Chapter 25 Part 2

It was all braised beef. The ingredients Finnian could buy to feed the entire academy couldn’t possibly outclass the premium supplies the company provided to its executives in the real world, right?

So why did this taste even better than the company’s version?

If it wasn’t the ingredients, then it had to be the chef’s skill.

Finnian had claimed before that he “only knew some home cooking.” Could it be that Finnian was the sole heir to some culinary dynasty passed down through centuries?

Hidden identity: last inheritor of a historic chef clan?

Finnian had no clue what was running through Hastur’s head. He was just annoyed by the table full of gluttons who did nothing but eat.

“Did you even hear me? No one got any ideas on how to lower their defenses and gather intel?”

Ideas were best served with a feast.

Only then did Hastur dredge up a bit of his entrepreneurial spirit. He eyed the plate of food that outshone even the company’s special provisions. “How about a gourmet street?”

“A gour… what??” Finnian thought he’d misheard.

As he dragged over a rack of lamb ribs redolent with honey and black pepper, Hastur fleshed out the spark of genius that had just flashed through his mind. “A gourmet street.”

“I’ve got enough cash saved up to buy out a whole abandoned street in Phoenix District. We could start with one storefront…”

“The ingredients you buy aren’t pricey, right? Phoenix District’s not a high-end market—we could market the place as ‘cheap, tasty eats, high volume low margin.’ With flavors and prices like these, it’d conquer the whole district in no time.”

Finnian stared in shock at the evil god plotting a gourmet street. “What does that have to do with gathering intel? You hoping to lure locals in to chat about secrets over meals?”

Hastur’s logic was crystal clear. “Once we’ve got a gourmet street, expanding into delivery makes total sense, doesn’t it?”

“You might suspect a gang thug asking for directions, but would you suspect a delivery guy asking about ‘any shortcuts to this address—ideally light on traffic, people, and lights’?”

“Not to mention he’s carrying food that’s pumping out mouthwatering smells, making you drool. All they’d be thinking is ‘What shop is this from?’ ‘How much?'”

Regular takeout might not have that pull, but Finnian’s dishes? They took cheap ingredients and beat the company’s executive menu hands down! They’d been gang-vetted and approved!

Back when Finnian was rooting out the Nirvana Gang’s troublemakers, he’d made a long list of the toughest old-timers he figured couldn’t be tamed. And the result?

Even after Hastur claimed the reward for the cleanup quest, that list had only flipped a third. The other two-thirds of those grizzled vets had been completely won over by the cafeteria grub!

Finnian had puzzled before over why these hard cases stuck around pretending to behave. Now that Hastur had tasted Finnian’s cooking, the mystery was solved.

Sure, they could try defecting—but success wasn’t guaranteed, and even if it worked, where else could they score meals cooked personally by the boss?

These weren’t green rookies who thought this was just decent grub. They’d seen the big leagues in Lowend District and Nuri District! Even the flashiest gourmet spots there only edged out Finnian by a hair!

Sometimes, a person just had to be flexible, think smart.

In any other gang, how many grunts got three squares a day whipped up by the leader himself? How many outfits served food at this level? No amount of cash—or even a bullet—could guarantee that perk.

That turned this crew of Nirvana Gang hard-hitters into a different kind of headache for Finnian: first to chow down, last to study. Tests? Who cared. They lived for skipping class. Their motto was pure shameless hunker-down: “I’m not graduating. I’m squatting here forever in the mess hall.”

Hastur crunched into a pickled green plum-wrapped morsel of meat. “We could even set up free tasting stations in key spots. Boom—promotion, revenue, and intel-gathering without raising eyebrows…”

And the Nirvana Gang’s rep would climb too!

One stone, multiple birds! What a plan. Whether Finnian agreed or not, Hastur was set on laying that golden brick.

Finnian hesitated. “…You’re joking, right? I don’t—”

Hastur set down his utensils, his tone turning ominous. “About that jellyfish video…”

Finnian backpedaled fast. “—love the idea. Worth a shot.”

~~~

Being a boss meant the higher-ups footed the bill and gave orders, while the underlings ran themselves ragged.

Once the gourmet street plan was locked in, the orphanage buzzed with activity from top to bottom. Even Hastur stayed busy.

By day, he slaved away at the company, enduring the new recruit’s “friendly” overtures laced with lies and their inexplicable anxiety.

By night, back in the game, he slaved away again—once delivery launched, he’d need to outfit the gang with fast rides.

When it came to picking those rides, the Byakhee had a spot reserved for sure.

They ate little and flew fast, usually lurking in some parallel dimension that didn’t overlap with reality. A quick whistle was all it took to summon them—reliable on-demand delivery partners, the perfect companions for takeout workers.

With that in mind, Hastur—the kitchen slayer—stepped back into the fray after a long hiatus.

The military-grade cookware, eternally indestructible and exuding a sturdy, ironclad vibe, instantly shattered its tough image. Pop-up alerts screamed in protest and refusal, but it was all for naught.

One after another, ugly but genuinely useful Byakhee were produced. In no time at all, they became the favorite work buddies of the thrill-seeking gang members.

~~~

November 22nd, 11:30 a.m.

At the border between Joey Street and Phoenix District, a simple, clean tasting station had been set up on a street with rundown facilities.

Even though it barely touched Joey Street, the economic level here was already several notches higher than inside Phoenix District.

Restaurants lined the road, and people in worker or company uniforms hurried back and forth along the sidewalks—rushing to grab a quick lunch before hurrying back to work.

Normally, in such a time crunch, folks preferred the nearest spot or their tried-and-true local haunts where they knew the flavors.

But today was different. As Thomas drove his car onto the border street he’d visited several times before, he spotted a crowd jamming up the intersection.

Beep beep—

He hammered the horn impatiently a couple of times. After waiting ten seconds or so, he couldn’t hold back. He rolled down the window and growled at the rude Phoenix District crowd ahead: “Can you let… Whoa.”

Something smelled incredible. So damn good.

Thomas, who’d been laser-focused on finishing the job quick and getting back to Joey Street for some real eats, found himself hooked. He rolled the window down further, greedily inhaling the air thick with the aroma of meat and creamy richness—

Ah, too good.

His mouth watered on autopilot, his mind already conjuring images from the scent alone: those lamb ribs, crispy outside and tender within, juicy and savory; that herb cream, so soft and silky, melting on the tongue…

In that brief moment, he flashed back to the fancy restaurant in Lowend District he’d once splurged at—how much it had hurt his wallet picking three dishes from a menu pricey enough to make you consider selling a kidney…

Yet somehow, this scent wafting through the window felt even more tantalizing than those three dishes, gilded extra bright in his memory by the sheer cost!

What was going on? Was he just that hungry?

His empty stomach started rumbling in rebellion. On impulse, Thomas swung the car into a nearby lot, unbuckled in a flash, and strode toward the throng.

Drawing on his networking skills honed in the cutthroat world of business, he struck up a chat with those around him in no time: “Quick turnover? You mean they clear tables fast?”

“Nah,” said a nearby Phoenix District local, giving him a puzzled look. “It’s a free tasting station. The food’s all prepped and kept warm in insulated containers. Servers just scoop it out straight from those—no cooking on site.”

Thomas barely registered the second half.

His brain was locked on: What?! This smell!! And it’s free??

What! This aroma wasn’t even from fresh-cooked dishes—it was from food that’s been sitting in warmers who-knows-how-long?

Logic whispered: Makes sense. These broke Phoenix District types are probably just here for the handout.

He was a successful man with a solid career and some savings. He shouldn’t slum it with welfare cases waiting for charity lunches, let alone chow down on stuff that wasn’t fresh-cooked—basically on par with instant noodles.

But his constantly swallowing saliva screamed: Bullshit! Free delicious grub? Who cares about class or quality? Line up, damn it! I want in!!!

His feet ignored his brain entirely, carrying him forward with the crowd and the scent. Luckily, the station’s service was lightning-fast (whew, his mind was already convincing itself that pre-made had its perks). He’d been hyperventilating chest-breaths like a maniac when the line reached him.

Unlike what he’d expected, the counter wasn’t like a cafeteria trough, all scooped-out and ragged. The dishes sat intact, broths thick and glossy, whetting appetites at a glance.

The server scooping them out was a purple-haired girl with a high ponytail, her smoky eye makeup radiating world-weary vibes: “Which ones you want?”

—The purple-haired girl swore she wasn’t trying to be rude!!

It was just that her beloved Little Frostball—the specific Byakhee she’d been assigned, named for the tuft of snow-white fluff on its forehead paired with razor-sharp teeth and claws, plus speed that crushed even the Merlin Series flyers, earning it the clipped nickname “Little Frostball” from her—had gotten into a brawl with its kin today. It’d dominated the pack, only to get hauled to the Dean’s room by the ears for a tongue-lashing. Now it was sulking in the giant dog bed she’d bought it. How could she not ache for it?

Thomas had frowned at her attitude at first, but when he glanced up and spotted the blatant Phoenix tattoo on her arm, he nearly voiced his suspicions: What the hell? Nirvana Gang doing food service now??

But then a gust of autumn wind carried the aroma right to his nose. Amid the chill and her subdued sigh of sorrow, amber eyes glimmering with faint tears (Wah! Her poor Frostball! Was it wrong to be a badass fighter? Shouldn’t those weaklings it beat reflect on themselves?!), his doubts evaporated:

Hey, if Nirvana Gang wanted to sling food, why not? Didn’t they deserve to eat too?

Look at this girl’s expression—probably down on her luck, forced to scrape by. What a tough little trooper!

Plus, it was free. Who complained about service? No gunslingers glaring from the sidelines was already a win.

Thomas settled into a chill mindset: “One crab cake, one milk custard, one chocolate lava cake.”

Free! Full spread of mains, sides, and dessert! This smell! This price! This variety! Who needed a bike?

Even if some Nirvana goon was holding a piece to his head, he’d still give it a shot. Back in that Lowend District spot, there’d been six armed guards at the door!

Fully relaxed now, Thomas added: “Got any insulated bags? I might need to take it with me to finish work, then eat back on Joey Street. Burdell Alley’s pretty far from here…”

“?” The purple-haired girl snapped back to attention.

Burdell Alley?

Wasn’t that one of Nolly Qianning’s drop sites?

Her hands flew as she plated his order: “Never heard of it. You know we do delivery too?”

“If you can point out some quiet shortcuts, I could talk to our delivery crew—see about expanding takeout or tastings there.”

Thomas’s eyes were glued to the fluffy, molten lava cake, no suspicions at all: “Burdell Alley’s an old neighborhood—sparse residents, spotty net signal. GPS might lead you wrong.”

“I don’t live there myself. Just heading there for business today, so I’m not familiar.”

“But if you’re serious about pushing into Joey Street, need shortcut maps? Ask Old Hejin.”

“Old Hejin? Who’s that?” The purple-haired girl put on an innocently baffled face, looking a touch troubled. “Middleman? Joey Street gang guy? Knows all the back alleys?”

Thomas chuckled, finding her adorably naive—assuming everyone was gang-affiliated like her:

“Old Hejin’s a veteran beat cop at the Joey Street Branch Police Station.”

“Don’t underestimate him—his record and rep could’ve gotten him promoted ages ago, even transferred to Lowend District.”

“But he loves patrolling, so he’s been an award-winning officer for ten years, sticking to his post.”

Thomas eyed the cybernetic body augment linking her neck to the back of her skull, then winked at her with a grin:

“If you’re a hacker, you’d love chatting him up.”

“You remember the Ghost War twenty-three years ago, kicked off by those high-level AIs? The one that birthed the Netinfo Department—”

“How many hackers tried scavenging AI ‘remnants’ from the netherzones after? No need to spell it out—you know as a hacker.”

“Ten years back, Old Hejin reported a ‘ghost incident’—weird enough to make the news.”

“He recanted later, called it a hallucination… but ten years ago? Funny timing, right? Lots of folks in Joey Street think he really spotted an electronic ghost—and’s been guarding the secret ever since, glued to that beat cop gig.”

The purple-haired girl’s face stayed neutral, but her hand slipped under the counter to dial the Dean’s Room.

Nolly’s scams started twelve years back, so Old Hejin might not tie into the trafficking. But what about G8273?

Was the high-level AI from the Ghost War twenty-three years ago the same “ghost” Old Hejin had seen ten years prior—and stuck to a low post to protect?

The girl was practically mashing her phone to pieces:

“Dean! Come hear the gossip about your paramour… no, your archenemy!”