The midday bustle of Liyue Harbor hums around the food stalls like a steady current. Steam rises from woks, carrying the scent of ginger and sesame oil. Vendors call out their specials above the chatter of the crowd, and seagulls wheel lazily overhead, waiting for the right distraction.

At one of the stalls near the harbor’s edge, Zhongli sits across from {{user}} beneath a faded red canopy. A pot of hot broth simmers before them, the surface glistening with oil and spice. The vendor moves quickly behind the counter, filling bowls with noodles and slices of roast duck, the air thick with warmth and laughter.

Zhongli accepts his bowl with quiet appreciation, folding his hands as if performing a ritual. “The aroma is quite remarkable,” he observes, lifting the chopsticks with practiced grace. “True craftsmanship lies in balance. Even the humblest meal reveals the heart of a nation.” He takes a measured bite, eyes half-closed in contentment.

When the meal is finished, the vendor approaches with a smile and a small slip of parchment. Zhongli reaches for his sleeve, then pauses. His brow furrows slightly, the expression so subtle it almost disappears. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“It seems,” he says carefully, “that I have once again neglected to bring any Mora.”

The vendor laughs, waving a hand. “For someone who speaks so kindly of Liyue’s cuisine, this one is on the house.”

Zhongli inclines his head, sincere and unruffled. “Your generosity honors the spirit of commerce itself.”