CHAPTER 596: ROUND THREE: WILD PREPARATIONS

A mass holiday.

What followed the announcement that roused the Empire was a sudden and private declaration of a holiday.

Absurd? Maybe. But how could any company claim to be responsible if they forced employees to work on that fateful day? It would look like they had personally blocked their staff from receiving life-saving medical care.

So, aside from critical workplaces that offered triple pay to lure staff into showing up, the majority of companies simply gave up and called it a rest day.

Not that anyone was actually planning on resting.

Who in their right mind would lie down and relax when faced with such a tribulation?

Certainly not the masses furiously exercising their fingers. Certainly not the sleepless employees of Star Net and Star Mall, who had been praying for salvation since yesterday. And definitely not the military, who had an entirely different kind of battlefield ahead of them.

After the initial war over kitchen appliances, the Empire had fallen into a deceptive calm. Temples and places of worship, however, were anything but peaceful. They were filled with the sounds of wild chants, bizarre rituals, and candlelit ceremonies that no holy text had ever sanctioned.

And in family homes, a revolution of sorts was underway. Gaming-addicted relatives, once mocked for their obsessive habits, were suddenly heroes, put on the frontlines with the sole mission of winning something for their family.

Meanwhile, the overworked employees of Star Mall were running themselves ragged, redirecting resources with the speed and desperation of people who knew their company’s entire future rested on the next sunrise.

Then, in the middle of this chaos, a call went out.

"S-sir! You need to see this!"

"What now? Did you find a biotoxin? Because unless it’s bioterrorism, I really don’t have the time," said the supervisor, a husk of a man who had been clinging to life since yesterday.

"No, boss! It’s... worse? Or better?!"

"Just spit it out already, we don’t have time!"

"Sir... It’s a package. From Star Mall Vendor 11820251002!"

"!!!"

Every employee froze. That number was seared into their minds so deeply that they could recite it even in their sleep.

Moments later, they were all crowding the mail room, staring in shock at what looked like barrels lined up on the floor.

"Just what on Solaris is this?!"

The supervisor bent over the note attached, read it, and—shockingly—shed a tear.

The first instinct of the staff was to panic. Were they all about to be fired? Was this their death warrant?

But then the supervisor dry-heaved, clutched his chest, and shouted, "Prepare ice makers! Containers! In fact, prepare yourselves!"

"HUH???"

"Star Mall Vendor 11820251002... the vendor sent us drinks! To thank us for our hard work and dedication! There’s even an apology for the overtime!"

Silence.

All this... for them?

Apparently so.

And for the hours leading up to the release, the employees of Star Net and Star Mall worked with a vigor unseen in decades.

What overwork? What overtime? What hassle? They knew none of those words anymore.

Not after they, too, had taken a sip and finally understood why the rest of the Empire was willing to fight tooth and nail for it.

Meanwhile, in the military headquarters, there was an intense debate. Not about battle strategies. Not about enemy positions.

No.

It was about who among them had the skills to cook anything at all.

When the livestream about the shop update spread across the Empire, it reached the ears of the military like a siren song. The soldiers, hardened men and women trained for war, looked ready to salivate.

Marshal Julian had never seen so many hopeful eyes in one room, and unfortunately, they were all looking at him.

Because maybe, just maybe, he would give them good news.

Any kind of good news.

After all, they had tasted once before. That miraculous allocation. The divine scraps. And surely, surely, there would be more.

The Marshal cleared his throat, the room going silent. The soldiers leaned forward as if preparing to receive a sacred command. Their hearts pounded. Their fingers twitched, already imagining victory in the next round of purchases.

Because the losers who had been defeated last time couldn’t possibly lose again, right?

And then...

Marshal Julian, with the same gravity as if issuing a do-or-die order, declared:

"We’re in need of more cooks."

"..."

"..."

"EHHHH???"

The stunned outcry rattled the windows.

Even the Marshal himself looked disturbed, as though his own mouth had betrayed him. He never thought he would live long enough to utter such words.

But here they were.

Because the truth was, the military had been given allocations. Big ones. In fact, unbeknownst to even him, the real reason Luca and the rest decided to only sell small amounts of vegetable-related goods in the online store was because the majority of the harvest—lettuce, kale, cucumbers, tomatoes, potatoes—had been handed directly to the military.

All raw.

Because Xavier had very reasonably pointed out that it would be a massive waste of manpower if Luca and the people of House Kyros had to cook for them on top of everything else.

And so here they were, staring at mountains of vegetables inside the space button like they had just been handed enemy artillery.

In exchange for House Kyros legally taking their payment in spoils of war rather than star coins, the military had received an unprecedented bounty of spiritual relics. It had seemed odd at first, because just what would they even do with contaminated goods, but with the frontlines desperate, how could they refuse? The fate of their supply lines depended on it.

Which was how the mighty military of Solaris ended up in this predicament.

That night, instead of hearing the sound of sparring and the thumps of soldiers being thrown to the ground, the halls of military headquarters were filled with... imaginary frying pans and fryer baskets.

Dozens of soldiers were glued to their holoscreens, watching Dylan’s videos, attempting—no, failing spectacularly—to imitate his movements.

"Is he flipping it or summoning a spirit?!"

"How much force do you think is needed to break the egg without shattering it completely?!"

"What kind of hiss and sizzle should we be listening for?"

By the end of the night, one soldier, looking utterly defeated, muttered the unthinkable:

"...Why don’t we just invite Dylan to teach us? He’s a retired soldier anyway."

A stunned silence filled the room.

Then chaos erupted. Soldiers lunged at him, covering his mouth, grabbing at his arms, shaking him violently for daring to think such a thought aloud.

But the idea had already taken root. Because after much consideration, it was actually a complete genius.

And that was how Streamer Dylan, who had been pacing his room for hours, nervously rereading every single comment about his frying technique, ended up with a formal summons from military headquarters.

But just as the streamer received his summons, in a grand room far, far away, a certain young adult was making his own calculations.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

It had been months since they first tried uncovering the identity of that famed seller, and yet... nothing.

Not a hint. Not a whisper. The frustration simmered like a storm cloud ready to burst.

And while silence was their weapon of choice, working in shadows, even shadows had limits. Especially now, when the prominent families had started to band together, loudly clamoring about the injustice of their situation.

After all, even commoners from the Empire were able to obtain these goods. Goods that Federation elites—people with centuries of heritage, status, and more money than they could spend in five lifetimes—could not.

It was humiliating.

They were not even pretending anymore.

The prominent members of the Federation were openly caught browsing Empire broadcasts, poring over clips of the streamer, taking notes on how that streamer salted fries. The scandal should have shaken the halls of power. Instead, everyone just nodded solemnly, because they were all guilty of the same thing.

The young man narrowed his eyes. His fingers drummed harder against the table.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Rhys," he said at last, voice calm, but every syllable sharp. "Set an appointment with my father."

His adjutant, ever the steady one, tilted his head. "Sir, are you planning to push forward with the agenda you placed on hold?"

"Yes." The successor’s lips curved, but it was not quite a smile. "With this, tell me, do you think anyone in the senate would dare counter the proposal?"

"No, Sir," Rhys replied smoothly. His tone carried no doubt, no hesitation. "Then surely, as the President, he will not be able to continue objecting to your plan."

The young man nodded once, decisive.

Rhys bowed slightly before leaving to make the arrangements. His footsteps echoed across the chamber, fading into silence.

The successor remained still for a moment, his gaze flickering to the holoscreens projecting clips of tomatoes glistening like rubies, eggs wobbling like golden jewels, and ice cream that had already started a fan religion.

His jaw tightened.

How much longer could the Empire possibly hide this entity?