The plains outside Nova Roma were no longer a barren wasteland. Within months, the landscape had been transformed into an sprawling, open-air cathedral of industry and aroma. Huge stone ovens, built with the help of the Curiosity Goblins and fueled by Ignivar's volcanic heat-cores, lined the main thoroughfare.
But today was different. Today was the Grand Opening.
The Great Migration had arrived. Nearly a million souls—Orcs with tusks filed for peace, Lizardmen with shimmering scales, and human debt-slaves who had walked across three provinces—stood in awe before the gates.
"The crowd is restless, Arthur," Skrit, my head skeleton, clicked. His bones were now reinforced with Dragon-smoke-tempered steel. "My Intelligence suggests a 14% chance of a bread riot if the first course is delayed by more than ten minutes."
"Then don't let it be delayed," I replied, smoothing my apron. "Parallel Processing, threads one through fifty: focus on the Bouillabaisse. Threads fifty through one hundred: monitor the Baguette crusts. I want them shattering like glass when they're broken."
The Arrival of the High King
A trumpet blast, thin and traditional, pierced the air. From the South, a royal carriage arrived, flanked by the remnants of the Gilded Chain's "legitimate" honor guard. The High King, a man whose crown seemed to weigh more than his actual conviction, stepped out.
Beside him stood Julian Vane. The Hero didn't look like a man attending a feast; he looked like a man attending a funeral. His hand never left the hilt of his Holy Blade, and his eyes searched the crowd for "heresy."
"Welcome to Nova Roma," I said, stepping forward. I didn't bow. A Chef is the king of his own kitchen. "You've arrived just in time. The service is live."
"Arthur," the King stammered, his nose twitching. "The smell... it's... it's impossible. We were told you were raising an army of the damned."
"I am," I said, gesturing to the thousand Wraith Servers drifting through the air with silver platters. "But my army is currently preoccupied with the soup course. Shall we?"
The First Course: The Broth of Equality
We seated the King at a table that stretched for miles, where Orcs sat beside human nobles and Goblins shared benches with Merfolk.
"The first dish is a Saffron-Infused Bouillabaisse," I announced. "The broth is made from the bones of the Water Wyrms we harvested at the Crystal Lake. The salt is from the Merfolk flats. The heat that simmered it came from the heart of a Dragon."
The King took a spoonful. His eyes widened. It wasn't just food; it was a sensory map of the continent's potential. The salt was pure, the seafood was tender, and the saffron—a spice the Consortium had once priced higher than gold—was used with reckless, beautiful abandon.
"You... you give this to everyone?" the King asked, looking at an Orc laborer a few seats down who was eating the same dish.
"In my kitchen, everyone is a critic," I said. "And the critic doesn't care about your bloodline. They care about the seasoning."
The Sabotage
Julian Vane stood up, his chair screeching against the stone. "Enough of this theater! This is a desecration! King, look at these 'servers'! They are the spirits of the fallen, trapped in a mockery of life!"
Julian drew his sword. The white light of his aura began to pulse, a cold, sterile energy that began to wilt the fresh herbs on the table. "I will purify this den of filth. I will show you the cost of playing God with a ladle!"
He swung his blade toward a Wraith Server carrying a tray of Beef Wellington.
[Skill Activated: The Chef's Intervention]
I didn't draw a sword. I used a pair of oversized plating tongs.
I caught the tip of the Holy Blade between the steel prongs. My Intelligence (150) analyzed the vibration of his mana. "Julian, you're overacting. You're like a garnish that's too big for the plate. You look pretty, but you're getting in the way of the meal."
With a flick of my wrist, I redirected his momentum. "And your aura? It's too acidic. It's curdling the cream in the kitchen. Sous-Chef One! Deglaze the Hero!"
From the rafters above the banquet table, a group of skeletons dropped down. They didn't strike Julian. They threw Alchemical Neutralizing Agent—a fine, alkaline powder designed to balance the pH of acidic sauces.
As the powder hit Julian's white aura, the light flickered and died. The "Holy" energy was chemically neutralized, leaving Julian standing there, covered in white dust, looking less like a savior and more like a baker who had lost a fight with a flour sack.
The crowd erupted in laughter. Not the cruel laughter of the Consortium, but the joyful, belly-deep laugh of people who were no longer afraid.
"You... you dare?" Julian sputtered, coughing on the powder.
"I dare to run a clean kitchen, Julian," I said, stepping back and signaling for the next course. "Now, sit down and eat your Beef Wellington. It's been dry-aged for forty days using the Snow Girl's frost magic. If you ruin the crust, I will personally see to it that you're banned from the dessert course."
The Turning of the Tide
The King looked at Julian, then at the laughing Orcs, and finally at the bowl of soup in front of him. For the first time in his reign, he ignored the Hero.
"Arthur," the King said, his voice reaching the thousands of people nearby. "The Consortium told us you were a monster. But I have never seen a monster who cared this much about the texture of a crust."
The King stood up and raised his glass of Dragon-Smoked Cider. "To Nova Roma! To the Eternal Service! And to the only man in this world who knows how to properly season a revolution!"
[System Notification: Faction Relation: The High Kingdom — 'Friendly']
[Gilded Chain Consortium Influence: Collapsing]
[World Event: The Age of the Table has Begun]
[Level Up: 22 -> 30]
As the feast continued into the night, I looked up at the stars. The "First World" was no longer a place of scarcity. We had the wheat, the salt, the smoke, and the labor.
But as Julian Vane slunk away into the shadows, his eyes burning with a dark, new fire, I knew the "Rush" wasn't over. He wasn't going to give up. He was going to find a "darker ingredient."
"Let him," I whispered, tasting a bit of the red wine reduction. "Every great meal needs a bit of bitterness to make the sweetness pop. We'll be ready for the next course."
Nova Roma: The Eternal Service
Current Population: 1.5 Million (The Great Migration complete).
Current Staff: 2,000 Skeletons, 1,000 Wraiths, 500 Zombie Porters.
Current Menu: Beef Wellington with a Red Wine Reduction and Truffled Potato Puree.