Chapter 199 — A Man with Sweet Potatoes

CHAPTER 199

A Man with Sweet Potatoes

A man was sitting in the middle of the lava, roasting sweet potatoes.

Shi Feng searched the cavern for a safer explanation. There wasn’t one. A man sat cross-legged on the black rock with a sweet potato on each stick, calmly roasting them over lava. He even turned the sticks to keep the skins from burning.

He wore a plain grey robe, scorched dark along the hem. A grass string held his hair up in a crooked knot. His face was young, maybe twenty-five, and cheerful in a way that didn't fit the place at all.

Shi Feng's mind went through the possibilities quickly. An elder in disguise. A hermit who had lived here for years. A heat-born spirit. A hallucination, which was not the worst of them.

He tried the oldest method first and felt for the man's qi.

Shi Feng couldn’t sense even a trace of qi. That didn’t make the man weak. A mortal child had some presence; this stranger gave him nothing to judge at all. Shi Feng grew wary despite the cheerful face.

“Don't just stand there,” the man called. “You'll let the smell out.”

Shi Feng walked forward. A narrow ridge of cooled stone led across the lava to the island. It was barely wide enough for one foot. The fire on both sides roared up to his knees, and the Ledger noted every mouthful.

[Devoured: cavern fire | Gain: large | Note: very hot]

He reached the rock. The man looked up and smiled.

“You walk well,” the man said. “Most people hop.”

“It's hot,” Shi Feng said.

“It's lava,” the man said. “Seven's the gentle ring. Nine is where it gets rude.” He waved a stick toward a flat spot beside him. “Sit, sit. Mind the tally.”

Shi Feng glanced to the side. A jade tablet sat on a post at the edge of the island, exactly like the others. A cloth sack had been hung over it, as if somebody had decided it was the nicest hook in the cavern.

“You hung your bag on the ring-seven tally,” Shi Feng said.

“It's a very good hook,” the man said. “And if nobody touches it, nobody comes down here asking why one of the elders' limits has a man cooking lunch. We both benefit.” He tilted his head. “You didn't touch the other ones, did you? Past four.”

“How do you know it was four?” Shi Feng said.

“I didn’t say I knew everything,” the stranger said, shrugging. “But five and six are still blank, and I’d rather keep them that way. Come and sit.”

Shi Feng sat. The rock under him was warm, not scalding. He noticed that and didn't like it.

The man pulled one of the sticks out of the fire, blew on the potato once, and held it out.

“Here. This one's done,” the stranger said.

Shi Feng looked at the potato. Its skin had split, showing orange flesh and a curl of steam. It looked like any potato at any roadside stall in Great Liang. That was what bothered him.

“Who are you?” Shi Feng asked.

“A man with potatoes,” the stranger said.

“That's not a name,” Shi Feng said.

“It’s all you need before lunch,” the stranger said, pushing the stick closer. “Eat first. Haste won't let you eat hot tofu. You can question me when you’ve stopped looking ready to fall over.”

Shi Feng took the potato.

The first bite burned Shi Feng’s tongue. The next tasted sweet and smoky. More importantly, a faint warmth spread into his chest and stayed there. He was surprised. Even the food this man casually offered wasn’t ordinary.

He thought, This isn't an ordinary potato. And he's handing it out like one.

The man was watching him with open interest, like a gardener whose plant had finally flowered.

“Good?” the man asked.

“Good,” Shi Feng said.

“I grow them myself. On a ledge by the pond, behind the old forge.” The man took the second potato and bit into it without blowing. His eyes watered, and he waved a hand in front of his mouth. “Ngh. Too hot. Every time.”

“You said the elders come down here,” Shi Feng said.

“Sometimes. They don't stay. They say it's too hot to think.” The man swallowed. “I find it helps.”

Shi Feng ate quietly. His arms were still sore. He was looking at the stranger's hands, which held the stick with the loose ease of a man who had done nothing but hold sticks over lava for years. They were unburned. The robe's hem was scorched, but the hands weren't, and neither was the face.

He thought, A man who is sitting on lava and isn't burned is either a fool or the most dangerous person in this mountain. He doesn't look like a fool.

“Is something wrong?” the man asked.

“No,” Shi Feng said.

“You're thinking very loudly,” the stranger said.

“I'm eating,” Shi Feng said.

“Ah.” The man smiled. “A good policy.”

For a while neither of them spoke. The lava hissed and rolled. A bubble popped near the rock and spat a flake of fire onto Shi Feng's knee. He let it land.

When he looked up, the stranger had stopped smiling.

The stranger wasn’t hostile, but his teasing had stopped. He studied the scorched sleeves, then Shi Feng’s exposed arms. Shi Feng became tense. The man seemed to be looking straight through the healing skin.

Shi Feng held still. His hand tightened around the stick.

“Hm,” the stranger said.

The word was soft and thoughtful. He leaned forward a little, the way a man leans to read a very small inscription, and then he sat back again.

“Highest grade,” the stranger said quietly. “And even I can't tell which.”