his position with the mop-cue slung behind his shoulder like a martial hero.

’Cue of Justice, guide me,’ he whispered.

The disciples exchanged looks.

’Break,’ Hao said.

The first disciple cracked the balls. It was a strong shot—clean, precise. He pocketed one, but missed the follow-up. Murmurs stirred from the growing audience.

Then Liu stepped up.

He twirled the cue around. Took three steps back. Adjusted his stance like he was preparing to sweep an entire courtyard.

And then…

Tap.

He sent the cue ball spinning in a perfect curve, sliding around two obstacles and knocking the eight-ball straight in.

The crowd lost it.

Someone shouted, ’He curved the ball!’

Another screamed, ’Is that even possible?!’

Liu held his mop-cue high, triumphant.

’I don’t always understand what I’m doing,’ he declared, ’but when I do—it’s legendary!’

The Cloud-Frost disciples stared in disbelief.

One bowed slowly.

’…We concede.’

Liu blinked. ’Wait, really?’

’We must go train. Clearly, we are not worthy. Yet.’

And with that, they left.

Hao dragged a hand down his face as Liu grinned, wiping his forehead with a napkin-sleeve.

Wildcard Entry #1.

The storm had arrived.

A sudden creak echoed from the front door.

Not the quiet kind that hinted at hesitation. No. This one slammed open with the force of someone desperate, as if the very heavens were chasing behind.

Hao instinctively straightened from behind the counter.

The entrance shimmered for a split second—scattering embers of faint orange light—as a hunched figure stumbled in, panting.

Torn robes, soot-stained arms, and hair that might’ve once been tied up in a bun but now drooped in wild tufts around his face. He clutched his sides like they were about to fall apart.

“I-It worked… I knew it!” the man gasped. “The outhouse talisman opened again!”

Hao blinked.

Wait.

“Outhouse… talisman?”

The man looked up, eyes bloodshot but gleaming with fervor.

“Yes! Yes, I—I put the same paper talisman from before! The same one from last time I ended up in this blessed sanctuary! The holy pantry! The sacred aisle of goods!”

He dropped to his knees.

Hao stared, unsure whether he should call security or offer a drink.

“Wait,” he said slowly, “You’re that guy from Scorching Soul City, right? The one who accidentally came in while holding your pants?”

“Zhao Ping’an,” the man breathed, clutching his chest like it would explode. “Disciple… of the Ash Urn Refining School. Formerly. Now, a loyal believer of the One-Click Cultivation Grocery!”

“That’s not our name.”

“I brought crystals this time!” Zhao Ping’an fished through his soot-blackened belt pouch and spilled out a small hill of shimmering red fire-grade crystals. “All I ask… is three cans of that sacred Peach Oolong, and maybe—if fate allows—a bag of that crunchy, salted wonder!”

Hao wordlessly grabbed the drinks.

Zhao Ping’an grabbed them like a starving beast, cracked one open, and chugged it on the spot. His burnt eyebrows twitched with joy.

“Oh… oh, I feel my meridians unclogging. My inner flame stabilizing. My will to live… returning.”

“You probably just needed water,” Hao muttered, pushing over the bag of chips.

But Zhao Ping’an was already halfway to heaven.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, holding up the bag like a divine artifact. “Back in Scorching Soul City, these are myth. Ever since I returned with just one can last time, I became a legend. They now call me the Oolong Sage.”

“They do not.”

“They do!” he insisted. “I sold just a drop of it—one drop mixed with charcoal brew tea—and two elders fought to the death.”

“…You’re banned from reselling our products,” Hao deadpanned.

Zhao Ping’an immediately prostrated again. “Understood. I shall eat and drink them personally, to grow strong enough to… one day storm the Ash Urn School and reclaim my stolen pants.”

“…You lost your pants?”

“It’s a long story,” Zhao Ping’an whispered dramatically. “And also unrelated to the fight.”

Hao gave him a blank look.

In the corner, Kurome stretched lazily in cat form, eyeing the man like she’d found her new daily entertainment.

Outside, the sky rumbled faintly.

But in here, the store lights buzzed gently, and the soft crinkle of a potato chip bag marked the beginning of another strange, wonderful day.

The sacred pantry was open once more.

The bell above the door chimed again.

This time, no golden robes, no spiritual pressure, no legendary aura.

Just the faint scent of ash and something vaguely burnt.

Hao looked up from behind the counter, already halfway through a bag of Original Salted Potato Chips.

The man who entered was hunched, thin, and wore a soot-streaked robe that had definitely seen better centuries. His sandals were mismatched—one wood, one some kind of hardened animal hide—and his hair stood in wild tufts as if he’d been electrocuted or caught in a minor explosion.

He looked around with wide, glassy eyes.

Then he blinked at the lights.

Then at the neatly arranged drinks fridge.

Then, finally, at Hao.

“…Is this the latrine?” the man asked seriously.

Hao slowly set the chip bag down.

“…No?”

The man squinted, scratched his head, and muttered, “That’s odd. I clearly remember taking a left at the outhouse. Then it was the third bamboo tree, duck under the low branch, and then…”

He trailed off.

Then his eyes fell on the glowing Peach Oolong Tea sign.

His pupils shrank.

“Is that…” His voice trembled. “Is that real?”

Hao gave a resigned smile. “Three crystals per can. One per person if you don’t want to get robbed on your way out.”

The man staggered forward.

He dropped to his knees like he was before a divine shrine.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “I knew I wasn’t hallucinating last time.”

“…Wait, last time?”

“I thought it was a fever dream,” the man muttered, clutching his head. “I was dying from spirit flux. Crawled into a cave to rot in peace. And then—peach! Oolong! Perfection in a can! And then I blacked out!”

He scrambled up and stumbled toward the fridge, hands reverent.

Hao narrowed his eyes.

“Name?” he asked cautiously.

The man turned, beaming proudly. “Huang San.”

“…You sure?”

“I think.”

Hao gave up.

Huang San cracked open the can of Peach Oolong Tea with shaking hands.

The moment the cold liquid touched his tongue, he visibly shuddered. His eyes rolled back, knees buckled, and he let out a moan so dramatic it made a pair of passing sword cultivators pause mid-step.

“By the heavens,” he whispered. “This is stronger than any fortifying pill I’ve ever had…”

“You said that last time too,” Hao muttered, arms crossed.

“I did drink one before punching a wall and breaking it,” Huang San said proudly. “Also broke my wrist, but that’s beside the point.”

Hao sighed.

“You here to shop or preach?”

“Both,” Huang San declared. “This store—it’s fate! Divine providence! A gift to the weak like me!”

“Three crystals,” Hao said flatly.

Huang San patted his pockets, pulled out lint, a toothpick, and finally three glowing shards.

He grinned.

“Time to get stronger… through tea.”

Source: .com, updated by novlove.com

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