The kitchen was a monument to institutional poverty. Zaireon's nose, still shockingly sensitive after millennia of perceiving only cosmic energies—wrinkled at the overlapping scents of stale grease, cheap cleaning fluid, and the underlying despair of a diet consisting primarily of instant noodles and discount rice.
His new stomach, a traitorous, empty pit, growled like a wounded beast.
This vessel is an insult, he thought, glaring at his thin wrists. Its stamina is nonexistent. Its meridians are clogged with the spiritual equivalent of junk food. It's a wonder it can breathe without costing me money.
"Right," he muttered to the empty room, his voice still rough from disuse. "Asset assessment. Phase one: Fuel."
He began opening cupboards with the solemn focus of a general surveying a ravaged armory. His movements were economical, but to a keen observer, they would seem oddly… precise. There was no wasted motion, no fumbling. Each door was opened exactly wide enough, each item examined and cataloged in an instant.
The haul was pathetic. A half-bag of off-brand rice. A jar of pickled something with a dubious film on top. Three packets of Sizzle-Noodles, the kind that cost less than the paper they were printed on. And in the dented refrigerator, a single, lonely egg, a carton of expired milk, and a bundle of sad-looking spring onions.
The egg. It held potential.
As he gathered the meager ingredients, the memories of Ian Lynch seeped in—not as a flood, but as a slow, irritating trickle. Memories of being pushed aside in this very kitchen. Of eating cold leftovers after everyone else had taken their share. Of Kaelen accidentally knocking his bowl to the floor. The emotional residue was one of constant, low-grade humiliation.
Zaireon dismissed it. Sentiment was a currency he couldn't afford. But the data was useful. It confirmed the hierarchy of weakness. Good.
He found a wok, its non-stick surface scarred and peeling. Primitive. But workable.
He moved. The act of cooking, of transforming base matter into vital energy, was a fundamental alchemy. In his past life, he'd consumed spirit fruits and refined elixirs. Now, his canvas was a single egg and some stale rice. The principle, however, remained eternal: maximize output, minimize waste.
The stove hissed to life with a click of a knob—a simple marvel that nonetheless gave him a moment's pause. No fire-starting seals. No channeling ambient heat. Just… a turn. Hm.
He worked with a speed that belied the body's weakness, his hands a blur. The egg was cracked, whisked with a drop of water (a trick from a fragment of Ian's memory for fluffiness), and poured into the hot oil. It puffed into a golden cloud instantly. He shredded the spring onions with his fingers, the motion so quick they seemed to fall apart at his touch. The rice went in, every grain separated and coated.
In under two minutes, a plate of golden fried rice, studded with green, steamed on the counter. The aroma was simple, but perfectly calibrated—rich, savory, inviting. It was the most nutritious, energy-dense thing this kitchen had produced in years.
He was about to take the first, kingly bite when the door swung open.
Lyra stood there, her big eyes wide, her nose twitching. Behind her, Aeliana peered in, her perpetual frown deepening with suspicion. Kaelen loomed behind them, still nursing his offended pride and his slightly sore foot.
"What do you think you're doing, Ian?" Aeliana asked, her voice strained with the weight of leadership she was too young to bear. "You're supposed to be cleaning the east wing. And… is that the last egg?"
"It was the last egg," Zaireon corrected, shoveling a large bite into his mouth. The flavors exploded—simple, fatty, real. His body sang with a pathetic gratitude that irritated his soul. "It is now a down payment."
"A down payment on what?" Kaelen snapped, stepping forward. "Your beating?"
Zaireon ignored him, chewing slowly. He looked at Lyra, whose eyes were fixated on the plate. "You. Brat. Are you hungry?"
Lyra jumped, flushing. "I… I already had my ration…"
"A useless bowl of starch-water," Zaireon stated, recalling another memory fragment. "It doesn't count. Your foundation is crumbling because you're building it on sand. Here." He scooped a smaller portion onto a chipped plate and held it out to her.
The room froze. Aeliana looked shocked. Kaelen looked furious. Lyra looked like she'd been offered a sacred relic.
"Don't you dare give him orders, or our food!" Kaelen moved to snatch the plate.
It happened in a blink.
Zaireon didn't stand up. He didn't even put his own plate down. His free hand shot out—not fast, but inevitable. It wasn't a grab, but a tap. Two fingers pressed lightly against the inside of Kaelen's wrist as he reached forward.
It was like hitting an off switch.
Kaelen's whole arm went numb. A jolt of weird, cold static shot up to his shoulder. He gasped, stumbling back, clutching his arm. "W-What did you do?!"
"I charged you for trespassing," Zaireon said flatly, placing Lyra's plate in her trembling hands. "The fee was neural disruption. A bargain." He turned his ancient eyes on Kaelen. "The human body, kid, is a circuit. I just found a loose wire. Now sit down and shut up. The adults are talking."
He said it with the utter, unshakable conviction of a 10,000-year-old being addressing a mayfly. The sheer, bizarre audacity of it—a scrawny 15-year-old calling an older teen kid, left them speechless.
Aeliana found her voice first. "Ian… what is going on with you?"
"Ian is busy," Zaireon said, finishing his rice. "You can call me Teacher. Or Master. 'Sir' is also acceptable. We'll discuss my consultation rates later."
He stood up, the simple act somehow making him seem taller. He looked at the three of them: the stressed leader, the furious bully, the hopeful child. His new disciples. A project more daunting than sealing a rift in the heavens.
"Listen carefully, because I am not funding a repetition. This…" he gestured around the filthy kitchen, at their thin faces, "…this is a failed enterprise. You are all bankrupt. Spiritually, martially, financially. You are a joke, and the world is laughing."
His words were brutal, delivered with a casual, surgical cruelty. Lyra flinched. Aeliana's eyes glistened. Kaelen just seethed.
"But," Zaireon continued, his amber eyes glinting, "a joke can become a threat. A bankrupt entity can be leveraged. Starting now, you are under new management. My first directive: this squalor ends. We will secure capital. We will train this worthless flesh you call bodies. And we will make every single person who has ever laughed at the name 'Astral Fringe' pay us for the privilege."
He picked up his empty plate and walked to the sink. "The first lesson is tomorrow at dawn. Attendance is mandatory. Latecomers will be fined. Now," he said, looking at the dirty wok, "which one of you brats is going to clean my cooking implement?"
He left them in the kitchen, stunned into silence, the ghost of perfect fried rice in the air, and the terrifying, inexplicable certainty that their world had just been tilted on its axis by the grumpiest, hungriest, and most dangerous fifteen-year-old to ever call them 'kid.'
~(◡ ω ◡)