His mother is not the best cook… in fact… he, Paul, after many years on the other side, had only one true delight in his chaotic life… cooking.
Some say cooking is an art, and that you should listen to your heart. Others say it is a science, that each ingredient must be measured with precision. But Paul… he believes it is about necessity, about tastes and desires. When a person values good food, has the means to pursue it, and the patience to learn, then nothing can stop them from achieving their goal.
For Paul, the best way to relax after a fight to the death was to pay for the finest edible cut of one of the fallen monsters, use his stock of spices bought at absurd prices, and cook a flavorful meal… Even so, being able to eat the food made by his mother was incredible.
—Are you working today, mom?
During breakfast, Paul thought about how to talk to her… how to convince her.
—I am. Actually, I'm late… —she said, glancing at the wall clock. She ran upstairs, grabbed her keys, and walked back toward her son.
—Take your sister to school… I love you.
She said, lightly hugging Paul and kissing Maya on the head, who turned and waved at her.
—We're leaving in 10 minutes, finish quickly, brush your teeth, and grab your backpack.
Maya hated being rushed, but she knew… this was not the moment to go against her brother.
Paul went upstairs, picked up his phone, and looked at it curiously.
It had been a long time since he had touched it. On the other side, he missed reading novels, or talking to friends… but now, the phone had become something necessary… far from its simple uses before.
He returned to the kitchen and, looking at her without seeming strange, asked:
—I want to see if my little sister is smart… I'm going to ask you a question worth a candy…
The girl, drawn by those words, thought… of course Maya is smart.
—What do you want, brother?
She answered with an air of superiority, but her eyes revealed impatience. Candy… she wanted candy.
—It's easy. Do you know the name of the street your school is on?
Caught off guard, she looked at him and answered:
—It's the street with that market that sells old things.
For the girl, that answer was enough. But for Paul, who didn't remember the geography of the place, it only made him even more lost.
—That answer doesn't count. It has to be the real name.
Maya felt betrayed. It was the first time in this kind of game that he went against her.
—Brother is mean… brother is getting revenge on Maya…
Said the poor girl, with tears in her eyes.
—That's not it… I'll still buy it for you, but… you know… your brother is kind of dumb and forgot where your school is…
Paul finished with a pitiful expression… Maya answered with a face full of surprise, doubt, and amusement.
—Aaah, big brother… let Maya help you…
She then stood up, walked to him, gently touched his back, and said:
—Maya will take you to school… and then I'll go to mine alone… poor child.
When she said the last part, she looked at him with pity, like a grandmother trying to comfort a little grandson…
Paul felt confused for a moment. He didn't expect that even after so many years, he would still be made into a clown by his sister… especially this smaller version of her.
—You little brat, come here!
Before he could catch her, she ran to the bathroom, shouting between laughs:
—Haaaa, I'm going, haa… to brush my teeth!
Paul could only sigh while thinking, This girl is fast.
Once, fighting against an OTHER, he fought from the front, while his sister, using her strength and speed, positioned herself behind the enemy and delivered a blow that would be fatal to a human… but to IT, it was only a serious wound. That fight lasted almost an entire day. He and she almost died several times, but with speed and precision, she destroyed the creature's heart.
Speed, agility, courage, and perseverance… now he realized… his sister had always been strong.
Paul didn't really know what to say. They had reached their destination, because the girl truly knew the way. He left her at the school gate, gave her the candy he had promised, and hugged her lightly, preparing to leave. When he was a few steps away, she shouted:
—Brother, do you want me to take you to your class? I can hold your hand, bring a bib, and make sure no one bullies you!
Said the girl with a wide smile.
He stopped, looked at her with a forced smile and, as if it meant nothing, walked toward her.
The girl, smart as she was, predicted his movement and quickly stepped away, bursting into laughter that pierced Paul's heart.
Paul didn't chase her. He was more worried about the looks from the mothers around—doubt, affection, and amusement. He walked away, slightly embarrassed, thinking to himself, I wish I could at least win once against her… being the joke of his own sister now and later… that was the sad reality.
His school was next to hers, so when she said, "Maya will take you to school," she wasn't joking.
But he didn't go to school.
With his phone in hand, the city map open, he took a bus downtown, where he had seen a hunting and fishing shop.
One of the biggest problems he faced after being transported to the other world was the lack of reliable and comfortable footwear.
In the daily routine of training, fighting… more training and more fighting… having something decent on your feet was essential for any combatant.
Inside the shop, his eyes passed over long boots—waterproof, comfortable, and above all, durable.
Even better if they were made with truck rubber.
It was expensive.
But he had money.
Before, he saved for public college—clothes, materials, books, trips… everything planned.
Now, that money had another purpose.
Paul looked at the price: $240.
Before, he would hesitate.
Today… no.
It was necessary… indispensable.
After choosing the boots, he still looked at other items in the store.
But in the end, he gave up.
Nothing there was worth it.
Backpacks were too heavy.
Useless.
The so-called "system storage" the players talked about carried more than any 30 or 40-liter backpack.
Too convenient.
Too good.
Too fake.
After buying what he wanted, Paul went to a place… a place that, although he didn't remember until this morning, was stuck on the wall of his room… like a photo, but it was actually a realistic painting made by his father.
He wouldn't know how to get there if it weren't written below it:
"View from Vale Verde Lookout."
The lookout had always been useful when he wanted to temporarily escape his obligations.
Studying and exams took a lot of his time and energy, and even so, he did his best to help his mother and sister. Even though they were strong women, he was always present for anything… like that time his mother was working a night shift at the hospital, and his sister, bedridden, got significantly worse… back then, seeing her temperature reach 40.1°C terrified him. He quickly called an Uber and went to the nearest emergency unit.
In the end, everything turned out fine. His sister recovered quickly, and his mother soon found them in pediatrics.
The lookout had always been a place for him to disconnect from the world… to empty his mind… but today… today the lookout was where decisions would be made.
The lookout was a rustic wooden deck, made from eucalyptus logs and wide planks already lightened by the sun. From there, Paul's gaze sank into a sea of Atlantic Forest. The green was dense, humid, rising up to the tops of the mountains.
On the horizon, gray peaks hid among white clouds. The air was fresh, and the silence was only broken by the wind through the leaves.
Looking silently into the distance, toward the mountains on the horizon, he thought about his next steps.
Once, an old commander taught him something very important:
"Whether in studies, in romance, or on the battlefield… you must have defined priorities."
…on that same day, he also said he knew where the best brothel in the city was.
Paul almost laughed.
—What are my priorities…? —he thought.
The answer came easily.
To create a safe place for my family.
…and the rest?
The rest comes later.
To do that, he needed to organize himself.
Money, people, and information… no matter what world you are in, those three things move the world.
And he had already seen what happened to those who ignored that.
Looking silently at the horizon, at the mountains in the distance, he organized his next steps.
Ever since those transmissions began, the "players" talked about nothing else — city hall, guilds, choices that would define the beginning of that new world.
They said all you had to do was go to city hall and accept the designation letter to become a lord, with the right to explore and claim lands; or go to the adventurers' guild, living off contracts, battles, and rewards.
There were other options too — blacksmiths, craftsmen, merchants… safer paths for those who preferred stability over risk.
It was… too convenient.
A system that guided decisions, offered clear choices, and still rewarded every step taken.
Paul frowned slightly.
In his other life, he never had access to any of this — he learned everything through mistakes, through trial… and through survival.
But now it was different.
This time, he would enter from the beginning.
If it really worked the way they said…
then it would be an absurd advantage.
Not as a crutch.
But as momentum.
Something to speed up his first steps, gain time, avoid basic mistakes… and then move forward on his own.
Even so…
something that good almost always meant trouble.
Paul took a deep breath, letting the cold wind pass across his face.
Regardless of that, his objective did not change.
If he wanted to build a safe place for his family…
then there was only one logical path.
City hall.
The designation letter.
That would be the first step.
The wind kept blowing, light, carrying with it the scent of the forest and the silence that place had always given him.
For a few minutes, he remained there, just watching the horizon, letting his thoughts settle.
There was nothing left to decide.
With a long sigh, Paul stepped away from the edge of the lookout, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, and began walking back down the path.
The next step was already decided.
On the way back home, he picked up his sister, who was waiting for him anxiously.
—Brother, are you okay? You took so long… I almost thought you got lost in the school yard.
The boy looked at her, seeing the concern on her small face, and couldn't help but think…
This girl can attack me even while she's worried…
He took a deep breath, running his hand over the girl's head.
—I'm fine… I was just copying a few things… that's why I got a little late.
She seemed to accept it, letting out a sigh of relief — which was soon replaced by a calculating look… and then, amusement.
Paul already knew that look.
And, as expected, she spoke loudly enough for all the mothers around to hear:
—My big brother had suuuch a horrible nightmare that he even forgot where he studies! But don't worry, because your beautiful and smart sister will take him home and protect him on the way!
Everyone heard it.
First came the girl's voice… then the looks.
Paul felt like he had returned to a battlefield.
Mothers watched him with doubt.
Older sisters, with disapproval.
He was already used to being shot down by looks…
but that was too much.
He acted fast.
With his right arm, he lifted the girl and threw her over his shoulders; with the left, he grabbed the backpack — and left.
Fast.
Very fast.
Even so, he could still feel the looks on his back…
But the worst weren't the looks.
It was the laughter.
It started with one mother… and before he realized, it had spread to everyone — parents, teachers… no one escaped.
For a moment, he thought about ways to get revenge.
A few well-placed tickles, maybe a good scare… nothing that wouldn't be fair.
But the idea died as quickly as it came.
He didn't know how much longer he would have this.
That laughter.
That teasing.
That peace.
If something had to be lost…
let it be pride.
Not the time he still had with her.
…of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't save that for later.
Revenge was a dish best served cold… and he would do what was necessary to have time.
At home, the girl ran off to find her mother. When she found her sitting there, reading a book, she immediately blurted out:
"Mom, my brother's a chicken. He carried me on his shoulders and couldn't even run six blocks."
She said it casually, pausing now and then to glance at her brother, who was drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe.
Her mother, who knew her daughter well, simply asked:
"And how was it?"
A wide grin spread across the girl's face.
"It was sooo fun! At first he went whoosh, super fast, but then he turned into a turtle. I swear I even saw our neighbor with a walker passing us…"
Hearing that, her mother laughed. That child really was the light of the family.
As for Paul, his only thought was: "Yeah right, revenge later my ass."
"Come here, you little brat… let me get you—"
Before he could finish, the girl bolted. Paul tried to catch her, but couldn't—his leg cramped, and he collapsed to the floor. His mother rushed to help him.
Meanwhile, Maya stopped on the stairs and laughed—just like that time at school when Pedro, the boy who said he didn't like her, got hit in the face with a ball. According to the other kids, "We thought she was going to pass out from laughing."
Paul could only look at his mother, silently asking for help, which came immediately.
"Maya, go change. Take off your school clothes."
For little Maya, that was an order. Not that she could control her laughter—she got up still giggling and headed to her room. Paul could swear he could still hear her laughing from upstairs.
His mother, still stretching his legs to ease the cramp, said:
"And you lost again? Figures… the men in this family are weak against women."
Paul didn't know how to respond. Her words reminded him of his father—always having the final say at home:
"Yes, my love."
"You're right, darling."
"I agree with you, sweetheart."
It might have sounded submissive or weak, but once, his father had told him:
"I'd rather have peace, affection, and love at home than be the one who's always right."
Of course, his mother had overheard part of that once and asked, "What are you two talking about?"
Startled, his father quickly replied, "I'm, uh… helping our son with a… philosophy assignment. Right, son?"
The memory brought a smile to Paul's face.
"Yeah, Mom. Like father, like son."
With his mobility returning—though still a bit sore—he headed to his room. The thought of taking another shower was appealing. On the battlefield, the only luxury he had was a good meal he cooked himself—but a bath? That was out of reach.
After his shower, Paul put his plan into motion. He walked up to his mother and said:
"Mom, we need to talk."
The seriousness in his face caught her off guard, but she quickly composed herself and nodded for him to continue.
Paul glanced at her, then at his sister watching cartoons on the couch, and said:
"Not now. After Maya goes to sleep…"
"I don't get all this mystery. Just say it, baby…"
Paul let out a small smile. Being called baby used to annoy him… but now, he remembered how much he'd missed hearing that.
He didn't argue. Instead, he took her by the hand and led her back to the living room.
"I'll cook today. You stay here with Maya."
Caught off guard again, she looked at him.
"You don't know how to cook, Paul… food isn't something you play around with…"
He looked at her deeply, a confident smile spreading across his face.
"Just wait and see."
That shook her. It was the first time she had ever seen that kind of confidence in her son. She hesitated… thought about it… and in the end, allowed it.
Paul didn't wait for her to change her mind. He went straight to the kitchen and began.
He quickly assessed what he had and how much he needed. It didn't have to be complex.
It just had to be done right.
He picked up a cut of meat, examining the texture and fat, judging how to bring out the best result.
He turned on the stove.
The sound of oil heating up brought a strange… familiar feeling.
In the other world, that was a luxury.
With steady hands, he seasoned the meat with salt and pepper—simple, direct.
When the meat hit the pan—
tssssssss
The sound filled the kitchen.
From the living room, his mother lifted her gaze slightly.
This… didn't look like a joke anymore.
Paul didn't stop.
He controlled the heat, turned the meat at the right time, sealed in the juices… no rush, no mistakes.
At the same time, in another pot, the rice began to take shape, releasing a light aroma that spread through the house.
It was simple.
But it wasn't something you just… learned out of nowhere.
His mother watched in silence.
It wasn't just what he was doing.
It was how he was doing it.
No hesitation.
No errors.
As if he had done this… hundreds of times.
But she knew—
he didn't know how to cook.
Soon, the meal was set on the table.
Maya looked at it, then at her mother, then at Paul.
"Big bro, this looks amazing… that smell… Mom, it seems like you've been defeated. Anything you'd like to say?"
The little rascal sounded like a judge from a cooking show, already learning how to critique while taking jabs at the chefs.
Her mother smiled brightly at her and replied:
"Sounds like someone wants to spend the whole week studying. No TV, no playing…"
Maya froze, then looked at Paul.
"Your food will never be better than Mom's. You'll never win."
Those were her words…
But the moment she tasted it, she couldn't help the little sounds escaping her.
Soon she started repeating phrases she'd heard on TV:
"The meat melts in your mouth…"
"Delicious… I feel like I'm in heaven…"
And her favorite: "You're fired."
Well… she did enjoy the chaos those shows brought.
Her mother ate in silence, thinking:
"This little bastard cooks so well… I feel like I missed something…"
She glanced at her son, who looked at the food with a strange expression. To him, it was delicious—but compared to the meat of beasts and monsters, it felt inferior in texture and taste.
The table fell into silence.
The girl didn't want to praise him out of fear of punishment.
The mother didn't want to seem like a lunatic interrogating her son—even though she felt he deserved it.
And Paul… he simply enjoyed the meal, preparing himself for the conversation to come.
Afterward, mother and daughter went to wash the dishes.
Soon, the mother sent Maya to either sleep or watch TV in her room. Then she came back downstairs.
There, she found her son.
He seemed calm… composed… but different.
"Alright, talk. How do you know how to cook?"
"Mom, that conversation can wait. There's something else I need to tell you."
At that moment, she felt it—his presence deepening, as if the house had suddenly grown colder. He was the biggest change.
All that remained on his face was coldness. Real, unmasked indifference.
The face was her son's…
but the person wasn't.
"Don't be scared, Mom. It's me. Your baby."
Those words didn't comfort her at all. Saying "your baby" with that cold indifference was unsettling no matter how you looked at it.
He knew he was scaring her, so he pulled back the killing intent he had been directing at her.
Suddenly, the air felt lighter. The cold faded. The indifference disappeared.
Looking at him again, she saw it—her baby was still there.
"I have a lot to tell you… but this isn't the moment. So before you go to sleep… I'll tell you this…"
He stood, walked over, sat beside her, and with a serious expression, said:
"Tomorrow, every channel will be reporting the disappearance of a Boeing 747."
The information was strange—but not unheard of. Many planes had vanished over the ocean, in storms, or heavy fog…
Paul seemed to read her thoughts.
"Mom, this plane will disappear right above Los Angeles airport. Not over the ocean. Not in a storm… It'll just be there—and then it won't."
She was stunned. It sounded like fantasy… or aliens—and she couldn't decide which was worse.
Questions flooded her mind, but before any could form—
Paul stood up, kissed her forehead, and said:
"I know you have a lot of questions. They can wait until tomorrow… Sleep well, Mom. You'll need all your strength."
Thousands of thoughts swirled in her head. She even considered going after him to demand answers—but when she heard his door lock, she understood.
He wasn't going to say anything else.
So she tried to push her worries aside and went to take a shower… hoping it would help her rest.
It didn't.
Her mind wouldn't stop.
"What does he mean?"
"Why can he cook like that?"
"Why has he changed so much?"
But above all, one question remained:
"Who made my baby become like this?"
And in that question… there was undisguised anger.
That was how she spent the night—
falling asleep more mentally exhausted than after her worst days at work.
Hello everyone!
I'd like to say a few words about the chapter lengths. I still can't keep a fixed word count, because when I start writing, I already have a clear idea of how the chapter will end — and I don't like to drag things out just to make it longer.
This chapter ended up being longer than the previous two. I hope that's not a problem and that it doesn't bother you.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!