She looked in the fridge. There were eggs, and she took one to crack. The yolk was completely yellow, with no white at all.
_What kind of egg is this?_ She set it aside and closed the fridge with a quiet thud.
She gave up on trying to understand the foods of this world. She browsed the food list in her mind, checking what she could cook with what she had on hand. The list scrolled behind her eyes like a catalog she'd memorized years ago.
She looked at the ingredients she'd stocked and was stumped. She'd always been a fan of African food, like chapati kuku. But she didn't have time to knead the dough, roll it, then fry it. Too slow. Her anger—sorry, her stomach—couldn't wait. It was already clawing at her ribs.
So she chose rice, stir-fried chicken, some veggies, and scrambled eggs.
Her mood lifted instantly.
She checked the truck and paused. She'd been in this world for almost three days. Three days here was like three years on Earth. The time discrepancy still felt wrong, like her brain hadn't caught up.
The eggs she'd incubated had hatched. The system had incubated more too. Her client had told her to buy whatever she could, so she'd bought an incubator with eggs. At the time she thought, _What is an apocalypse without eggs or chicken?_
And her truck looked different. Bigger. The storage space had expanded again, the shelves reorganized themselves when she wasn't looking.
'whatever.'
She dismissed the thought. As long as there was a limited supply of food, she wasn't worried. But to be prepared, she'd need a place to plant the seeds and rear some chickens. A farm. Land. Something permanent. She filed it away for later.
She tied the apron around her waist and washed her hands. The water was cold, but it helped clear the lingering fog in her head. She washed the carrots, peppers, onions, and garlic while she was at it, letting the sharp scent of vegetables cut through the sterile smell of the kitchen.
She peeled the carrots and sliced them into thin, even strips, then sliced the peppers and onion with quick, practiced cuts. The garlic she minced, the blade flashing once, twice, until it was a fine paste.
Once her spices were ready, she cut the 1kg of boneless chicken into bite-sized pieces. The knife moved cleanly through the meat. No hesitation. She'd always liked cooking. It was control you could taste.
She heated oil in a large pan over medium-high heat. She used the cooking stove from her space storage. The gas stove here was a hassle—crystals instead of gas, and no one had bothered to teach her how to use it. She'd tried once. It had sparked and hummed and nearly burnt her eyebrows off.
When the oil was hot, she added the chicken and cooked it until golden brown, about five to seven minutes. The sizzle filled the room, sharp and satisfying. She turned each piece with tongs, watching the edges crisp.
She removed the chicken and set it aside, then added a bit more oil to the pan. The residue from the meat would make the vegetables taste better.
She sautéed the onions and garlic until fragrant. The smell hit first—sweet, sharp, garlicky. When her husbands smelled the aroma drifting from the kitchen, they froze.
The scent was fragrant, appetizing, new. Nothing like the bland, crystal-infused meals they were used to.
They thought it would be like always. Like in their past life, when she'd bossed them around and demanded the best food while she couldn't cook herself.
When they saw her enter the kitchen, they expected curses. Instead, the aroma stopped them mid-scheme.
They all stood up and peeked through the kitchen door. There she was, dancing to a song they'd never heard, using tools both strange and familiar. Her hips moved to a beat only she could hear, a low hum escaping her lips.
She cracked the eggs and scrambled them. She mixed in the veggies she'd prepared earlier, the colors bright against the yellow. When it was done, she turned off the stove with a flick of her wrist.
The pots steamed, the food ready to serve. Rice fluffy, chicken glazed, vegetables still crisp.
Her stomach growled. It had been growling since she imagined the meal. Now that it was real, it didn't care about dignity. It wanted food, and it wanted it now.
"Cassen, help me carry the remaining food," she said without looking back. She knew they were there, hiding. Even the ones peeking from the door. She could feel their eyes on her back.
She carried the rice to the dining table. Wooden, round, with ten chairs around it. The wood was old, polished smooth by years of use. Ten chairs for ten husbands, if she ever let it get that far.
The plates were set. A moment later, Cassen came in with the rest of the food, followed by Alex. They placed it on the table carefully, like they were afraid of disturbing her.
"Alex, call the other three," she said. She didn't want to see them, but she wasn't eating with them watching. That would be worse than eating alone.
The aroma was hard to ignore. Before Alex could call them, they were already standing there. Like they'd been waiting for permission.
Didn't they fear poison? Or were they like Cassen—immune? She'd never tried to poison them. Not yet. But the thought had crossed her mind more than once.
Watching all five of them eat with relish made her satisfied.
She ate until her stomach was full, then stopped. She chewed slowly, savoring the last bite before setting her fork down. The rest was cleaned out by the other five. They didn't leave a grain of rice behind.
Now she looked at them properly. Earlier she'd been too angry to notice. These half-men were unfair. Too delicate, too handsome, too much her type—but untouchable.
Their lashes were ridiculous. Long, dark, framing eyes that watched her too carefully. She felt a flicker of envy.
They ate slowly, elegantly. Nobles, through and through. Even peeing had rules for nobles. She'd skimmed a book about it once and immediately slammed it shut.
Thank God she couldn't remember them. And looking at her closet, she wasn't planning to start. Red, black, white. No lace, no frills, no bows. Practical. Deadly.
When they finished, she waited for a thank you. A word. Anything.
Nothing.
They stood, cleared the dishes, and started washing them in silence. Like well-trained dogs.
_System, they left just like that,_ she thought.
_Ungrateful._ She wanted to smack them. All of them.
"Come here!" she called out loudly in her mind.
They stopped. Turned mechanically. Only Cassen ignored the order in her voice. He kept wiping the plate in his hands, eyes flicking to her once before looking away.
The other four were frozen. Shocked that she was speaking without moving her lips. Shocked that she looked irritated and cute doing it.
_Shocked that they thought she looked cute._ The realization made her jaw tighten.
They turned back and stared.
She felt their eyes on her and remembered the system's advice: marry more than ten husbands.
Her legs snapped shut.
If she had balls, they'd have shriveled.
Her eyes trailed from their heads down to their waists, then lower.
_Gasp. System, they look big._
_How am I supposed to handle five, let alone ten?_
Now she felt sorry for her mother who has fifteen husbands. The woman was a saint. Or insane.
When they heard her thought, their eyes darkened.
_She wants to sleep with us? In her dreams._ Their killing intent spiked. They remembered how she'd forced herself on them in the last life.
Seeing the hatred and disdain, she rolled her eyes.
_How dare they._ Did they think she wanted them? She sneered.
The beep of her opti-crystal phone cut the tension. It was sharp, artificial, out of place in the quiet room.
She read the message twice to make sure she wasn't wrong. The words didn't change.
"Three days from now, there will be a banquet at the main palace in the city center. Prepare," she told the husbands standing there. Her voice was flat. No room for argument.
Just like Earth, there were seven days in a week. But the months were different—13 months, 28 days each. She'd memorized it on day two. Knowledge was power, and she didn't intend to be caught off guard again.
She stood with a tired sigh, already seeing the chaos coming.
Everything had a first. On Earth, girls would whisper, "That was my first kiss." People said, "That was my first time going there."
She'd told her mysterious client once, "You are my first customer."
If she could choose a power, it would be to speed up time. Years, if she wanted. Skip the boring parts. Skip the betrayal. Skip the part where she died.
She chuckled. If wishes were that easy, everyone would be a millionaire. Nope, a trillionaire to the greedier ones.
She decided to be ready. The banquet would be the start.
It was time she met the other characters.