As the days slipped by, Saphy found herself growing weary of the same culinary cycle — potato chips, french fries, chicken fries, repeat.
Crispy, golden, delicious? Yes.
Exciting? Not in the slightest.
Her tiny soul screamed no.
Yet strangely, the people of Astley Castle seemed incapable of moving on. The novelty hadn't worn off in the slightest. If anything, it had spread deeper, like a particularly stubborn seasonal fever. Maids munched on chips between chores, knights crunched chicken fries during breaks, and even dignified nobles sneaked into the kitchen at suspicious hours.
The castle, in short, had turned into a giant snack festival.
Even the royal palace wasn't spared.
Just a few days earlier, an entire squad of royal chefs had arrived through the teleportation circle with the solemnity of scholars seeking ancient wisdom. Their goal? Not diplomacy. Not a political alliance. Not matters of state or pressing royal business.
No — they had come for one singular, world-shaking purpose: to learn how to make fried chicken.
And condiments.
The peak of culinary academia.
The chefs studied diligently, taking notes, sketching diagrams, and debating techniques with the seriousness of philosophers dissecting the nature of existence. But there was one thing they could not replicate, no matter how many times they tried:
Carbonated orange juice.
They shook it. They squeezed it. They prayed to flavor gods. They even tried chanting strange rhymes suggested by the alchemists of the court.
The result remained depressingly flat.
Carbon dioxide, after all, wasn't something they could extract or bottle. Not with their current knowledge. And these chefs — brilliant though they were — didn't know the first thing about chemistry.
Saphy watched their attempts with a blank stare somewhere between pity and silent suffering.
This world… really has no chemistry at all, she thought, rubbing her temples.
But then another thought crept in, tapping gently on the edges of her mind.
Wait… if there's no chemistry… how on earth did alchemists manage to create baking soda and baking powder?
Her face froze.
Her left eye twitched.
Her soul screamed internally.
Something wasn't adding up. Magic? A lucky accident? Divine cooking intervention?
Saphy had no idea.
But one thing was clear: this world's logic was held together by duct tape, good intentions, and possibly the will of hungry gods.
It seemed she would have to research alchemy seriously.
The moment the thought crossed her mind, Saphy's small shoulders slumped. Alchemy… of all things.
As a Computer Science and Engineering major in her previous life, her relationship with chemical reactions had been shaky at best. Coding? Algorithms? System architecture? No problem. But mixing weird powders that might explode? Her expectations for future achievements in alchemy were… lower than the kingdom's sewer system.
Still, a spark flickered in her mind.
Wait… that anime… "Dr. Rock"… didn't he make carbonated drinks in the Stone Age?
She could practically see the scene in her memory — bamboo tubes, fermented mixtures, bubbling reactions…
I… I can do that too… when I have time.
But now was not the time for ancient science reenactments.
It was time to introduce some variety to the daily meals. If she had to make another batch of fries, she was going to start screaming in potato language.
So, once again, Saphy marched to the kitchen.
The moment she entered, the cooks straightened as if a goddess had walked in. Fire crackled, pots simmered, knives paused mid-slice. The air was filled with the warm aroma of herbs, simmering broths, roasting vegetables, and the faint tang of something baked — a perfume of anticipation.
Saphy pulled out a basket of potatoes and got to work.
First, she peeled them, the skins curling away in thin spirals, revealing the pale flesh beneath. Then she boiled them until they were soft enough for a spoon to slide in effortlessly. She scooped the steaming potatoes into a bowl and waited until they cooled, the vapor curling around her like a gentle fog.
Once they were warm to the touch, she mashed them with a fork — soft, fluffy, cloud-like. But Saphy wasn't satisfied.
She pushed the mashed potatoes through a sieve, pressing gently with a spoon until they became silky smooth, almost creamy, with no lumps in sight.
"Perfect," she murmured, eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
Now came the real challenge. It was cooking time — which meant the chef had to step in, guided by her instructions.
And that meant… she needed height.
Saphy puffed her cheeks and stepped onto her newly crafted tall stool — made exactly for moments like this. Being carried around by the maids every time she needed to instruct a dish was… mortifying.
So she had asked the carpenters to build her something she could stand on, giving her proper authority in the kitchen.
The carpenters delivered. The stool was sturdy, tall, and beautifully polished.
Saphy nodded proudly.
Without needing me to be carried, the maids must feel relieved now, she thought with innocence shining in her eyes —
—until she looked at the maids' faces.
They stood frozen.
Not relieved. Not calm.
But wearing expressions like their internal organs had been sold off to the black market. Utter despair. Emotional damage.
It was so shocking she almost dropped her spoon.
Saphy blinked. Then blinked again.
"…Huh?"
She didn't know — not even a little — that behind the scenes, the maids fought tooth and nail every day over who would get the honor of carrying her. Being the one to hold the adorable young miss, press her soft weight against their arms, and feel her hair brush their shoulders…
It was a privilege. A joy. Something worth bragging about for weeks.
And now, that happiness… that sacred daily delight… was stolen from them by a single object.
A foul-legged wooden bastard.
The tall stool glowed innocently in the lamplight, completely unaware of its sins.
Wooden Stool:What did I do?Maids:You were born. That was the crime.
There wasn't much cooking involved this time. Just simple steps — simple, yet capable of flipping the castle's taste buds upside down.
The chef stood ready, pan in hand, awaiting her signal like a loyal soldier receiving battlefield orders.
"Brown the butter," Saphy said, voice calm and authoritative.
The chef nodded deeply. Butter hit the pan with a soft sizzle, melting into golden liquid. The moment he added the minced garlic, the kitchen bloomed with the scent — warm, nutty, rich, and impossible to resist. The aroma curled through the air like invisible fingers, tugging every cook's attention toward the pan.
Meanwhile, Saphy worked at her own station.
She placed the silky-smooth mashed potatoes into a bowl, the surface fluffy like a cloud. Then, with practiced ease, she sprinkled in salt and freshly ground pepper, each movement precise.
Next came the heavy cream. Thick, luscious, flowing like liquid satin. She poured it in and began mixing… and mixing… and mixing.
Saphy nodded with satisfaction, but then paused.
"…Needs more."
She grabbed a block of butter. Then another. She tossed them in without hesitation.
Because — as a certain famous bald meat chef had once declared: "The more butter, the better."
And truly, Saphy could not agree more. Butter was love. Butter was life.
The garlic brown butter was ready with a gentle hiss, turning a beautiful amber shade and releasing a nutty fragrance so good it could make a grown warrior cry. Saphy gestured to the chef.
"Pour half into the bowl."
The golden liquid cascaded in, sizzling as it met the cool mashed potatoes. She mixed thoroughly, infusing every bit of potato with buttery richness. The bowl steamed with the scent of heaven.
Finally, she plated it.
She spread the mashed potatoes smoothly onto a dish like an artist carving strokes across a canvas. Then, with a flourish, she poured the remaining garlic brown butter across the top. It drizzled in warm streams, glistening in the light.
[New Dish Unlocked: Garlic–Brown Butter Mashed Potato]
A soft golden shine practically radiated from the plate, as if the gods themselves were approving this creation.
Saphy turned to the cooking staff.
"Alright… taste it."
The room froze. The chefs stared. The maids leaned in unconsciously. Even the passing knights slowed their steps, nostrils twitching like hounds catching a scent.
Someone gulped.
Then one brave chef stepped forward, spoon trembling in hand. He scooped a bit, lifted it to his lips —
And the moment it touched his tongue, his eyes widened so fast they almost launched out of his skull.
He froze. Shivered. Then let out a noise that no dignified chef should ever produce.
The others stared, horrified and intrigued.
A second chef dove in. Then a maid. Then another.
Within seconds, chaos erupted as the entire kitchen lunged toward the plate like starved beasts, fighting politely — but still fighting — over spoonfuls of buttery bliss.
The moment the staff took their first bite, the kitchen went silent.
Then — boom — it hit them.
Their eyes widened, their shoulders trembled, and every single maid and chef froze mid-chew as if time itself had hiccuped.
A soft "mgh…?" escaped one of the junior cooks before he clasped both hands over his mouth, as though afraid the flavor might explode out of him.
The mashed potatoes were unbelievably smooth — like clouds churned into silk. The garlic browned butter seeped through every layer, warm and nutty, the aroma sweet and savory at once, coating their tongues in something dangerously addictive.
One chef actually staggered back, leaning against the counter to steady himself. Another maid quietly wiped a tear, confused as to why mashed potatoes — mashed potatoes — were making her emotional.
A veteran cook, usually stone-faced and expressionless, lowered his spoon with shaking hands.
"…This… this isn't mashed potato…" he whispered."This is… a sin."
Saphy tilted her head, confused.
"It's just mashed potatoes with garlic browned butter. Is it that good?"
Every head snapped toward her.
"Miss Saphyyyyyyy—!" Their voices trembled in unison."This is not a 'just' dish! This is a divine creation!"
Someone immediately scribbled on a piece of parchment:
Garlic-Brown Butter Mashed PotatoDanger level: AddictionServing requires emotional preparation.
Saphy, meanwhile, simply nodded like she hadn't just reinvented comfort food and traumatized the entire kitchen staff with bliss.
After the chaos of the mashed potatoes finally settled — and after forcibly stopping the chefs from writing hymns praising "The Goddess of Potatoes" — Saphy clapped her hands again.
"Alright! Next dish!"
The entire kitchen tensed like soldiers awaiting their commander's orders.
This time, she had the chef finely chop potatoes. Painfully finely.
Since she hadn't invented a grater yet, the poor man had to rely on sheer skill — and the fear of disappointing Saphy — to get the slices as thin as paper. A few maids quietly prayed for his wrist.
Once the potatoes were sliced thin, Saphy instructed:
"Wash them with cold water! We need to get rid of extra starch."
Buckets of cold water sloshed, the chef's movements sharp and brisk. The slices were rinsed clean, then squeezed until not a single drop remained.
"Now boil them! Two to three minutes only!"
The chefs moved like lightning. The potatoes bobbed in the boiling water just long enough to soften — but not break. Before they could cook further, Saphy had them dumped straight into iced water to halt the process.
"We're not boiling them," she explained."We're pre-cooking them."
Once cooled, she moved to the next step. In a large bowl, she mixed:
→ Part-cooked potato slices
→ Corn starch
→ Minced onions
→ Chili powder
→ Salt
→ Black pepper
"Now… knead!"
They kneaded the mixture until it became a sticky, cohesive mass. Once perfect, Saphy had them press it onto a tray, flattening it into a patty-like sheet.
Then — woosh — a cold wind swept across the kitchen as she conjured an icy breeze, chilling the mixture into firmness.
Some maids shivered. The potato mixture froze beautifully. The wooden stool trembled in the corner, thinking it was next.
Finally, the chefs shallow-fried the solidified patties in oil until they crisped up golden brown, edges crackling like tiny fireworks.
The aroma was warm, savory, and nostalgic — even though nobody in this world had ever smelled such a thing before.
[New Dish Unlocked: Hash Browns]
The moment they came out of the pan, the staff looked at Saphy as though she had just invented a national treasure.
Steam rose from their golden surfaces like warm morning mist. Saphy, expression bright and innocent, gestured at the staff.
"Go on. Try it."
The chefs and maids exchanged glances — fearful, hopeful, trembling. They had seen what happened last time with the mashed potatoes. People had cried. Someone nearly proposed to the bowl. One chef still hadn't recovered from calling Saphy "Our Glorious Starch Empress."
But duty called.
The head chef stepped forward, picked up a piece, and took a bite.
Crunch.
His eyes widened.
Crunch.
His soul left his body.
Then —
"—MMMMMMM?!"
The sound that escaped him did not belong to a grown man. His knees buckled as if struck by divine revelation. A maid rushed to catch him before he collapsed.
"It's… crispy outside… soft inside… the onions… the chili… the fragrance…"His voice trembled."This… this must be what angels eat in heaven!"
Other chefs snatched portions greedily. Within seconds, the kitchen descended into chaos.
"THIS IS ILLEGAL! FOOD SHOULDN'T BE THIS GOOD!" shouted one.
"My heart… it's beating too fast… is this love? Am I in love with a potato?!" another cried.
*"It melts… it actually melts… Miss Saphy… why do you keep doing this to us…? My emotions can't handle it…"
Another maid dropped to her knees."Bless the potatoes! Bless the Goddess of Potatoes! Bless the wooden stool—No wait, not the stool—!"
The wooden stool, sitting quietly in the corner:I didn't even breathe this time…
Saphy blinked at all of them, bewildered.
"It's just hash browns though…"
But to the staff? No. This was not "just a dish."
It was a miracle. A blessing. A crispy, golden promise of a happier life.
By the time the kitchen finally calmed down — if a room full of trembling chefs and emotional maids could even be called "calm" — Saphy quietly slipped off the stool and dusted her hands.
Hash browns: successful.Kitchen staff: mentally unprepared.Wooden stool: still confused about its existence.
Another day, another culinary miracle.
Yet Saphy couldn't help but sigh.
"Everyone is still obsessed with fried chicken and chips… I just wanted to add a bit of variety…"
But looking at the way the staff hovered protectively around the hash browns, some ready to worship it like a sacred relic, she realized something important:
Introducing 'variety' in this household might actually be more dangerous than introducing monsters.
Still, seeing their smiles — bright, teary, and filled with awe — warmed her heart far more than any oven ever could.
She really didn't mind cooking for them every day. Even if they reacted as though she were reinventing the laws of nature every time.
And so, with new ideas already bubbling in her mind and the kitchen staff quietly recovering from today's emotional rollercoaster, Saphy stepped out of the kitchen.
Tomorrow would bring another dish. Another shock. Another round of chaos.
But for now —
Saphy's quest to reshape this world's cuisine had only just begun.