Old Man’s Revenge

A giant question mark loomed over Eula's head, bewilderment etched deep.

What in Teyvat was Ye Ruo up to now?

Novels one day, noodle shops the next—restless didn't cover it.

Was he chasing every whim he'd never tried before?

This man embodied freedom, wild and untamed.

Where were Jean and the Knights to drag him back?

Eula huffed, arms crossed, staring him down.

Still, crafting such a clever dish proved his knack.

Her best friend—reliable, if a tad slick.

"Bit greasy, though—not for overindulging," she noted.

Her knightly palate, honed by cooking, spoke true.

She tilted her head, curiosity piquing.

"How's this 'convenient' bit work?" she prodded.

Ye Ruo flashed a cryptic grin, mischief alight.

"Simple—watch this," he said, grabbing a bowl.

He poured hot water, tossed in seasonings, and waited.

Two minutes later, steaming noodles emerged—magic.

"Hot and ready in three minutes tops," he boasted.

"Shelf life's six months—built to last," he added.

"We'll roll out flavors: braised beef, mushroom chicken, scallion ribs," he listed.

"Fresh veggie shroom and duck radish soup too," he continued.

He'd nixed a funky sauerkraut twist—too wild.

Regular sauerkraut might sneak in later, tame.

Eula's eyes widened, gears turning fast.

"Brilliant—convenience meets novelty," she marveled.

"Portable, beats stale rations hands down," she reasoned.

"Merchants'll stockpile this for long hauls," she predicted.

"How much Mora?" she asked, leaning in.

"Two hundred—fair and square," he replied.

"Cheap!" she blurted, shock lacing her tone.

A Teyvat omelette ran 250 Mora—egg alone.

Cheese hit 350, flour a modest 125.

Ye Ruo's noodles undercut them all—bargain bliss.

He shrugged—profit wasn't his game here.

Just a side gig, a casual fling.

Costs stayed low—flour flowed from chests.

Beef cubes? A cow stretched far.

He kept it sane—below 100 Mora was chaos.

Too cheap, and Mondstadt's market would reel.

"Sell noodles for two Mora when others charge twelve?" he mused.

That wasn't a deal—it was war on trade.

Normal pricing suited him—balance held.

Eula nodded, seeing the knightly angle.

"Perfect for missions—Knights'll love it," she said.

The system chimed in Ye Ruo's mind, panel flickering alive.

He perked up, eager for the latest haul.

[Customer Lisa completed Old Mond: Tower King's Eye—Reward: Thunder Vine Grasp.]

[Thunder Vine Grasp: Conjures electrified vines from the user's hands, lashing out to bind or strike foes; channels lightning to paralyze or burn, adaptable to terrain; vines regenerate endlessly with Electro energy, forming barriers or whips at will.]

Ye Ruo smirked—Lisa snagging loot fit her vibe.

Thunder vines for the Rose Witch? Electric poetry.

The shop buzzed, prepped for its debut.

No fanfare—just a quiet opening day.

Crowds didn't swarm, word still brewing.

Old man Goethe shuffled by, cane tapping slow.

He squinted, spotting the new sign.

"When'd this noodle joint pop up?" he grumbled.

"Been skipping rent rounds—missed it," he muttered.

Goethe wasn't just any geezer—he owned clout.

His Goethe Hotel stood tall, a city staple.

Houses galore fed his coffers—rent king.

"Curious—let's taste it," he decided, hobbling in.

Clean tables greeted him—first impressions held.

Staff waved—familiar faces from old days.

Herman grinned, trading quips with the boss.

Goethe scanned the menu, sparse but intriguing.

"Mushroom veggie noodles—morning pick," he chose.

"Cheap as dirt—hope it's edible," he snorted.

He'd barely bantered when his order arrived.

Too fast—he frowned, peering at the counter.

Herman poured water, sprinkled spice, and served.

Goethe's face soured—skepticism took root.

"Wait—what's this half-baked trick?" he barked.

"You're not poisoning me 'cause we're pals, right?" he accused.

"Bullying an old man—shameful!" he griped.

His rant drew eyes—passersby craned necks.

Murmurs spread, curiosity bubbling up.

Herman chuckled, unfazed by the fuss.

"Goethe, give it a shot—trust the Wind Knight," he urged.

"It's instant—fast and tasty, our hook," he explained.

"Ye Ruo's brainchild—new and slick," he added.

"Wind Knight?" Goethe paused, gears clicking.

The sign flashed back—Yip's rang a bell.

No buzz about noodles—yet here it was.

He eased into his seat, lid lifting slow.

Aroma slammed him—rich, earthy, warm.

He sipped the broth, slurped a strand.

His eyes popped—shock morphed to glee.

"Delicious—noodles c

an do this?" he crowed.

A mogul's mind whirred—profit loomed large.

"Hot water's all it takes?" he pressed.

"Yep—six months shelf life too," Herman confirmed.

"Six months?!" Goethe gaped, jaw slack.

"Two hundred packs—all flavors, now!" he demanded.

"Hotel guests'll eat this up—new draw!" he beamed.

The system thrummed, Ye Ruo's fame a swelling gust.

His quirks took root—Mondstadt bit in.

***

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