Let me be very clear: soy sauce is a gift from the heavens.
No, seriously. You never really appreciate how good soy sauce is until you find yourself in a parallel world where everything is either grilled, boiled, or heavily salted to the point your tongue starts filing complaints.
I was having lunch with the innkeeper's family in Atheria—nice people, terrible cooking—and I had to pretend to enjoy a chunk of dry meat so chewy I suspect it was made from ancient leather.
"Delicious!" I smiled, chewing for the sixth minute straight.
No more, I decided. If I'm going to continue this double-life thing, I deserve seasoning.
So I went back to Earth, stopped time, strolled into the grocery store, and loaded up on all the essentials: soy sauce, miso, instant dashi packs, and a suspicious amount of MSG. Also, marshmallows. For emotional reasons.
Then I jumped back to Atheria, rented a small kitchen stall near the market, and wrote a big sign in dramatic script:
"Spirits of Flavor: Mystic Cooking Services & Enhancements"
Within ten minutes of frying garlic in sesame oil, the entire street smelled like heaven. Half the town showed up thinking a god had descended. I gave out free samples of soy-simmered vegetables and was immediately offered three chickens, a goat, and someone's eldest son.
"No thanks," I said. "But I'll take the goat."
Soon I had people lining up to get their meals "Rika-enhanced." I just added some soy sauce, a sprinkle of powdered broth, and sometimes a bit of butter. Everyone lost their minds.
"It's like... my soul is dancing," wept one farmer, clutching a bowl of egg over rice.
Word spread. Nobles started sending servants to buy bottled "Umami Drops." (It was literally diluted soy sauce with a fancy label.) One guy even asked if I could prepare a full feast for a festival next month.
I said yes, of course. Then immediately began planning how to mass-produce frozen dumplings on Earth.
Meanwhile, on the Earth side of things, I was falling asleep in class with soy-scented hair. One of my classmates leaned over and whispered, "You smell like ramen."
"Thanks," I whispered back proudly.
My school life hasn't changed much otherwise. I still barely pass math, I nap during history, and my lunch is always amazing. The only downside is I keep having to pretend I'm poor on Earth, because no one can know I have a small fortune in silver coins buried behind the school track field.
Just kidding and don't mention to anyone.
Also, I may or may not be smuggling rice into Atheria using hollowed-out furniture pieces.
Totally legal. Probably.
After class that day, I stopped time and visited both worlds back-to-back—inventory run in Earth, dumpling tasting in Atheria. It's a bit exhausting, but the satisfaction of watching people bite into miso soup-flavored croquettes and cry? Worth it.
Then, while relaxing in the bathhouse (I built a private one using funds from selling "fireless cooking stones"—aka electric hot plates disguised as relics), I had a revelation.
Why stop at food?
Think, Reika. What else does Atheria lack?
Deodorant. (I can smell the market from my window some days.)
Soft beds.
Sticky notes.
Waterproof paper.
Toothpaste.
And don't even get me started on menstrual supplies. The first time I got my period over there, I nearly cried from rage and pain and cultural confusion.
So, the next day, I opened a new product line: "Moonlight Essentials."
Delicate herbal soaps (real soap). Fragrant oils (shampoo). Teeth-whitening elixirs (toothpaste). And "clean cotton pads of the goddess"—self-explanatory.
Everything sold out in hours.
Also, I now have a fan club.
It's weird.
There's a teenage knight named Marius who keeps blushing whenever he hands me money, and a noble girl who writes me poetry. A farmer tried to name his baby after me.
I keep trying to remind myself: I am not a goddess. I'm a tired, underfed student with an interdimensional cheat code and a love for convenience stores.
But hey—if they want to worship someone who brings curry, soft pillows, and shampoo to their lives… who am I to stop them?
Just don't expect me to actually fight monsters.
Unless I can do it by throwing hot miso soup in their faces.