A rare old guys’ dinner, and Huang Yijun was hyped, grilling heaps of meat.
Song Wuli was the one being pampered—others grilled, he ate.
The barbecue’s taste? Honestly, average, but the prices were a bit steep.
“Was it always this expensive?” Qian Dehao mused, staring at the menu.
“Up 20% from half a year ago,” Huang Yijun recalled.
“Raised just a few days ago,” a guy from the next table chimed in. “Merchants saw the crowd surge, wanted quick cash, jacked up prices saying it’s for ‘rebuilding.’ Who believes that?”
“Thanks, bro,” Huang Yijun waved in gratitude.
Just chasing fast money, betting the street’s visitors were fleeting tourists.
But the shop had invested too.
Waitresses wore magical girl uniforms—Yinlin’s, Huanhong’s, Jinluan’s, a variety of styles.
“20% more and still worth it, right?” Huang Yijun started brainwashing Song Wuli and Qian Dehao.
He went on: “Old Song, you’re into magical girls too, aren’t you?”
Eyes from nearby tables shot over.
“Don’t phrase it like that—it’s misleading,” Song Wuli hurriedly clarified.
Huang Yijun, shameless, boomed: “I’m deep in the magical girl scene. Eating here? Total steal.”
Song Wuli lowered his head, shielding his face, mortified.
Qian Dehao did the same, embarrassed.
Huang Yijun stood, flaunting his Yinlin T-shirt.
“What’s wrong with being in the scene? No scams, no harm—I’m proud!”
A nearby customer clapped: “Well said, bro!”
Further off, some otakus got fired up, grabbing beers and joining.
Random guy: “Bro, cheers to the glorious magical girls!”
Huang Yijun clinked bottles: “To you, for magical girls!”
They downed their beers.
More customers, also in T-shirts with Jinluan’s face, joined with beers.
“I’m in—offer my heart to magical girls!” More manic fans.
Huang Yijun didn’t back down: “For magical girls!”
Another clink, another beer gone.
Song Wuli’s head was practically on the table, one hand shielding his face, the other wiping sweat.
Qian Dehao leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll his phone, also hiding.
Suddenly, Huang Yijun grabbed Song Wuli’s hand, raising it to introduce him: “This is my bro, new to the scene. I even bought a magical girl wand—real cash to support, not just talk.”
Song Wuli wanted to hide but felt it’d be rude. Awkwardly, he forced a smile.
The barbecue joint was electric now.
Yinlin’s blast had driven this traffic—many here were on pilgrimage.
Others were killing time until 9:30 p.m.
Mostly fans, their people.
Huang Yijun’s outburst lit up the crowd’s energy.
Some non-beer drinkers joined with sodas for toasts.
Huang Yijun downed his third beer, getting wilder, standing on a chair and shouting: “Brothers, yell Yinlin’s catchphrase, and I’ll cover your drinks!”
“Pierce the Star Sea!” x10
Not synchronized, but everyone knew the line from the door staff.
The wild fans were too much for the waitresses and manager to control.
The manager, likely instructed, hyped the vibe: “At checkout, shout ‘Pierce the Star Sea’ for a 20% discount!”
The place erupted.
Song Wuli pressed his face to the wall; Qian Dehao joined him, both shrinking in the corner.
Behind them, the crowd went nuts—beer drinkers, soda drinkers, clinking glasses like crazy.
They swapped stories of past events.
Huang Yijun shouted: “I’m telling you, the night Yinlin debuted, I was asleep. Then boom, it turned daytime outside—so damn epic!”
“Right, I was on my balcony. That light was blinding, scared me silly.”
“You guys saw it? I was in the subway, couldn’t see, but caught a livestream. The whole screen went white!”
Song Wuli sidled closer to Qian Dehao, claiming the corner.
Qian Dehao whispered: “Not joining the hype?”
Song Wuli: “Not used to it. Too wild.”
Qian Dehao: “You know, this might be a good thing. Old Huang’s 37, right? Finding something to dive into wholeheartedly at his age—it’s kinda great. For a guy that old to have a passion, it’s rare.”
The sudden sentimentality caught Song Wuli off guard, needing a moment to adjust.
He replied: “True, but it’s a bit too intense. Might bother the magical girls.”
Qian Dehao: “You’re not a magical girl—how would you know? If they haven’t objected, they’re probably fine with it. Maybe even happy.”
Song Wuli opened his mouth but couldn’t respond.
The crowd behind them raged for ten minutes, then calmed slightly, though still buzzing about magical girls.
Huang Yijun resumed grilling, their table now joined by four more—fervent fans who pulled up chairs.
Song Wuli and Qian Dehao sat back, eating meat.
Huang Yijun: “Shops like this are great—give us magical girl fans a place to gather.”
“Huang Yijun, haven’t you been to the milk tea shop? That’s the number one hangout,” a chubby kid beside them piped up.
Song Wuli recognized him—looked familiar, seen somewhere before.
Huang Yijun, confused: “Milk tea shop? I don’t drink milk tea.”
That sparked boos from the group, some of whom had just bonded with him, now side-eyeing him.
“Seriously, Huang Yijun you’re in the magical girl scene, a Yinlin fan, and haven’t been to the milk tea shop?” the chubby kid asked, shocked.
“Never been. What’s up?” Huang Yijun was puzzled.
“Guys, eat the meat, it’s getting cold!” Song Wuli interjected loudly, derailing the topic.
The chubby kid dug into the grilled meat.
Others followed, eating barbecue.
Huang Yijun, unanswered, circled back: “What’s with this milk tea shop? How’s it tied to Yinlin?”
Song Wuli shouted: “Waiter, one can of cola!”
“Old Song, stop interrupting—we’re talking,” Huang Yijun shut him down.
The chubby kid answered: “It’s No. 8 Milk Tea Shop down the street, the first to do cosplay. They hired a cosplayer as staff. I’m telling you, she’s gorgeous, sweet, and looks at least 70-80% like Yinlin—practically her.”
Song Wuli: “Yeah, right. A milk tea shop cosplayer? Probably ugly as sin, as cheap as they come. What kind of talent can a milk tea shop afford?”
“Hey, I don’t like that tone,” the chubby kid snapped, pointing at Song Wuli. “I’m not lying. Everyone here’s waiting for the milk tea shop later. You can call me ugly, but don’t you dare call her ugly. That lady’s stunning.”
He pulled out his phone, opening his gallery.
There was a silver-haired girl, gently making milk tea.
Huang Yijun clutched his chest, stunned: “Holy crap, that’s similar?”
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