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***
David stared in horror at Pikachu, who was sprawled dramatically across the table like a tiny crime scene. His eyes had turned into literal spirals, his mouth was still foaming like he'd just lost a bar fight with a haunted milkshake.
David panicked.
[Surprised.jpg]
"Holy crap…" he muttered. "I didn't think Ralts' cooking was that dangerous."
Pikachu had taken exactly one bite. One. And now he was out cold—completely unconscious. If Pikachu's digestive system couldn't handle it, what hope did he have?
David slowly turned toward his own bowl, where the evil fish head sat ominously. Somehow it looked even worse now. Its dead eyes glistened with what could only be described as resentment, like it knew it was about to be eaten and wanted revenge.
He stared at it.
It stared back.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. He swallowed hard, the kind of swallow you make when your soul tries to run for the door first.
He was just about to reject it outright when—
"Lalu?"
He turned and saw Ralts.
Those big, round eyes.
That tiny, hopeful smile.
Her little face practically screamed "Please like my cooking or I'll be emotionally devastated forever."
David opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out.
Just like Pikachu before him, he didn't have the heart to crush her dreams.
He looked around like a man desperately searching for a fire escape on a crashing airplane. There had to be a way out. A loophole. A miracle.
That's when he spotted something on the living room table.
Several little jars. Shiny. Colorful. Arranged like they belonged in some kind of breakfast diner condiment tray.
David squinted.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "The delicious powder!"
It all came flooding back. He'd pulled it from the D-rank prize pool earlier, right after scoring the Light Ball and Electric Seed. He was so hyped, he completely forgot it even existed.
He slapped himself on the forehead.
"If I'd remembered this sooner… Pikachu wouldn't have had to sacrifice himself for science!"
Ralts, still smiling proudly, handed him a spoon.
David smiled weakly in return, then slowly reached for the nearest jar of miracle dust like it was his only lifeline left on Earth.
So, under the wide-eyed, suspicious gaze of Ralts, David slowly got up like an old man preparing for a final mission and made his way over to the living room table.
He returned with the tiny bottle clutched like a sacred artifact: Delicious Powder—his last hope.
He caught Ralts staring at him with obvious confusion, her little head tilted like a curious owl.
David cleared his throat and put on his most serious expression.
"Look, Ralts… I, uh, have very strong taste preferences," he said solemnly, like he was confessing a dark secret. "I need more salt. For flavor... enhancement."
Ralts blinked twice.
David didn't wait for her to process that lie. He grabbed the bottle and immediately started dousing the food like a man possessed. It was less of a sprinkle and more of a full-blown snowstorm of seasoning. Each dish got showered—generously, aggressively, unnecessarily.
Even the fish head got its own three rounds.
"Lalu?" Ralts asked again, this time with clear doubt in her voice.
She was clearly trying to remember whether humans were supposed to eat this much salt. All the recipe books she'd skimmed said "a pinch." David just dropped a blizzard.
But David wasn't paying attention. He was locked in, laser-focused, watching carefully as each dish slowly transformed before his eyes.
The ghostly black aura that had once hovered menacingly over the food began to fade—like exorcising demons with seasoning.
Little by little, the nightmare fuel began to glow with soft golden light. It was as if Gordon Ramsay himself had descended from the heavens and whispered, "It's finally edible, mate."
David only stopped sprinkling when the food gave off the glorious glimmer of the Gourmet Fan—the exact effect promised by the system.
Then it hit him.
The smell.
Oh god, the smell.
Rich, savory, intoxicating. Like the aroma of a five-star buffet smashed into his nostrils and flipped the hunger switch in his brain.
David inhaled deeply, his soul temporarily leaving his body.
Ralts sniffed the air too. Her eyes widened in wonder.
"Huh…" she murmured (probably), nodding thoughtfully to herself. "So that's why humans love salt. Guess I'll just dump half a jar in next time."
David froze.
"…Wait, no—Ralts, hang on, let's not—"
But it was too late.
She was already taking mental notes.
And disaster was scheduled for dinner again.
"Pika…"
Even Pikachu—who had been dramatically KO'd by a single bite of cursed cuisine and was still half-foaming at the mouth—suddenly twitched his nose.
That smell…
His eyelids fluttered open. He looked dazed, like someone waking up from a coma only to discover a buffet next to their hospital bed.
David leaned over like a suspicious older brother trying to test a trap. "Pikachu? You awake, buddy?"
He gently nudged the bowl toward him with the subtlety of a guilty conscience. "Hey, taste the food Ralts made for us. It's… uh, different now. Way better."
Translation: I'm not risking my life on this, so you go first, buddy.
Pikachu sat up slowly, still clearly recovering from near-death. His cheeks sparked briefly, either from confusion or PTSD. He rubbed his eyes, squinted at the table… and froze.
Wait.
Weren't there shadowy hell-dishes floating with black smoke here a minute ago?
Why did everything suddenly look like it belonged on a Food Network final?
Was that… gold sparkles?
Pikachu scratched his head. Maybe he just dreamt it all. Yeah, that must've been it. Just a weird nightmare.
His stomach gave an angry grrrrgle in protest, folding him like a lawn chair. Hunger overrode hesitation.
Pikachu grabbed a familiar-looking fish head from the plate and dropped it into his bowl. He stared at it.
There was something about this particular fish head…
It looked oddly familiar.
Too familiar.
But then the rich, heavenly aroma hit his nostrils like a brick of gravy.
Pikachu's brain: Don't do it.
Pikachu's stomach: Eat it or I eat you.
With one determined gulp, Pikachu bit down on the fish head.
…
He didn't faint.
He didn't foam at the mouth.
Instead, his pupils dilated like he'd just seen God's private kitchen. His eyes sparkled with golden stars, his cheeks lifted in bliss, and he let out a gasp that said, This is what dreams taste like.
"Pickup!!"
He gave Ralts a massive thumbs up, face full of food and joy. [Praise.jpg]
Ralts, beaming like she'd just won Iron Chef Junior, bashfully clutched the hem of her little skirt. Her cheeks turned the color of strawberry jam.
"Lalu! Lalu!" (Translation: If you like it that much, I'll cook for you again tomorrow!)
"Pickup! Pickup!" Pikachu nodded so fast his ears nearly flew off.
David watched from across the table, still chewing, and narrowed his eyes. He didn't understand a word they were saying, but the sparkly anime moment between the two was unmistakable.
Ralts looked thrilled. Pikachu looked like he'd just fallen in love with food.
David squinted. Since when did Pikachu become this good at babysitting… and this bad at remembering trauma?
He gave his head a little shake. Nah, it's probably just psychological. He was tired. He was hungry. Nothing more.
David reached for the nearest dish, eyes gleaming. The aroma was still strong, rich, and seductive.
Time to dig in.
And dig in he did.
Like a starving man in an all-you-can-eat dream, David and his Pokémon went to town. There was no talking, just the universal language of nom nom nom.
Three minutes in, the plates were half gone.
Five minutes later, they were scraping bowls.
And by the ten-minute mark?
Clean sweep. Every dish gone. Every bowl licked clean. Not even a speck of seasoning left on the table.
Victory. Gluttony. Unity.
And maybe mild sodium overload.
But worth it.
David slouched back in his chair like a man who had just eaten a Michelin-starred feast… in space. His belly was out, his shirt was riding up, and he looked one breadstick away from slipping into a food coma.
"This… this is the greatest thing I've ever put in my mouth," he muttered, eyes half-closed in bliss.
He stared at the nearly empty bottle of "Delicious Powder" in his hand like it was some ancient treasure. And to think—this magical, tongue-hugging miracle came from a D-tier prize pool. D-tier! The same tier you'd expect to find expired gum and discount coupons for socks.
David wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward to sort through the rest of his prize haul, still high on flavor euphoria. The damage report was as follows: he had demolished one bottle of Delicious Powder already—no regrets. That left him with nine bottles in reserve, which, to David, felt like he was sitting on a stockpile of edible gold dust.
Then there was a small vial of "Negative Emotion Collection Water."
Apparently, if you gave this water to someone and they drank it, you'd collect their negative emotions like it was Pokémon cards. Pretty useful if you wanted to harvest some angry vibes in a hurry.
Shame it was just one bottle though.
And then there was the last item.
David stared at the tiny box sitting on the table.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
Not again.
His face dropped like a Wi-Fi signal during a storm. The box was unmistakable: another packet of Durex.
His chewing stopped. The joy evaporated. The aftertaste of Delicious Powder turned to ash.
"This system," he muttered, voice full of pain, "is trying to ruin my life."
One box was already bad enough. But two?
He glared at the table like it had personally betrayed him. His brain started tallying up all the times the system had trolled him—every embarrassing moment, every weird item, every scammy deal. It was like living with a passive-aggressive vending machine.
Resentment welled up inside him like a volcano of sarcasm and trauma.
[Negative emotion value +20 from David…]
[Negative emotion value +30 from David…]
[Negative emotion value +40 from David…]
David squinted at the invisible notifications popping up in his head.
"Oh great, I'm the farm now," he muttered. "Wonderful. Just harvest my misery like it's Black Friday."