Chapter 49 Why Are Side Quests So Hard to Complete These Days?

In the following days, Qin Huai settled into a routine: working normally in the mornings, and in the afternoons practicing locust flower steamed buns while also randomly producing various flavors of buckwheat buns.

As for why locust flower buns had to be practiced together with buckwheat buns—

Qin Huai said that constantly seeing C-grade locust flower buns made him uncomfortable. He needed to make other types of buns that tasted at least comparable—or even better than locust flower buns—to achieve some psychological balance.

As a side note, cold herbal tea was also distributed daily.

The cold tea was alternately prepared by Qin Luo and Zhao Rong—whoever had time would make it. Qin Huai was only responsible for tangerine peel tea. Zhao Rong felt that the poor reviews on the first day were due to the Five-Flower Tea not tasting good, so she strongly insisted on switching to Xia Sang Ju tea. However, the negative feedback remained unchanged.

Qin Luo believed the bad reviews were because the tea was made by her mother, who disliked adding sugar. Who would drink herbal tea without even a bit of rock sugar?

So under Qin Luo’s strong insistence, the tea she prepared was always loaded with rock sugar. As a result, the negative reviews she received were about equal to Zhao Rong’s.

Witnessing all this, Qin Congwen—who had been drinking herbal tea since childhood and had seen his children repeatedly refuse to drink it, only for it to end up in his own stomach—said:

“Stop arguing. Herbal tea was never that good to begin with. The two of you are only making something already bad even worse.”

In general, among all the cold teas distributed daily, only Qin Huai’s tangerine peel tea was barely drinkable—possibly because tangerine peel tea itself wasn’t particularly unpleasant and didn’t easily go wrong.

Bystanders thought so, but the people involved didn’t believe it. Zhao Rong and Qin Luo both felt that their own tea tasted better than the other’s, and insisted on competing to determine a winner.

Under this inexplicable mother-daughter rivalry, the sales of hand-shaken lemon tea steadily rose. Every day at noon, Qin Luo would start making lemon tea, even changing her WeChat profile picture to her own homemade lemon tea. This even attracted concern from Grandma Qin, who was highly active online and often shared health tips in the family group.

Grandma Qin assumed her granddaughter wanted milk tea but her son and daughter-in-law wouldn’t buy it for her, so she specially sent Qin Luo a red packet of 30 yuan, telling her to buy the largest size.

While Qin Luo was locked in a battle with tea, Qin Huai’s progress with buns was also not going smoothly.

“Not going smoothly” was actually an understatement—it was more accurate to say there was no progress at all.

The failure to make locust flower buns was entirely a technical issue, and Qin Huai could see his technical level through the system. His proficiency was insufficient, making it hard to improve his technique; without improved technique, he couldn’t reach the threshold required for locust flower buns; and improving white-dough skills required a long time, with no significant gains in the short term.

In summary, four words: if you’re bad, just practice more.

Qin Huai didn’t feel much about his locust flower buns remaining at C or C- grade. He had always had a very clear understanding of himself.

For example, he was exceptionally talented in white dough techniques.

For example, his academic aptitude was average.

For example, his cooking skills were on par with Qin Congwen.

For example, he would never run a business at a loss of 6.6 million yuan a year like Ou Yang.

For Qin Huai, failing at something he was certain he couldn’t accomplish was expected; success would have been a pleasant surprise.

For expected outcomes, he naturally wouldn’t feel frustrated or troubled.

What troubled him was that he still hadn’t figured out what honey fermentation actually involved.

He felt like a Qi-refining cultivator studying a Golden Core-level technique. He knew it was a good technique—officially recognized as such—but he couldn’t see what made it good.

Not being able to learn it was one thing—being unable to even recognize its merits felt excessive.

The Qi-refining-level Qin Huai began to consider seeking guidance from senior practitioners in the same “sect.”

After a week of study without results, on an ordinary morning, Qin Huai stopped Old Man Wang, who was feeling disappointed about the absence of fresh shrimp-stuffed crab-shell pastries.

“Grandpa Wang,” Qin Huai felt he was starting to grasp at straws, “I remember you once said that when you were young, you worked in Suzhou, and there was a Master Jing at a state-run restaurant there who was especially skilled at making buns.”

“Yes,” Old Man Wang replied, immediately becoming excited at the mention of Master Jing, as if transported back to those passionate years. “Master Jing wasn’t just great at buns—his pastries were delicious, and his cooking was top-notch.”

“But his dishes were a bit expensive for me; I only heard about them from my factory leaders.”

“Last time you mentioned asking your former colleagues to help contact Master Jing. I’ve recently encountered a very tricky problem while making buns and would really like to consult a senior white-dough expert like him. Do you happen to have his contact information?” Qin Huai said, looking troubled as he asked for help.

Old Man Wang: “……”

He lowered his head somewhat guiltily and subconsciously scratched his nose, his expression conflicted. After thinking for a moment, he said directly, “Xiao Qin, I’m sorry.”

“It’s like this—I was transferred away from Suzhou many years ago, so I’m not very familiar with the current situation there.”

“However, I didn’t lie to you. I really contacted my former coworker, and he told me that Master Jing passed away decades ago.”

“I remember that when I was transferred, Master Jing had already retired due to a recurring leg injury. It was said that not long after retirement, he suffered another injury and passed away. Since he’s no longer around, I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Qin Huai paused, feeling a bit regretful, but didn’t say much. “That’s truly unfortunate.”

“Yes,” Old Man Wang sighed as he returned to Table 9, holding his tray.

While eating a five-spice bun, Old Man Wang suddenly remembered that his coworker had mentioned Master Jing’s apprentice in white dough, a young man surnamed Zheng, who had become successful, gone into business, and even built a factory producing egg yolk pastries.

He had even bought that brand’s pastries during the New Year before—they were quite expensive and tasted decent.

At the time, he had only heard it as an interesting story. But now that Xiao Qin urgently needed help, and although Zheng’s craftsmanship in buns might be terrible, the person himself seemed quite enthusiastic.

Old Man Wang looked up toward the kitchen, where Qin Huai was frowning, seemingly troubled. He wanted to tell him, but then held back.

Forget it. Last time he spoke too quickly without understanding the situation. This time, he should first have his coworker contact Zheng, get Zheng’s WeChat, and then surprise Xiao Qin.

Old Man Wang nodded firmly.

Across from him, Xu Tuqiang glanced at Old Man Wang, who made countless small movements while eating a bun, and somehow felt that this man would soon be able to enjoy shrimp-stuffed crab-shell pastries for two consecutive days again.

Damn it—why is Old Wang’s luck so good?

Xu Tuqiang angrily stuffed a bun into his mouth and glanced at the event poster on the wall:

[Guests with “Jun” in their name, please come here—claim your free hand-shaken lemon tea!]

Although Xu Tuqiang didn’t care about the money for a cup of lemon tea, not being able to participate in the event made him feel frustrated.

The previous herbal tea event for people with the surname Luo—he couldn’t claim that either, but that tea wasn’t good anyway. Now this lemon tea event—he still couldn’t participate.

What does having “Jun” in your name even mean? Having “Qiang” in your name is the real strength!

Xu Tuqiang snorted and continued eating his bun.

In the kitchen, a frowning Qin Huai was looking at the list of people who had claimed the hand-shaken lemon tea.

What’s going on with this Luo Jun?

Is this name really that rare?

Not coming to claim the herbal tea was one thing—but not even coming for the lemon tea?

The side quest had been issued for so long, and not only had he not met the target person, he didn’t even know whether this Luo Jun was male or female.

Qin Huai put away his phone.

Should he really post a missing person notice?

Why are side quests so hard to complete these days?

Couldn’t sleep, so I wrote a chapter. Night-owl readers are in luck—early access to Saturday’s chapter!