Chapter 7 The Competition Begins

The humiliating departure of Lin Chen left the shop in a state of funereal silence, punctuated only by the occasional drip of black vinegar from Wei’s sleeve. However, Wei’s capacity for wallowing was notoriously short-lived. By the next morning, he was vibrate-level caffeinated and holding a glossy, gold-embossed flyer.

“Redemption, Meiling! It has arrived in a size A5 cardstock!” Wei announced, slamming the flyer onto the flour-dusted counter.

Meiling squinted at the bold red text. “The Shanghai Street Food Showdown.” Below the title, it promised that the winner would receive a permanent, rent-free flagship spot in the city’s most prestigious luxury mall—the very same mall where the Chen Group held a majority stake.

“Wei, no. Absolutely not,” Meiling said, not even looking up from her tray of soup dumplings. “We are in the middle of a ‘liability crisis,’ remember? The last time you entered a competition, you tried to sous-vide a durian in the communal sink.”

“I’ve already signed us up,” Wei said, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper as he backed toward the exit. “And I may have… slightly embellished our credentials to ensure we got a prime slot.”

Meiling froze. “Embellished how?”

“I listed us as ‘The Spicy Meatball Geniuses’,” he admitted, bracing for impact.

Meiling stared at him, her rolling pin trembling in her hand. “Wei, we are a third-generation dumpling house. We sell jiaozi. We sell baozi. We do not, and have never, sold meatballs. Why would you call us that?”

“It sounded punchy! Modern! High-energy!” Wei argued, ducking as Meiling finally launched a small ball of dough at his head. “Besides, I figured we could just… shape the dumplings like spheres? It’s basically the same thing, just a different geometry!”

Before Meiling could properly evict him from the premises, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. Out stepped a man in a sharp suit—not a stamp collector this time, but an official representative of the competition committee.

“Li Wei? Li Meiling?” the man asked, looking at a clipboard. “I’m here to confirm your entry. We’re particularly excited about your ‘Avant-Garde Meatball Fusion’ concept. The judges are expecting something… explosive.”

Wei shot Meiling a frantic ‘please-don’t-kill-me-in-front-of-the-official’ look.

Meiling took a long, deep breath, looking around at her father’s legacy—the dented wall, the “retired” combat robot, and her flour-covered, idiot brother. If they won this, they could finally get out from under the Chen Group’s shadow for good.

“Fine,” Meiling said through gritted teeth, fixing the official with a terrifyingly professional smile. “We’ll be there. And believe me, our ‘meatballs’ will be the talk of the city.”

As the official drove away, Wei let out a sigh of relief. “See? Teamwork!”

“Start peeling the ginger, Wei,” Meiling muttered, heading for the kitchen. “If a single dumpling looks like a meatball, I’m letting the robot out of its cube.”