Chapter Nineteen: The Cold Storage Room

After bringing out the tray, Fourth cackled, “In our place, no phones allowed, no knives, no watches, no outside drinks, no condoms...”

“Come on!” I snapped at the dwarf, “This is stricter than the airport! What’s the point of all this?”

Honestly, I expected him to spout some nonsense about “enhancing the dining experience.” But instead, he gave me a response that left me speechless and unable to argue.

Still chuckling, Fourth replied, “Anti-terrorism! The neighborhood committee just handed down the directive! Let me show you—here it is…”

He pulled out a paper from under the tray, barely a step above toilet tissue in quality, and at the top, in bold letters, was written, “*** Neighborhood Committee Anti-Terrorism Notice.”

I was floored. My visit to this shadowy establishment was truly eye-opening; apparently, anything could be justified in the name of anti-terrorism.

Before Fourth could go on, Wang Hou cut him off impatiently, “Enough, enough, spare us your speech! You can have it all—save yourself the effort.”

I was surprised at how readily Wang Hou complied, watching as he took off his phone and watch and placed them on the tray.

We both knew that surrendering our phones meant severing our only link to the outside world. If anything happened inside, not even calling the police would be an option.

Wang Hou glanced back at me with a confident smile, “Let’s just get inside first.”

Suddenly it dawned on me—he had a plan.

After we handed over our phones and underwent a cursory pat-down, we finally passed through the ordeal at the entrance. I couldn’t wait to step inside the “True Taste Private Kitchen.”

Opportunities to enter such a place were rare. I widened my eyes, eager to take in every detail.

The scale and decor of this shadowy restaurant were far more grand—and far more bizarre—than I’d imagined.

Upon entering, I realized the inside bore no resemblance to the secretive, shabby gate outside. The interior was ablaze with light. Eaves and rafters imitated the water towns of the south, a small fountain-like humidifier gurgled in the corner, and all manner of antiques, celadon, fans, and scrolls adorned the space. There was none of the ghastly, gloomy chill one might expect from a so-called “shadowy shop.”

To the untrained eye, these arrangements were pleasing. But to me, they revealed something quite different.

I understood that everything in this world “evolves.” If these shadowy establishments were still as eerie and oppressive as in the old days, they’d have no customers. In fact, the more relaxed you feel, the more you need to be on your guard. Complacency could be fatal—the next moment, something unclean could leap out at you…

Soon, a waitress led us to a tea reception room.

She greeted us warmly, served us a pot of Dragon Well tea, and stood off to the side.

Wang Hou and I exchanged a glance. I slipped the waitress a tip and found a pretext to send her away.

Once she closed the door, Wang Hou asked, “So? Did you notice anything?”

I told him that this place was something else. The interior finishing was all soundproof panels, and the structure looked complex—at least two-thirds of it seemed to be underground. Honestly, it felt more like a prison than a private restaurant.

Those artful “scenic” arrangements, to my eyes, were designed to mask the aura and block lines of sight.

“You can tell all that? Did your squad leader teach you?” Wang Hou asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

I chuckled. “When our restaurant expanded, I spent half a year up to my ears in renovations. If I couldn’t spot these tricks, all that work would’ve been for nothing.”

Of course, we didn’t have time to dwell on this.

Our goal was to find a way to save Hongye, not to quibble over feng shui.

“So where do we start?” Wang Hou asked.

I rubbed my temples and sighed, “I know. We start with the dirtiest place in the restaurant!”

“The dirtiest place… The kitchen? Or the slop bucket?” Wang Hou guessed.

“Neither…” I replied, stressing each word. “Old Wang, remember this: the filthiest, most secretive spot in any restaurant is the cold storage!”

That’s right—the cold storage was the darkest, most secret-laden place in a restaurant, not the kitchen or the slop bucket.

Isn’t the kitchen, or the slop bucket, dirty? Of course, but not in the way you’d think.

Anyone familiar with the food industry knows that whether it’s a small eatery or a grand hotel, if you want to uncover the real tricks and darkness behind the scenes, you won’t find much in the kitchen. Those places are watched closely by regulators; any slip-up brings inspection and warnings. Hiding illicit ingredients there would be suicide.

Especially in a place like this—an upscale private kitchen catering to top-tier clients, and in this case, a “shadowy shop.” There’s no way they’d leave anything suspicious in plain sight in the kitchen. Too many people, too insecure.

But cold storage was a different matter. It was perfect for hiding contraband or bizarre, illicit ingredients.

With its perpetual frost and chill, nothing spoiled easily—ideal for storage. Most importantly, few people went there, and with all the mingled odors and ice shards, inspectors rarely did a thorough check. If there were prohibited items—poppy husks, coca leaves, hallucinogens, even venomous insects—they’d be hidden there, often sealed with special “water-sealed ice casting” or “oil-sealed ice shell” methods for extra concealment.

When I finished, Wang Hou asked, “Old Tian, how do you know all these tricks? Have you done this before?”

I laughed. “You think I worked in hotels for nothing after leaving the army? Part of why I left was because of these very ‘practices’! If I didn’t know this stuff, would I dare bring you behind enemy lines for a raid?”

Of course, all of this hinged on one condition: that we could actually find the storage room.

That was where Wang Hou’s skills came in.

True to form, Wang Hou lived up to his reputation as a reconnaissance officer.

He led me out of the tea room on the pretense of needing the restroom, weaving deeper and deeper into the restaurant as if navigating a maze.

Both of us wore sunglasses, striding confidently past security and staff, using the bathroom as our excuse.

At that moment, I finally understood why Wang Hou had insisted on buying me the black suit.

The staff, seeing us in suits and shades, swaggering through the corridors, actually took us for “bodyguards” of some big boss. Any who looked suspicious were quickly cowed by Wang Hou’s towering frame and sinister aura.

Just like that, we passed private rooms and the kitchen, and soon found ourselves at the cold storage.

The whole process went so smoothly, it felt almost unnatural.

Upon entering, the sudden temperature drop made me shiver, and then I sensed something off.

“Something’s not right,” I said.

“What is it?” Wang Hou asked.

I didn’t answer right away. I took off my jacket and walked a circle inside, finally fixing my gaze on the cold storage’s refrigeration fan.

This was a medium-sized cold storage, full of white slabs of pork and lamb, all neatly hung from iron hooks—four rows of carcasses, dozens in all.

Through the shifting white mist, it was a rather imposing sight.

In a warehouse stacked with meat, it was impossible not to feel uneasy. I even thought—perhaps hell itself looked little different. In this cramped room, so many corpses—only in the food industry would you see such a thing.

But now was not the time for reflection. Because in that gloomy space, I noticed something that unsettled me more than all the carcasses.

“The temperature!” I blurted.

“The temperature? Is it too cold?” Wang Hou asked, breath misting.

I shook my head. “Not too cold—too warm.”

“Huh?”

I explained: in the kitchen trade, storage temperatures vary by ingredient. The temperature here was far too high for storing beef and mutton.

From my time in the army, I knew that fresh vegetables were kept just above freezing, below five degrees Celsius. Beef, mutton, and pork for long-term storage required much lower temperatures—minus fifteen to minus eighteen degrees, never higher. The strictest standards were for fresh seafood, which had to be stored at minus eighteen to minus twenty-two, or it would spoil.

But here, I was standing in just a shirt and didn’t feel cold. I could tell the temperature was barely above freezing.

That was not suitable for storing beef or mutton—yet there was so much meat here. Something was very wrong.

“Don’t they worry about the meat spoiling? Or…” Wang Hou wondered aloud.

Suddenly, an idea struck me. I fixed my eyes on the meat, scrutinizing it while shaking my head. “Unless this cold storage isn’t for the meat at all. Maybe the meat is just a cover, hiding something else inside.”

Wang Hou wanted to say something more, but I silenced him with a gesture.

I stepped up to the nearest slab of pork, staring at the headless “corpse.”

Perhaps “corpse” was not the right word, but that’s exactly what it felt like in that moment.

I quickly noticed something odd.

There were stitching marks on the belly of the pork carcass.

I reached out and ran my fingers along the faint seam. To my astonishment, it was stitched with sheep gut.

That was significant.

Sheep gut is often used in surgery, as it’s made of animal fiber that the body can absorb and is undetectable by instruments. But few know that in the food industry, sheep gut is also used as a high-end sealing thread.

“Sealing” refers to stuffing the bellies of beef, mutton, chicken, duck, or fish with spices.

Using sheep gut as thread leaves no odd flavors, and after cooking, the thread dissolves, so there’s no need to remove it and diners never notice—it’s a staple in big restaurant kitchens.

Seeing the sheep gut thread, I immediately knew there was something hidden in that pig’s belly.

The stitching was ingenious, and a thin layer of frost covered the belly, almost completely disguising the seam.

I gently brushed away some frost and poked at the belly along the line of the thread.

It was bulging—there was definitely something inside.

That’s when I realized—the cold storage’s temperature wasn’t set for the pork, but for whatever was inside its belly.

But what kind of ingredient required such storage? Stuffed inside a pig’s belly and kept at exactly zero degrees? I’d never heard of such a thing.

At that moment, I suddenly remembered the wild boar meat Batu had eaten. I felt, deep in my bones, that whatever was inside these bellies was closely connected to Xian Hongye and Batu’s illnesses.

I stepped back and said to Wang Hou, “Can you get this belly open? I need to see what’s inside.”

Wang Hou approached, thought for a moment, and nodded.

He then unfastened his waistband, and I witnessed a sight I’ll never forget.

He actually pulled a phone and a fruit knife out from between his legs!

“Good grief! They taught you this in the army?” My eyes nearly popped out.

“You’re mistaken!” Wang Hou smiled sheepishly. “Let me teach you—a basic counter-search technique: wedge things in the crease of your thigh, line your seat with a diaper, and they’ll never find it in a pat-down. I don’t have room for all that in my—well, you get the idea.”

I could only manage a dry chuckle, unsure what to say. At least now I’d witnessed his skills as a former recon squad leader.

We didn’t have time to dwell on it. Wang Hou hitched up his pants, took the knife, and quickly cut open a pig’s belly.

To be safe, I had him make only a palm-sized slit.

With a mix of disgust and apprehension, I took the phone from Wang Hou, switched on the flashlight and camera, and peered inside.

At first, it looked empty—just a patch of pitch black. But the darkness was strange, as if it had a textured pattern, uneven and lumpy.

I couldn’t make sense of it.

Was I being paranoid? Or was there something so black, even the flashlight couldn’t pierce it?

Facing that darkness, I felt a tinge of disappointment. But unwilling to give up, I mustered my courage and reached inside.

I hoped to find some clue about this shadowy establishment—something to explain their purpose, or how they cultivated those voracious worms.

As my hand touched the black mass, I flinched, then quickly grabbed a handful and withdrew.

Under the phone’s light, I finally saw what the black substance really was…

“How could these things be here…” Wang Hou muttered in astonishment behind me.