The air in the kitchen was thick, not just with the humid Central Java night but with the rich, savory perfume of spices. Agung Wibowo, 35, single, and slightly winded, leaned heavily on the stainless steel counter, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. His frame, while slightly obese, was surprisingly quick when he was assembling a plate, but tonight, the sheer effort of opening his new place, the Overworld Restaurant, was catching up to him.
The small, simple dining area was clean, the scent of fresh wood competing with the lingering aroma of rendang. The menu was proudly Indonesian and strictly Halal: Nasi Goreng, Sate Ayam, Gulai Kambing, and, his specialty, a deeply caramelized Semur Jengkol (stewed dogfruit).
He was just about to pull the security grille when it happened.
A voice, not heard with his ears but felt like a cold whisper in the marrow of his bones, suddenly filled the space. It was ancient, bored, and slightly petulant.
> "Well, well. You've finally managed it, little man. A quaint stage, if I say so myself."
Agung froze, his hand trembling inches from the light switch. "Who... who said that?" he whispered, glancing wildly around the empty restaurant.
> "I am the architect of your new reality. A superior entity. Call me... the Djin. Do not call me 'God.' That word is sacred, and its misuse would see me cast into the true fires, which would, frankly, ruin my evening."
Agung, a man who had devoured every fantasy epic, game lore manual, and manga ever printed, found his otaku knowledge failing him. A Djin. Real.
> "Your little eatery," the voice continued, ignoring Agung's rising panic, "is now designated the Overworld Restaurant. It will serve as a dimensional hub. A rest stop for travelers from the 'fictional' worlds you obsess over. Anime, manga, games, novels—they are all very real, and they will be your customers."
Agung stumbled back, knocking a tin of kerupuk to the floor. "B-but why me? And why a restaurant?"
> "Because I'm bored. My world is stagnant. And you, Agung Wibowo, are conveniently located, easily influenced, and possess adequate culinary skills. Furthermore, your humble eatery contains a powerful, inherent field."
Agung suddenly felt a chilling presence, like a swarm of cold flies, flicker past the corner of his eye, making the hairs on his arm stand up. The Djin chuckled.
> "Ah, yes. You can see the low-level noise now. Those are the Syaitan, the mischievous Djinn who choose to be seen. Ignore them. They're just pests."
The Rules of the Hub
The cold feeling intensified, and a series of facts—a contract—imprinted itself directly into Agung's mind.
* Nullification Field: "Within these walls, all non-innate abilities are nullified. Learned magic, Ki, specialized weapon skills—gone. Only their intrinsic physical reality (their strength level, race) remains. They must converse, not fight."
* Hours of Operation: The door will open every nighttime in your timeline.
* Customer Timing: They will arrive at a moment of crisis, specifically on the seventh day in their world's timeline.
* Cuisine & Language: You must serve your Halal Earth food or adapt their native dishes using your available Halal ingredients. Do not worry about the menu; it will be displayed in their native tongue, and the hub will automatically translate all speech.
* The Hentai Clause: "Characters from... that specific adult genre... will also come. But only the women who have suffered. You are to be a counselor and provider of sanctuary, nothing more. Understand this: You are the host, the chef, the listener."
* Payment: "Upon leaving, the customer will instinctively know the required payment. It could be coin, an item, or, for the women, a chosen act of intimacy. That is the hub's rule, not yours."
Agung swallowed, the full weight of the absurdity settling on his slightly obese shoulders.
Progression System
One final, colder thought was placed in his mind, along with a flickering mental counter:
> "Your service is not free, little chef. Every 50th person you serve, your restaurant facilities will be upgraded. Cleanliness, efficiency, comfort. You earn your rewards through effort. Now, stop trembling. Your first customer is due."
A new, ornate door—not quite wood, not quite metal—manifested next to the back storage closet. It had no handle on his side. It simply glowed, bathing the small, traditional Indonesian restaurant in an ethereal, otherworldly light.
Agung took a deep, shaky breath, straightened his apron, and instinctively reached for his wok. His heart pounded—not just with fear, but with the dizzying, terrifying thrill of a thousand fictional worlds knocking at his kitchen door.
The Overworld Restaurant was open.