The refreshing effect of scallion oil was somewhat similar to mint—but not exactly the same.
Mint worked because menthol stimulated cold receptors in the body, activating the nervous system and sharpening the mind. Scallion oil, on the other hand, was just… scallion oil. It simply had an enticing food aroma. Without that bold slogan, who would ever associate it with a mind-clearing effect?
Chen Pan wasn’t entirely sure if what he felt was real, so he held up the bottle and let everyone nearby take a sniff.
“Here, smell it—everyone try. My nose can’t be wrong, right? That slogan might actually be legit!”
People took turns inhaling—and soon realized it wasn’t false advertising. The effect was just subtle.
“Yeah… there’s a faint refreshing feeling. Scallion oil can do that?”
Someone curled his lip skeptically. “So the agriculture department’s gone quiet now? Say something. This is being sold under your name, after all. If I’m not mistaken, the scallions used for this are the ones normally used in ability assessments, right? What’s going on here?”
The implication was clear: something’s off about this oil.
What’s with this guy? Stirring trouble?
Chen Pan still had a job to finish—he wasn’t about to let anyone ruin it.
He rolled his eyes and snapped, “Why can’t the agriculture department develop new varieties? Think about it—if it were ordinary scallions, would they dare sell it this expensive?”
Ironically, while his reasoning was off, he’d accidentally hit the truth—ordinary scallions had indeed been cultivated into a kind of spiritual plant.
The agriculture students, who had just been distancing themselves from the product, suddenly fell silent.
…That actually makes sense.
If this really was some professor’s new cultivated variety, talking too much might offend someone important.
Better to keep quiet.
Others chimed in impatiently.
“Alright, Chen Pan, stop dragging it out—just taste it already. If it’s good, I’ll buy one too.”
“Yeah, we’ve smelled it long enough. What does it actually taste like?”
Chen Pan didn’t hesitate. He tore off a piece of bun.
“Fine, I’ll try it for everyone.”
He dipped it lightly into the oil on the bottle cap and popped it into his mouth.
“….”
He didn’t speak—just kept chewing, savoring.
Students from Dorm Five, who had suffered through a night of temptation, leaned in eagerly.
“Well? Is it good?”
“…Hard to describe,” Chen Pan said, smacking his lips. “I need another bite.”
This time, he tore off a bigger piece, dipped it straight into the bottle until it glistened with oil, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Today’s bun had a faint sourness and an odd earthy taste—plain and unappealing.
But with the scallion oil—
…it became good.
No—not just edible. Actually tasty.
The lingering scallion fragrance filled in all the blandness, leaving a rich aftertaste. There was also an indescribable sensation—like the relief of energy being replenished after overexertion.
In short—
divine.
Chen Pan got it now—but he knew people might not believe him. After all, it was just scallion oil.
He swallowed and exclaimed with a look of deep satisfaction:
“Fragrant—so fragrant! Using this oil just for dipping buns is a waste!”
“So you’re saying it makes everything taste good?”
“Of course! Just smell it—you know it’s good stuff!”
He stood up, patted an agriculture student on the shoulder. “Man, if your department had something this good, why didn’t you bring it out sooner?”
The student looked completely lost.
I don’t know anything! Who in agriculture even grows scallions?!
Meanwhile, some students from Dorm Five quietly slipped away toward the supermarket.
Watching Chen Pan had been tempting—but the price still gave people pause.
“It smells great, but it’s not worth it. That bottle’s tiny—I’d finish it in a few meals.”
“Yeah, I can’t spend all my money on food like that.”
From the second floor, Jiang Luokui watched everything unfold, hearing every complaint.
People who nitpick are often the real buyers.
They might complain—but after smelling it and watching the demonstration, could they really resist trying it?
Some were still hesitating.
Others had already reached the shelf.
There were only seven bottles to begin with. After Chen Pan bought one, six remained.
And judging by his reaction, the taste had to be good.
Dorm Five students didn’t care what others thought—they’d been craving it all night.
Five hundred? Who can’t afford that?
They bought them all.
The buyers said nothing.
Though already full, they each went to buy a bun, sat near Chen Pan, and waited.
When he finally left and the crowd dispersed—
“Wait—where’s the scallion oil?! Weren’t there more bottles?!”
Amid the shocked cries, those buyers calmly pulled out their bottles.
In perfect unison, they opened them and dipped their buns—just like Chen Pan.
The others stood there, confused.
Those few said nothing—but all wore faint smiles, as if they were eating delicacies rather than plain buns.
“Seriously? You all complained about the price, but bought it faster than anyone!”
Someone sat down beside them. “Want to share? Just one bite.”
The buyer hesitated.
At first, he’d only bought it out of curiosity—but after tasting it…
This flavor…
He had never experienced anything like it.
No wonder Chen Pan needed two bites to understand it.
“…Give me a moment,” he said seriously, taking another bite.
Others did the same.
To say it was unbelievably delicious? Not exactly.
But it was addictive—fragrant, relaxing, strangely satisfying.
How is this possible? It’s just a condiment!
“Sorry, man,” one said finally, tightening his grip on the bottle. “I’m not sharing. Ask someone else.”
And off he went.
People hadn’t been that interested before—but now they followed like glue.
“Hey, wait! Not even one bite? Come on!”
How good is it that they’re guarding it like treasure?
Now they had to try it.
Chen Pan circled back to the second floor and sat down, watching the scene below.
Once the crowd thinned, he muttered to himself,
“So that addictive feeling wasn’t my imagination… What kind of scallion oil is this? Did they put something in it?”
If nothing had been added—and this could be mass-produced—
Chen Pan was certain:
Within three years, this would become a nationwide hit.
Jiang Luokui must have stumbled upon some incredible opportunity.
Hiding in a corner, he couldn’t resist messaging her.
[Chen Pan: Mission accomplished.]
[Junior Jiang, have you considered scaling this up?]
Jiang Luokui had been watching him for a while.
He was hard to miss—such a big guy trying to hide near the stairs, his expressions constantly changing.
He’s got some business instincts…
Is he thinking of partnering?
She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she checked her account.
[You’ve received a transfer.]
[You’ve received a transfer.]
…
Six identical notifications appeared within five minutes.
Including Chen Pan’s purchase, after the 5% consignment fee—
3,325 credits.
All sold out.
Earlier, when she ate proper food for the first time since her rebirth, she had only felt mild satisfaction.
But now—
Seeing the balance in her account—
She nearly teared up.
Bai Xiang was eating when she suddenly noticed Jiang Luokui’s expression.
Lin Zihan and Lan Ya followed her gaze—
And froze.
“…Did she… cry from eating?”
Jiang Luokui quickly regained her composure.
It’s just 3,000 credits. Calm down.
But before she could lift her head, a pair of chopsticks appeared in front of her.
She looked up—
Bai Xiang was hurriedly placing food into her bowl with serving chopsticks.
“Luokui, you’re too thin—eat more.”
Before the chopsticks were set down, Lin Zihan added a piece of braised pork ribs—her favorite.
Then Lan Ya followed, adding vegetables.
“Balance your nutrition,” she said encouragingly.
Jiang Luokui stared at the growing pile in her bowl.
“….”
Oh no.
Did my roommates misunderstand something?