Transmigrated to a slop? Checked.
Doomed extras swan into a plot nuke? Checked—every damn act.
When an apocalypse hits, you don’t fight monsters. You monopolize them. Let the chosen one LARP. I’ll sell artisanal smoothies while this world burns.
Slurp.
Strawberry-mango brain freeze hits just as three freshmen, the main character squad below our club room, have a showdown against an ogre with biceps bigger than their body.
“Lana, seriously?”
Mei’s sashimi knife hovers over kraken sashimi thin enough to read through. My co-founder, Mortal Kombat Barbie who could drop-kick a dragon, but her hero complex itches worse than a cafeteria tuna melt. I point at the rooftop where two grown NPC scroll through crystal tablets.
“Chill. The babysitters haven’t aggroed.” I flick a tentacle scrap into her scowling mouth, “Lock in. You julienning kraken or carving ogre nuggets?”
She chews. Blinks. “Holy sh*t. Tastes like… trillion gold coins and middle fingers.”
“Abyssal Kraken.”
Mei flops onto our duct-taped couch, eyeing the getinous sbs. “How’d you even get this? It’s like slicing a Holy Sword.”
“Chef’s secret.”
“We’re using st year’s soy brew for tomorrow’s tasting, right?” She licks her lips. “What if we spike it with—”
“No extra Fkes.” I cut her off before she gzes MSG again.
Outside, freshmen cheer—ogre down, quest complete. The professors swoop in for their five-star review.
Pathetic.
Sixteen years here taught me the rules: Heroes want aura. Vilins want drama. Me? I want a monopoly on every vending machine from here to the Dark Lord’s break room.
Mei side-eyes the clock. “Ceremony’s starting. Vice Headmaster says this freshman batch has ‘unprecedented hero quality.’”
“Great. They can die dramatically.” I toss her an apron. “We need warm bodies, not main characters. Three more recruits, and the board greenlights our bubble tea shops permits.”
—-
The assembly hall smells like Axe body spray and shattered dreams. Sean Silvrius—student council dictator and walking red fg—leans against the mezzanine railing.
“Lana. Heard you scored another gcial core.” His smirk’s all veneers and vilin origin stories. “Building a supervilin ir?”
“Walk-in fridge,” I say. “Approve my Tower meeting, and I’ll fix your backlogs.”
Mei fake-coughs. “She means pay up, rich boy.”
Sean ughs like a Netflix true-crime soundtrack. “Deal. But poach more than 3 members, and the Cooking Club will cry at me.”
Irrelevant. Their club’s for Insta-foodies. We’re the dark web of dorm snacks.
Below, the Headmaster yammers about destiny. I scan the crowd—nky kid near the back, hands scarred from… wyvern gutting? Rowen Strider.
“Monster hunter lineage,” Sean murmurs.
Perfect. No tragic backstory, just a guy who knows where the good loot drops.
Mei raises a brow. “Think he’ll bite?”
I imagine tomorrow’s menu: kraken crudo, barrel-aged soy drizzle, salt harvested from mermaid tears.
“He’ll beg.”
—-
Midnight at the council office, the vice president, Cra’s drowning in paperwork like it’s finals week.
“You’re a demon,” she rasps, chugging what’s either coffee or poison.
“Your predecessor filed combat spells under ‘baking supplies.’”
I hold up a receipt for 10 kilos of cursed flour.
“Burn it,” she croaks. “Burn everything.”
---
Fog smothers the quad like a bad camera filter. My cigarette—mandrake, chamomile, and a hint of edible glitter, neon-blue fme’s out.
Corporate drone past life? Never heard of her.
The dorm stairs creak their usual dirge. Suite 4B’s hallway feels like a horror game loading screen.
Click. Opened.
Moonlight gres on the feral raccoon in my bed—white-haired first-year, elf ears poking through. Not a love interest. Not even a side quest.
“Hey,” I snap, flooding the room with LED-bright crystal light.
“Ughhh, mom—”
“Out.”
She bolts up, drool-strung. “S-sorry! Your room smells like my hometown!”
“Save it for a hotel review.”
She flees.
I triple-lock the door.
“Note to self,” I tell the ceiling. “Elf-proof the merch stash.”
