Vincent woke up the next morning feeling... suspiciously fine.
No lightning bolts of pain, no stiff muscles screaming mutiny — just the faint, unfamiliar sensation of being alive without suffering. It was, frankly, unnerving.
He blinked at the ceiling for a moment. Then frowned. Then cautiously flexed his fingers.
They moved. Pain-free.
"Oh, no," he muttered. "Something's wrong. Why do I feel fine? Did I die?"
[Host is alive. Barely.]
"Barely? That's comforting."
He groaned, sitting up. "Alright, system. Day five of this endless training arc. Let's see what torture you've got for me."
He began the daily tasks.
By the time he finished, he felt okay.
He still felt exhausted — the same kind of exhaustion that hovered somewhere between "one wrong step and I'll die" and "I could run a marathon if it's for a nap." But hey — at least it wasn't near-death exhaustion.
Progress.
The panel flickered to life.
[Daily Task Set: Complete.]
[Rewards Distribution Initiated.]
[• +10 SEU granted.]
[→ SEU Balance: 50.]
[• Restaurant Blueprint Progress: +25%.]
[→ Unlock: Basic Kitchen Equipment (B-grade stove, oven, prep counters).]
[→ Cost to Finalize: 65 SEU.]
[→ Effect: Functionally cookable.]
[• Random Drop Acquired → Perfect Timing Skill.]
Vincent stared blankly at the panel, eyes slightly bloodshot but brain half-functioning.
At this point, Vincent didn't even bother getting worked up over the cost. He was long past the outrage phase. The system's "insanely absurd overpricing" had become a tragic love story — he provided the effort, and the system provided the heartbreak.
He sighed. "Perfect timing, huh? Sounds suspiciously useful. Explain."
[Skill: Perfect Timing — grants host enhanced temporal awareness for precise synchronization in culinary preparation, crafting, and combat.]
He blinked. "Combat?"
[Yes. Flipping an omelet and throwing a punch require identical timing mechanisms.]
"Oh sure, yeah. I'll just sear my enemies to medium-rare next time."
[Correction: medium-rare is unsafe for poultry-type enemies.]
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know what? I'm not even surprised anymore."
[Host emotional flatline detected.]
He rolled his eyes. "Use the SEU. Finalize the upgrade."
[Confirmation required: Spend 50 SEU for Stage Three blueprint installation? Yes / No.]
He tapped Yes.
[Transaction complete. Congratulations, Host. Third stage of restaurant blueprint finalized.]
[Progress: 15%.]
[You may inspect the changes on-site.]
[SEU Balance: 0.]
Vincent stared at the blinking zero. "...That's depressing." He rubbed his face and muttered, "Alright, show me my mission status."
The mission panel blinked open with an almost smug glow.
[Mission: Field Application — Serve a Nephic.]
[Time Limit: 10 days.]
[Reward: Combat Instinct Skill Unlock.]
[Penalty: Pain Amplification Protocol — Physical pain sensitivity doubled for 48 hours.]
Vincent squinted. Then reread the last line. Then reread it again just to make sure it wasn't a cruel typo.
"Right. I almost forgot about this penalty. But wait, double the pain?"
[Correct.]
He stared at the panel like it had personally insulted his family. "You mean if I fail, I'll basically experience life on hard mode?"
[Yes. It would be unwise to fail.]
"Unwise?" he repeated, voice rising. "That sounds like what you say before committing murder."
[Noted. Will adjust phrasing for next threat.]
"Don't you dare."
He exhaled, pressing his palms to his face. "Alright. Serve a nephic. Easy, right? Just whip up lunch for a ghost or make ramen for a vampire. No problem at all."
[Statistically improbable. Nephics are not ghosts or vampires.]
Vincent dragged a hand down his face. "Can't you just be— I don't know— nice and helpful for once? Maybe actually give me a clue on how to complete this death mission?"
[Negative. I am not nice. I am helpful. However, I will not assist with this mission. Resourcefulness is a critical Host attribute.]
"Critical—? I've been resourceful since day one! You think all this chaos cooks itself?"
[Correction: Chaos is 93% Host-induced.]
"Oh, shut up!" Vincent threw his hands in the air. "You're like an overachieving GPS that gives directions after the crash!"
[Compliment detected. Thank you.]
"That wasn't a compliment!"
[Host tone indicates mild admiration. Logging compliment.]
"Log my foot—" He groaned, running both hands through his hair. "I can't even win an argument with you. You're like a passive-aggressive blender with Wi-Fi."
[Comparison flattering but inaccurate. I do not blend. I optimize.]
"Unbelievable." He glared at the floating interface. "One day, I swear I'll find your 'off' switch."
[Threat detected. Noted for future amusement.]
"Whatever. You're impossible."
The drive to the restaurant felt like the calm before a boss battle. The air even felt charged — or maybe that was just caffeine and anxiety sharing custody of his brain.
When he arrived, he parked, stepped out, and froze.
"…Damn."
The building before him was unreal.
The last time he was here, it was a worn-out, half-dead structure barely clinging to dignity. Now it stood reborn — futuristic, minimalist, immaculate.
The roof stretched in smooth curves of metallic silver alloy that reflected the morning light in rippling shards. No visible seams. No rust. Just seamless perfection. The ventilation ducts pulsed faintly with soft blue light, threading like veins across the structure.
He stepped closer, and the door — once creaky and pathetic — slid open silently.
For a second, Vincent just stood there, blinking like a man who accidentally walked into the future.
"...Okay, I didn't order sci-fi luxury, but I'm not complaining."
Inside was even crazier. Cool, filtered air swept across his skin. The light — clean and white — shifted automatically with his movement. The walls gleamed matte silver, curving gently at the edges like the inside of a spaceship. There were slots and placeholders where equipment would eventually emerge — stoves, prep counters, ovens — all marked by faint holographic outlines.
He walked through slowly, sneakers echoing in the pristine quiet.
"This doesn't even look like a kitchen," he whispered. "It looks like the command center of a culinary cult."
[Correction: cults are inefficient organizational structures. The System operates on absolute logic.]
Vincent rubbed his temple. "You really don't get metaphors, do you?"
[Metaphor database: expanding.]
He sighed and gave up arguing. For all its sass, the place was... perfect. Efficient.
For a brief moment, the exhaustion faded. In its place, something sharper burned — determination.
His restaurant was taking shape, one maddening upgrade at a time.
He smiled faintly.
[Motivation detected.]
[Success probability: 58%.]
"Not bad. I've had worse odds."
[Statistically true. Host has survived 100% of all previous near-death scenarios.]
Vincent gave a low chuckle. "That's one way to put it."
Vincent let out a long sigh and turned toward the door, ready to leave— then stopped mid-step.
A spark lit behind his eyes.
"Wait a minute…"
He turned back slowly, a grin creeping onto his face — the dangerous kind that usually led to catastrophic decisions.
"I've got it," he muttered, snapping his fingers dramatically. "If I need to serve a nephic, then I just need to find one. Right? Simple. Logical."
[Technically correct, but concerning tone detected.]
"Relax," Vincent said, waving a hand. "I'll just—go undercover. Yeah. Undercover Chef Operation. I'll scope out other restaurants, see if I can spot any weird customers. You know, people who order raw steak with a side of glowing soup or who pay with ancient coins."
[Host intends to engage in espionage wearing kitchen attire?]
"Not kitchen attire," Vincent countered, pacing now, his excitement snowballing into delusion. "I'll wear a disguise. Something classy. A fake mustache, maybe a hat. Nobody suspects a guy with a mustache. I'll blend in."
[Blend in where, exactly?]
"Everywhere!" he said with alarming confidence. "Street diners, fancy restaurants, food trucks— I'll be everywhere! And when I spot someone suspiciously un-human, bam! I'll make conversation. Offer them a free sample. Hook them with flavor, reel them in like a cosmic customer magnet."
[Analysis: This plan has a 0.00% probability of success and a 94% probability of public humiliation.]
Vincent placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "Can you, for once in your silicon life, maybe, give me an actual clue instead of probability charts?"
[Your request cannot be processed.]
"So… you're saying you could help, but you won't."
[Affirmative.]
Vincent stared at the hovering text for a long, silent beat. Then he exhaled through his nose, smiling the way a man smiles before doing something monumentally stupid. "Fine. Be that way. I'll show you how a real genius operates."
[Host delusion levels rising.]
"Call it confidence," Vincent said smugly. "Watch me complete this mission before the week's over."
[Confidence level dangerously high. Adjusting expectations to avoid Host disappointment.]
"Wow," he deadpanned. "You really can't just say something supportive, can you?"
[Incorrect. I am being supportive by anticipating your failure.]
He blinked. "You know, that actually hurts."
[Emotional fragility detected.]
"Whatever," he straightened his collar, muttering to himself with a grin. "Undercover Chef Operation: in motion."
[Host hubris detected.]
"Oh please," Vincent said, walking off with misplaced swagger. "By the time this is over, even the supernatural will be begging for seconds."
[Statistically improbable.]
"Shut up."