Filo’s dream? Become the True Salted-Fish King. Wait, isn’t she already? Nah, she reckons she’s just a False Salted-Fish King—not quite there. Like in games, you need a big quest to break through a major level cap, right? That’s her vibe.
If she hadn’t transmigrated, Filo planned to set herself an epic quest to hit True Salted-Fish King status. But who knew a Salted-Fish King could die and reincarnate? On the goddess’s bed, realizing she was transmigrating, she played it cool, but inside? Curses were flying.
Others get hit by trucks, flushed down toilets, stabbed by randos, or blown up by exploding PCs. But her? Lying in bed, poof—transmigration! Is her bed linked to the goddess’s? A secret Doraemon Anywhere Door? No way she just dropped dead in bed—she’s no high blood pressure case. The Doraemon door theory’s way more convincing.
Back in reality, Filo sighed. Thanks to [Brain Hyper-Acceleration], her wild thoughts took just five seconds. She eyed the kitchen’s pots and pans, pouting. What now? Cook, obviously.
Knife in one hand, pan in the other, blood threads snaked out, grabbing ingredients. A flick, a toss—ingredients turned top-tier in a flash. This time, Filo wasn’t sticking to one dish. She’d whip up a variety, letting her body’s instincts take over. No plan, just flow. With blood threads helping, multiple dishes cooked at once. Ten minutes later, a spread of drool-worthy dishes was done.
Blood threads carried plates to the dining table. The gang dropped all pretense, turning into primal beasts, diving in like it was a food war.
Filo shook her head, holding her own dish—saved for herself. If she’d sent it out with the rest, no chance she’d eat. She sat at the table’s far end, nibbling slowly. “Mmm, too good. [Cooking] MAX ain’t just talk. If I could eat this every day…” She trailed off, noticing Bingpo and Chiyan’s heads snap toward her, eyes screaming want.
“Master, me too!” Chiyan gulped, arm raised. Filo wished she could unsay that.
Only she could make this food. Every day? That’s three kitchen trips daily. Who’s the master here? This ain’t culinary school!
She wanted to eat her own cooking, but can’t spoil them—they’d never cook themselves. So, Filo decided: leisure time, three meals a week max. One day’s worth of gourmet bliss.
Bingpo and Chiyan cheered, arms raised. Their EXP hit a threshold, both leveling up. But leveling? Meh. Food joy trumped it. They didn’t mention it—system panels are private unless shared.
Filo savored her dish, eating tiny bites to stretch it out. Halfway done, the others had cleaned their plates, their gazes whooshing back to her. Goosebumps city.
“Hey, this is mine…” Filo protested.
“Just one bite, please…” they begged.
Filo underestimated her food’s pull on dragons. But this was hers—no sharing! She was about to unleash [Dominator] when knock knock came from the door.
Closest to it, Filo instinctively moved to open it, then paused. Under four wolfish stares, she grabbed her dish, eating as she walked. No chances given!
She twisted the doorknob, revealing two giant eyes blocking the entrance.
“…”
“…”
“Dragon King, huh? Got business? Turn human—dragon form’s a neck-craner,” Filo said, salted-fish eyes staring up at the beast.
It was the Dragon King, bigger than the house. Filo wasn’t fazed—why would she be? The Dragon King expected Bingpo or Chiyan to answer, planning to spook them and reclaim her pride. (Wow, petty much?) But Filo? Awkward.
She shrank into her black-haired beauty form from their fight. “Hmph, you only won once. Don’t get cocky. Best of three—wait, what’s that?!” She sniffed. “Smells amazing!”
“My cooking. Want some?” Filo teased.
“Hmph, dragons can’t tas—” A meat slice was shoved in her mouth.
“Mmm… this… THIS IS TOO GOOD!” The Dragon King hit ecstasy mode.
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