Chapter 468: Full Course Dinner
How would you want to get even with someone?
More specifically, your ex?
Some people wanted their ex to die a horrible death. While reading around, she had even found their comments online. Some wanted to show that they got a better life after the breakup. The glamorous photos, the new partner, the carefully curated social media presence that screamed look what you lost.
Some just wanted to see them miserable. Pure and simple. The schadenfreude of watching someone who hurt you finally hurt in return.
So, what kind of revenge would the System count to complete the task?
[Killing him is optional, Cecilia!]
Of course. This ’Of course’ part in this narration’ tone of voice depends on what kind of person you are. All routes are canon.
Well, she’d think about it again later.
"By the way," she murmured in her heart, "why are you so quiet these days?"
[What do you mean? We are always here! Or, would you like to turn on notifications agai—]
"No." She stirred her soup. "I mean, it’s strange you don’t give random commentary here and there."
A pause.
[Cecilia, you’re just imagining it!]
"Could it be..." She tilted her head, a suspicion blooming in the back of her mind. "...because the gods are around?"
[...]
"..."
She waited. The System’s silence was louder than any notification ping.
[...]
"..."
She didn’t push. She just sat there, spoon still hovering, the question hanging in the air between her and the cosmic entity that had guided her through everything.
The System was afraid of the gods. But even now? After they had shown so much generosity?
Momo, sitting beside her, reached over and pinched her cheek. Not hard. Just enough to make her blink and return to the present. "Don’t overthink things and eat your soup, honey."
Cecilia looked down at her soup. It was good soup. Rich broth, tender vegetables, herbs she couldn’t quite identify.
She hadn’t expected the God of Oblivion to cook. And yet, here they were.
Bunny cooked like an old Italian chef who cared too much about ingredient quality.
"Not this cheese." He was standing in front of Oathran, his lean yet muscular arms crossed, his golden eyes fixed on the block of parmesan Oathran had just pulled from the fridge. "I know you have the authentic one in there. I can smell it."
Oathran blinked. "That cheese is portioned for another month..."
"You’re rich, what kind of talk is this?"
Oathran pursed his lips.
It was an expression Cecilia had never seen on his face before. Was it shock? G-grudging respect? She glanced at Arkai and Eastiel, who were both staring at their older brother with identical expressions of disbelief.
Bunny twisted open a jar of homemade sun-dried tomato sauce, brought it to his nose, and inhaled once. He nodded. "Good."
Oathran turned to Cecilia immediately, his eyebrows raised, his expression so transparently proud that she almost laughed. He looked like a student who had just received praise from a demanding master.
Why, frankly, adorable.
"Go roast the vegetables," Bunny said, handing him a tray.
"Yes, Chef."
Oathran took the tray and turned toward the oven without hesitation. Was it a man returning to his cooking lessons days she was seeing?
Arkai leaned toward Cecilia, his wolf ears flattened with bewilderment. "Are you sure he’s human? I’ve never seen Oathran naturally follow people around like this."
Eastiel leaned in from the other side, his voice barely a whisper. "Is it just me, or if I’m in his position, I’m going to follow him around too?"
Cecilia gave up. "Just eat your soup."
Soup as the appetizer. Next was the entree. The two in front of the stove, the God of Oblivion and the white dragon, were conferring over a main dish, their voices a low murmur of culinary strategy.
Meanwhile, the dessert had been put in the fridge by Momo the moment they had arrived, though Cecilia hadn’t seen what it was. She suspected it would be exactly what she wanted, whether she knew what that was or not.
"By the way..." Eastiel began gently, stepping carefully through a field filled with landmines. "How’s... your day, Cecilia?"
Arkai, recognizing his brother’s attempt and seeing it falter, immediately provided backup. "Of course, all that matters is if you successfully got your mom’s necklace back. Everything else, just throw it out of the window."
They might not have seen her cry. They had missed the confrontation, the screaming, the tears streaming down her face as she walked through the cafe kitchen...
But they could still see that her eyes were puffier than usual.
"It feels like a bad breakup," Cecilia answered. "Well, it already is. But you know..."
Arkai and Eastiel bluescreened.
They didn’t think she’d actually answer so honestly.
They exchanged a panicked glance, which roughly said, she actually answered, she actually said something, what do we do now, abort, abort—and then looked back at her helplessly.
Cecilia looked down at her soup. "It’s fine," she said, though it wasn’t, not entirely. "I got the necklace. And I got... some answers, I think. Or maybe more questions. I’m not sure yet."
The two men immediately looked sad.
Arkai’s hand found hers under the table. Eastiel’s tail wrapped around her ankle. Neither of them said anything, because they didn’t know what to say.
The main dish came together.
Bunny had noticed pasta dough Oathran had pre-made in the fridge and somewhat approved of it. He began cutting the flattened sheets into broad ribbons, each strand of pappardelle was exactly the width of two fingers, the edges slightly ruffled, the surface dusted with just enough flour to keep them from sticking.
The sauce had been simmering since before the soup was served.
Bunny had started it in the largest pot Oathran owned. He had browned short ribs in olive oil until the outside was dark and crackling, then set them aside and deglazed the pot with a splash of wine that hissed and steamed and smelled like the inside of a sunny vineyard.
Onions, carrots, and celery, diced so finely they almost melted into the oil, had softened in the residual heat.
Garlic followed, crushed under the flat of Bunny’s knife and tossed in whole, turning golden and fragrant before he fished it out.
The sun-dried tomato sauce Oathran had made went in next, along with crushed San Marzano tomatoes from a jar with a handwritten label, a bundle of fresh thyme and rosemary tied with kitchen twine, and a parmesan rind that bobbed to the surface.
The short ribs returned to the pot, and Bunny had covered it and pushed it to the back of the stove, where it had been bubbling gently, filling the apartment with a smell so rich it felt almost edible.
Bunny lifted the lid. A plume of steam rose, and the scent that followed was deeper than before.
Bunny prodded the short ribs with a fork, and the meat fell apart at the touch, collapsing into tender shreds that dissolved into the sauce.
He fished out the bones, the herb bundle, the spent parmesan rind, and then handed the fork to Oathran, who stirred while Bunny tasted, adjusted, tasted again. A pinch of salt. A crack of black pepper.
As the pasta water came to a rolling boil and the pappardelle waited on its floured tray, and as the soups on the dining table revealed the bottom of the bowls, Bunny turned to the counter where a ball of burrata sat cool and taut, its mozzarella skin holding the promise of cream within.
Oathran, moving in easy synchrony now, sliced heirloom tomatoes into thick, uneven rounds, deep crimson, striped green, a golden yellow that caught the kitchen light like stained glass.
Bunny arranged them in a loose spiral on a wide, shallow plate, tucking glossy basil leaves between the layers, then placed the burrata at the center like a pearl in a setting of summer jewels.
A long pour of olive oil pooled around the tomatoes and caught flecks of flaky sea salt and cracked black pepper.
The plate went to the table just as the soup bowls were being cleared, the burrata still trembling slightly from its journey, its surface dewy with condensation, the whole dish breathing cool and bright against the warmth of the kitchen.
"While the pasta finishes," Bunny said, setting a basket of charred bread beside the plate, "this will hold you over. Eat."
The first spoon broke the burrata’s skin and the cream spilled outward, rich and white, mingling with the olive oil and the juices from the tomatoes into a sauce that tasted like an Italian summer distilled.
Cecilia tore a piece of bread and dragged it through the plate, the crunch giving way to the silk of the cream and the sharp sweetness of the tomatoes, and felt her shoulders drop another inch.
Meanwhile, Oathran lowered the fresh pasta into a pot of boiling salted water, and the ribbons swirled and danced in the bubbles. They took only minutes to cook, and then Oathran was lifting them out with tongs, letting the water drip away before adding them directly into the dutch oven.
Bunny folded the pasta into the sauce with a wooden spoon, the broad ribbons catching and holding the ragu, the meat clinging to the rough edges of the homemade noodles.
A final shower of freshly grated parmesan, the authentic one, the portioned-for-another-month one that Oathran had surrendered without a second thought, melted on contact, binding everything together in a glossy, savory finish.
They plated the dish in wide, shallow bowls. Each serving was a nest of golden ribbons streaked with deep red sauce, tender shreds of short rib tucked into every fold, the whole thing topped with more parmesan and a single basil leaf.
The pappardelle was silk-soft and slightly chewy, carrying the sauce in every bite.
The ragu was rich without being heavy. The tomato was bright and deep, and rich, the wine and herbs threading through it in layers that revealed themselves one after another. The parmesan added a nutty, salty finish that lingered on the tongue.
Cecilia closed her eyes as it all filled her mouth. The soup had been warming, and the burrata had been light, but this was something else entirely.
The dish felt like it had been made specifically for her, for this moment. The egg stirred in her belly, apparently also appreciative, and she rested one hand on the curve of her stomach as she swallowed.
Across the table, Arkai had stopped mid-chew, his wolf ears doing the small, involuntary flick they always did when he tasted something unexpectedly good.
Eastiel had his eyes half-lidded, his lion tail curling contentedly around the leg of his chair.
Oathran, who had helped make this, ate quietly. His spoon moved through the pappardelle, each bite savored with focus. He seemed like he was not just eating, but learning.
His hand twitched, the fingers curling as though already gripping an imaginary pen. His lips pursed, the same expression he had worn earlier.
Bunny, sitting at the head of the table, caught the look and sighed. Like a master who recognized the signs of a student too polite to interrupt dinner. "Alright. Go and bust out your notebook. Whatever."
"Thank you, Chef." Oathran rose from his chair elegantly.
"You’re welcome, Chef," Bunny replied, shaking his head as he returned to his own bowl.
Oathran cleared his throat, visibly beaming at the reciprocal acknowledgment. Chef to Chef. He strode toward the bedroom to fetch his notebook. His hand eager, the fingers flexing for the documentation of every technique and amount of ingredient and piece of wisdom the man had deigned to share.
Momo, beside Cecilia, watched him go with amusement. Her chin rested on one elegant hand, her blue eyes tracking Oathran’s retreat fondly.
She had seen countless mortals and immortals alike attempt to learn from her husband. One, she just found, was taking it so earnestly.
Also, watching people eat well had always been satisfying, even for a goddess. Perhaps, especially for a goddess.
This was why Cecilia couldn’t comprehend the fear the System had for them.
What were the reasons...?
[Cecilia...]
The System’s voice was smalller than usual.
[We are the ones who are confused. You are clearly sitting with two dead star gluttons and the perpetrators of the Massacre of the Sixth Realm...]
Cecilia’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
[The fact that we even survived—hiic!]
The System’s sentence cut off with a hiccup. Not a glitch—
Cecilia glanced up from her bowl.
Bunny was looking at her. And so did Momo.
Of course.
They heard.
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