But maybe he should have considered how long it would actually take to reach the storefront of the most popular booth in the Expo.
Because while he was still seething sowhere at the far end of the line, stuck behind bodies while his temper and rage slowly fernted, sowhere inside his intended destination, the peaceful and deeply content group of fortunate individuals was already showing off their balls.
The fried kind.
Reeve, for one, could barely believe he had made the dish with his own hands.
Sure, not every piece had co out perfectly round. A few of the earlier attempts were a little lumpy, slightly misshapen, and clearly rolled with enthusiasm rather than finesse. But the mont he picked one up, all doubts vanished.
He held the small golden ball carefully between his fingers and pulled it apart.
The crust gave way with a soft crackle.
Inside, pale strands stretched and stretched, clinging stubbornly from one half to the other, glossy and molten as they refused to separate. Steam puffed out. The sll alone was criminal.
"Hngh!"
Reeve couldn’t even bother saving his dignity in front of the Empire.
He bit into it imdiately, hissing as the heat forced him to wave one hand frantically in front of his mouth while still chewing like his life depended on it. Around him, others were doing the exact sa thing. Half dancing. Half suffering. Entirely unwilling to wait another second.
It was absurd.
And it was glorious.
What shocked him even more was just how many each person had managed to make.
Depending on the size they chose, the yield varied wildly. The children, in particular, stunned everyone. With their tiny hands, they could only roll smaller portions, but that ant they ended up with far more pieces than the adults. Trays filled up at alarming speed as little hands worked tirelessly, faces serious, proud, and utterly focused.
The orcs had the opposite problem.
Their hands forced them into making much larger balls, which resulted in fewer pieces overall. Yet even then, they stared down at their plates in surprise, realizing they loved everything about the result except the quantity.
No one complained.
How could they?
All around the booth, people stood taller. Smiles were wide. Postures were proud.
They had done it.
They had successfully prepared two dishes with their own hands.
If only Reeve’s viewers were sharing the sa joy.
Because while those watching from afar were already weak from envy over the expo attendees, the allocation winners, and especially the cooking class participants, now they were forced to contend with yet another group.
[Excuse , Mr. Reeve! Please ask our Young Lord what to do if the mixture isn’t forming into a ball as easily?]
The comnt blinked onto the screen and it was a line that didn’t match the envious lantations of everyone else who could only see and not taste.
One second.
Two.
Then ssages poured in.
[What?]
[Who is this?]
[Why are you asking? Are you cooking?]
[Wait. Why are you asking HIM for advice.]
Several viewers imdiately scoffed.
[Oh, sure. Next, you’ll tell us you’re frying them too.]
[Nice try. I’m wishing the sa thing too.]
[This is clearly bait. But brother/sister, there’s really no need to do that when we’re all already feeling equally bad.]
But the denial barely lasted a few seconds before more ssages began pouring in.
[Hold on...You too?]
[Ha! I knew it! I was just about to ask the sa thing but was wondering how to describe my problem!]
[Mine keeps sticking to my hands. I think I didn’t drain all the water properly?]
[Sa! I swear I pressed it already but it still feels wet!]
Confusion rippled through the chat.
[Wait wait wait.]
[What are you all talking about.]
[Why are there multiple people having the sa problem?]
[And more importantly. How are you even cooking right now?]
That was when the answers appeared.
"I’m a daycare mber."
"Pilot here! But I swear I’m on break."
"House Kyros staff here. Lunch break. Figured I’d try."
"I’m a chanic. We got the ingredients earlier."
The chat froze.
[...Employees?]
[At work?]
[Break?]
[Hold on. How do you even have ingredients.]
The answer ca instantly. It was the sa thing just in different variations.
[From work, obviously.]
Reeve’s mouth slowly fell open.
He turned his head toward Thea.
Thea turned her head toward him.
They stared at each other in silence for a full second.
Then another comnt popped up.
[Uh. Thank you for everyone’s concern, but seriously. What do we do if it won’t form into a ball?]
That snapped the intern-turned-livestrear back to reality.
He swallowed, then raised his hand, rembering Luca’s earlier instruction.
"Uhm," he said carefully, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes. "Soone says they’re an employee of your House and they’re asking what to do if the mixture isn’t forming into a ball easily."
For half a heartbeat, Reeve worried he might have put the young cadet on the spot.
But Luca only tilted his head.
Then he smiled.
"Oh!" he said brightly. "That usually ans there’s too much moisture. Please tell them to add a little more starch. Slowly. Just a bit at a ti so it doesn’t get too stiff."
He lifted a finger, thoughtful.
"But if it feels crumbly instead," Luca continued, completely unfazed, "they might have forgotten the egg. In that case, adding it should help bind everything together."
Reeve blinked.
He glanced at the private projection again.
Then back at the golden-eyed cadet.
The concern he had earlier quietly dissolved into sothing else.
Because the young lord didn’t look surprised by the question nor by the fact that alleged employees were sohow cooking on break.
Moreover, with such an unfazed look, did that imply that these ingredients had been circulating far beyond the knowledge of the masses for a long ti now?
Well, bingo.
Thankfully, before more and more people managed to piece it all together and before everyone could start proclaiming a sudden change in career, the sa cadet had told them about their next challenge.
Tomatoes.
The edible kind.
Not the color of the faces of several organizations who couldn’t believe the kind of things they were missing out on.
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