Old Moldy's Dog

These students participating in the competition had, for the most part, received basic education in China before being brought to America as children. After all, America is an immigrant nation that accepts immigrants from other countries. Many people, driven by the pursuit of greater benefits, willingly left their original homeland. Some lowered their heads, others averted their gaze, and one young man, seemingly around the age of ten, met the eyes of the Chinese team for a brief moment before quickly looking away.

That expression was subtle.

It wasn’t hostility, nor goodwill.

It was more like a feeling so complex that even he himself couldn’t sort it out—something stuck in his throat like a fishbone.

The Chinese team, on the other hand, was far more straightforward.

Those who were chatting kept chatting; those reading kept their noses in their books.

Wang Jie’s mouth twisted downward slightly as he leaned close to Lin Mo and lowered his voice.

“See that tallest one? Chen Zhiyuan. He defected from China last year. Didn’t make it past the selection trials on our side, but over in America, he suddenly became a key player.”

Lin Mo glanced over.

“His skill level?”

“Just so-so. They say he has the strength of a selection-level contestant, but the Americans are happy to use him. He’s still young, after all.”

Lin Mo let out a quiet laugh, unconcerned.

The elevator arrived.

The American team tried to step forward, but Teacher Bai wasn’t one to tolerate rudeness.

He asked coldly in English: “Are Americans these days so lacking in manners? Or does moving to America make people lose their decency?”

That was practically a slap in the face.

“Ha, Team Leader Bai has quite the temper, don’t you—”

Before he could finish, Lin Mo cut in. “What dog is this, embarrassing its master? What kind of trash dares to speak here? Can’t even queue properly? Don’t know how? Then go ask your American daddy how it’s done.”

Lin Mo said all this in Chinese. He knew they all understood it, so he saw no need to hide his words.

The American Team Leader’s face cycled through shades of red and green.

But he couldn’t step forward now—that would only confirm the accusation of being a disrespectful mutt.

The Chinese team, glad that Lin Mo could dish it out so effectively, filed into the elevator.

There was still space inside, but not a single American dared step in.

As the elevator doors slid shut, Lin Mo looked up.

Chen Zhiyuan happened to be looking at him too.

Their eyes met. The doors closed.

The American Team Leader stood there, breathing heavily. He turned to his contestants and said earnestly in his thick American English:

“No matter what, you must give it your all in this competition. Otherwise, your value won’t be proven.”

“Yes, sir.”

They then waited for the next elevator.

Inside the elevator, with only Chinese people present, more than a few let out long sighs of relief.

“In the upcoming matches, it’s up to you to do your best. I believe you can beat them. Although China is still a developing country, I trust that one day we will catch up to America and become a nation that no one bullies!”

The tone was stirring. Meanwhile, Lin Mo had already confirmed that none of those people were from the Bureau of Divine Sight.

At the restaurant, Teacher Bai scanned the buffet offerings, lowered his voice, and said: “Everyone, try to stick to the Western section. The Koreans are the Americans’ lapdogs, and they wouldn’t dare mess with the American team openly. The Western food section is relatively safe.”

The logic was sound.

A few nodded and split up to get food.

Lin Mo walked the entire length of the buffet, his expression growing increasingly strange.

Kimchi. Kimchi. More kimchi.

Perilla leaves, napa cabbage, bellflower root, radish...

There was fried chicken, but it was the kind drenched in glossy sauce, glistening with oil—looked like it’d be cloying as hell.

Instant noodles were plentiful, too, lined up in colorful packaging, with two stacks of paper bowls beside a hot-water dispenser.

Lin Mo finally returned to his seat with a plate.

On it: one bowl of chicken soup, a few pieces of fried chicken, and a scoop of rice.

“That’s all you’re eating?” asked Dongfang Shuye, holding a cup of freshly brewed hot tea, his own spot completely empty.

“That’s not like you.”

Lin Mo poked at the fried chicken with his chopsticks. “You’re not eating either?”

“I’m fine with just tea.”

“...Alright. You really live up to your name.”

Lin Mo was someone who loved eating and would always look for local specialties wherever he went. But here in Korea, with just that little on his plate, it was a first.

Wang Jie, however, came back with a tray piled high.

“Heh, I found some grilled meat over there. At least it’s edible.”

Without another word, he sat down, spread a lettuce leaf, placed a piece of grilled meat on it, added a pickled radish slice, rolled it up, and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth, chewing with obvious satisfaction.

Lin Mo glanced at his tray. “You got a stomach made of iron?”

“Ah, what’s the big deal when you’re traveling? Just fill your belly,” Wang Jie mumbled through a mouthful of meat. “You guys are too picky.”

Dongfang Shuye held his tea without responding, only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The others gradually returned, but their portions were modest.

No one was sure how their bodies would react to the local food on their first day. The last thing anyone wanted was an upset stomach before the competition.

Teacher Bai ate a proper meal while flipping through some documents.

Scattered around the restaurant were contestants from various countries. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly tense, but it was far from relaxed.

Eye contact between teams would be broken quickly.

Just then, two people walked in through the restaurant entrance.

They clearly hadn’t come to eat.

Without glancing at the food, their eyes swept across the seating area with purpose.

They weren’t looking for seats. They were looking for people.

Their gaze paused on several tables before locking onto Lin Mo.

They exchanged a glance and headed straight toward him.

Lin Mo’s chopsticks paused mid-motion.

He looked at Wang Jie, still buried in his grilled meat, then at Dongfang Shuye across the table. He said nothing and went back to sipping his soup.

Dongfang Shuye set down his tea.

He turned his head, fixing a calm stare on the two approaching figures.

It was a look of warning.

But they didn’t slow down.

They didn’t even acknowledge Dongfang Shuye’s gaze, advancing directly toward Lin Mo’s table.

Eight steps.

Five.

Three.

Thump.

Both stopped abruptly.

But not of their own will.

They had run into something.

They weren’t battered and bruised, but they were clearly stunned.

One of them reached out and felt a solid surface, like touching an invisible wall.

It was obvious: Lin Mo didn’t want anyone near him right now.

The other tried going around.

It was useless.

Still blocked.

Dongfang Shuye raised an eyebrow, looked at Lin Mo, who was calmly eating, and couldn’t help but laugh.