James Gordon was twenty-four and still obsessed with a dream that refused to love him back.

  Not just any dream. The dream. White jackets so spotless they looked photoshopped into the kitchen, steel counters polished until you could see your self-esteem in them, tickets flying from the pass faster than anyone could read. And floating above it all, that smug little star from Michelin. The little star that screamed: Congratulations, you’ve mastered the art of charging triple for half the food.

  People told him to give it up. That he was chasing a dream reserved for prodigies and the spoiled sons of celebrity chefs. That he should be practical. A job was a job, and food was just heat, salt, fat, and a paycheck.

  But that afternoon, the door he’d been pounding on for years had finally opened.

  The brass letters on the glass shimmered in looping script: étoile Cachée Saveurs du Ciel éternel.

  James had practiced saying it three times before walking in. He still tripped over it in the doorway, producing something that sounded more like a sneeze than French.

  Inside, the dining room looked like a painter with a candle obsession had gone wild. Warm light glowed on linen, silverware lined up so straight it could pass an army inspection.

  The host didn’t blink at James’s thrift-store blazer, which was holding itself together with two threads and a prayer.

  The kitchen hit him like a revelation. Butter thickened the air, rosemary cracked under heat, pans clattered like a chorus. One cook was finishing a sauce in a pan the size of a small moon, wrist flicking like he was conducting Beethoven instead of bechamel.

  Then came the head chef, eyebrows sharp enough to dice onions on sight. He skimmed James’s resume, asked five questions that were polite but felt like open-heart surgery, then lifted the sample James had smuggled in: beef cheek, braised overnight until soft enough to collapse, glazed with its own rich stock, and touched with the faintest hint of cacao.

  James watched the chef’s face like it was the sunrise of his career. A flicker. A nod.

  “Interesting palate,” the head chef said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  James shook his hand, walked out, and floated for three blocks, two street vendors, and one very confused pigeon before gravity finally remembered him.

  On the subway home, he held the business card like a relic and mouthed the name again. “étoile… Cachée… Saveurs du Ciel… éternel.” He snorted. “Any name that long is just showing off.”

  Still, hope had weight. It sat in his chest like a warm stone, making the world around him look slightly less secondhand.

  By the time he climbed out of the station, the afternoon glow had dulled into the gray of early evening. Hunger showed up like an old friend who never knocked and always stole your leftovers. He cut across to a strip of shops where a neon sign buzzed above a door painted heroic red sometime in the 90s and then forgotten by God.

  Lucky Jade Dragon Wok.

  “Seriously?” James said to the night. “That’s the name?”

  Inside, the counter was sticky, the menu boards had faded to the color of regret, and the lone goldfish drifting in its tank looked older than recorded history. The woman at the register didn’t look up from her phone.

  He pointed at a trinity of survival: fried rice, sweet-and-sour chicken, and something listed as Chef’s Surprise that cost three dollars and moral flexibility.

  From étoile Cachée Saveurs du Ciel éternel in the afternoon to Lucky Jade Dragon Wok at night.

  “Yeah,” he muttered as the bag slid across the counter, heavy with steam and optimism. “That’s definitely a career trajectory.”

  His building leaned the way a drunk leans, propped on the sidewalk, pretending it still stood straight. The stairwell smelled like boiled cabbage and unresolved arguments. His apartment had a window that stared at a brick wall and a fridge that coughed more than he did. He dragged a chair to a table that wobbled like it had a personal vendetta against stability and opened his dinner.

  Greasy, salty, sweet. Honest food that didn’t bother pretending to be anything else.

  He ate fast, the hunger of a man who had skipped lunch out of nerves. Under the last carton, waiting like it had been watching him the whole time, lay a single fortune cookie. James picked it up.

  “Tell me I’ll be a five-star Michelin chef one day,” he muttered, unwrapping destiny for fifty cents.

  The paper slip tumbled out. He snapped it open with greasy fingers.

  ‘Luck will find you today.’

  He laughed, somewhere between bitter and breathless. “Yeah? Maybe it’ll show up with three Michelin stars.”

  He popped the cookie into his mouth. Sweetness shattered between his teeth. A shard caught in his throat, sharp and dry as glass.

  He coughed once. Then again. The air stuck.

  His hands clawed at his neck as the chair screeched across the floor.

  The slip of paper fluttered down, twisting in the stale air with cruel grace. It landed near the chair leg, smug and white against the gray floor.

  Am I going to die like this?

  The thought blazed through panic. It wasn’t in a kitchen, under impossible lights, or surrounded by the scent of lemon and steel. It wasn’t at étoile Cachée Saveurs du Ciel éternel, whose name he had finally managed to pronounce. Here, in a peeling apartment, strangled by a fifty-cent joke.

  His knees hit the floor. The fried rice followed, scattering across his shoulder like confetti for the worst party ever.

  His chest burned. Pressure clenched behind his sternum. He turned his head just enough to see the fortune again.

  ‘Luck will find you today.’

  “So where is my luck?” The thought rang as the world tunneled.

  Darkness claimed him with the efficiency of a kitchen closing at midnight.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He woke to blue.

  It wasn’t the blue of a phone screen, nor the tired blue of subway tiles, but a blue that carved the sky into something almost edible. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, breaking across his face in warm squares.

  The smell was wrong. Wrong because it was clean. Moss, sap, dirt that hadn’t hosted cigarette butts or car exhaust.

  James lay still, breathing like he was afraid to use up the air. The ground under him was uneven and had stronger opinions than his old mattress. He pushed up on one elbow, palm brushing rough bark.

  He sat, the tree at his back scratching just enough to remind him he had a spine.

  “Okay,” he said to nobody. “Yeah… definitely not my apartment.”

  He listened. First thing: no sirens. Second: birdsong, messy and overlapping, like a dozen arguments at once. Third: his heart, pounding against his throat as if it had found a new exit strategy.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away clean.

  “Did I…” He stopped. He wasn’t ready to finish that sentence. “No. No, that’s insane.”

  A soft chime rippled through the trees. Light gathered in front of his face, sunbeams weaving into letters like they’d decided to practice penmanship.

  Words appeared, bright and undeniable.

  [Status Window]

  Name: James Gordon

  Class: Mishlin Sage ☆☆☆☆☆ (0/5)

  Rarity: Unique

  Level: 1

  Progress: 0%

  Mana: 50/50

  Stamina: 140/140

  Strength: 1

  Dexterity: 1

  Endurance: 1

  Intelligence: 1

  Wisdom: 1

  Charisma: 1

  Willpower: 1

  Perception: 1

  Luck: 5

  Abilities:

  [Food Sense Lv.1]

  [Butchery Lv.1]

  [Knife Precision Lv.1]

  [Recipe Creation Lv.1]

  James squinted. “Wait… Mishlin? That’s not even spelled right! Did the afterlife hire a bad translator?”

  James blinked. The panel didn’t waver. He leaned left; it stayed centered. He leaned right; it followed like a very polite ghost.

  “Mishlin… Sage?” He rubbed his eyes, but the letters refused to rearrange into something respectable. “What does that even mean? Am I supposed to hex people with hollandaise?”

  He pushed himself upright, the tree rough against his back, and immediately froze. His legs wobbled like a baby giraffe. He looked down.

  No sneakers. No jeans. No T-shirt. Not even socks. Just him, bare, goosebumped, and profoundly underdressed for an adventure.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Naked in Narnia.”

  The forest didn’t care. It stood cathedral-tall, leaves in every impossible shape, some too long, some round as coins, some jagged like teeth. Insects stitched silver threads between branches. Somewhere in the canopy, something shouted in whistles that didn’t sound friendly.

  James tried to breathe. His throat still remembered the cookie. Air filled his lungs anyway, cool and sharp, like water from a garden hose on a hot day. It made his head swim with unwanted clarity.

  “Okay,” he told himself. “Breathe. Survive. Pants later.”

  The panel hovered, patient. He lifted a hand toward it, feeling ridiculous. His fingers slid through the light, the way they might through a hologram. The panel didn’t care.

  “Of course I start at zero star.”

  James blinked and glanced back at the glowing screen.

  “Recipe… Creation?” he muttered. “Great. Everyone else gets fireballs, and I get to bake casseroles. Truly inspiring.”

  He scratched his head, curiosity gnawing at him.

  “All right, let’s see what you actually do…”

  He jabbed a finger into the air. The screen flickered and a new window opened:

  [Recipe Creation Activated]

  Ingredients: [None]

  Possible Result: —

  Success Rate: 0%

  Please insert ingredients.

  James glanced around. Grass. Rocks. Dirt.

  “Perfect. Dirt soup. A true classic.”

  He tried pushing a pebble into the screen.

  Error: Inedible Material. Please try again.

  The pebble clattered back to the ground.

  “Hey, how was I supposed to know? Maybe it’s paleo.”

  He exhaled, half laughing at himself.

  “So this thing lets me create a signature dish or what? Let’s just hope my first attempt doesn’t kill me.”

  Leaves sighed under his bare feet as he stepped away from the tree. At the base of a nearby stump, a cluster of mushrooms huddled, pale caps speckled like pastries after a chef’s bad mood.

  James crouched. He reached for one.

  The panel twitched.

  [Food Sense Activated]

  Item identified: Berserker’s Delight (Wild Fungus).

  Effect: +5 Strength (temporary, 10 minutes).

  Side Effect: Severe cramps and diarrhea (delayed).

  Warning: Not suitable for delicate constitutions.

  James rocked back on his heels. “Right. Of course. I get a cooking tutorial instead of pants.”

  He twisted the mushroom free. It came away with a soft pop. He sniffed it. Earth and the faintest idea of toast.

  “So that’s the deal? You tell me what won’t kill me?”

  The forest, polite as ever, declined to respond.

  James cupped the mushroom in his palm, the only storage option his naked body offered. His stomach growled, unimpressed by survival mechanics.

  Nearby, a shrub dangled bright red berries that looked suspiciously delicious. He reached.

  The panel chimed like an angry microwave.

  [Food Sense Activated]

  Berry identified: Crimson Widow (Wild Berry).

  Effect: None (toxic).

  Side Effect: Severe stomach cramps, dizziness, temporary paralysis, and choking on your own bad decisions.

  Warning: Do not consume.

  “Perfect,” James muttered, yanking his hand back. “I’ve become a nutrition label. Except I don’t come with pants.”

  Hunger folded its arms and tapped its foot. James sighed, picked a direction using the only method available, whichever way looked slightly less murderous, and started walking, twigs stabbing his feet with every step.

  The forest was uneven, roots swelling like snakes asleep under the soil. Sunlight played hide and seek and mostly won. Some trees had bark that peeled like pastry, others were smooth as polished skin. A vine stretched across his path at ankle height with all the casual malice of a tripwire.

  After a while, he heard water. A stream, gossiping with stones.

  He followed the sound until the trees opened to let a strip of clear water. It slid over pebbles and under low bushes, the surface shivering where light touched it.

  James knelt and splashed his face. The cold shocked him awake. He cupped his hands, drank, and almost groaned. The taste skipped past his tongue and straight into some ancient part of him that hadn’t been happy since drinking from a camp faucet as a kid.

  He sat back, staring at his reflection. Same face. Blonde hair, blue eyes, stubble growing with defiance. But hovering behind his shoulder, reflected in the water, was the faint geometry of the panel, like it was tattooed onto his existence.

  “Mishlin Sage,” he told the watery version of himself. “Zero stars. Not even the consolation star. What are you supposed to do, huh? Summon bearnaise out of thin air? Curse people with broken hollandaise?”

  A dragonfly zipped across the stream, signed its name on the air, and left without explaining spelling.

  James looked down at his empty hands. In kitchens, the knife had always been there. Here, skin and sarcasm, that was all he had.

  He stood and followed the stream because at least it knew where it was going. As he walked, he poked at the panel like it was a new oven with too many buttons.

  “Inventory?” he tried.

  The panel pinged.

  [Inventory Unlocked]

  Current: 1 Berserker’s Delight (Wild Fungus).

  James almost cried. “Finally. Somewhere to put things that isn’t my ass.”

  “Map?” he said quickly.

  The panel didn’t budge.

  “Help!”

  A small window reluctantly slid open under the main one.

  [Help]

  Class: Mishlin Sage — a culinary sage who channels mana through craft, flavor, and ritual. Stars indicate recognized mastery.

  Abilities level through practice. Class stars increase only when dishes impress others and receive recognition.

  James frowned. “So… I need reviews? To level up?”

  The panel blinked once, which James decided to interpret as smug agreement.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered. “I died choking on a fortune cookie and woke up in a world where I still need critics to validate my existence. Love that for me.”

  The help box vanished with all the grace of a waiter slapping down the bill and walking away.

  He walked on. The stream widened, then narrowed. The trees thinned and the sunlight sharpened. The ground rose, leveled, dipped. The noises of the forest shifted as if someone had changed radio stations. And then, far off and thin, he saw it: a smear of gray against blue, a thread unraveling, smoke.

  If that’s a barbecue, please let it come with pants.