Under the warm yellow lights, the restaurant was filled with the rich aroma of simmering bone broth.
Sunlight streamed through the open glass windows like a golden veil, spilling across the coffee-colored dining tables.
A young man sat alone at one of them.
He wore a white T-shirt under a black motorcycle jacket, his right hand propping up his cheek as he stared out at the towering skyscrapers, the busy traffic, and the endless flow of pedestrians.
His name was Damian Hayes, and he wasn't a local—he had transmigrated here one week ago.
Seven days earlier, Damian had accidentally clicked on a pop-up advertisement while browsing online, downloading a strange little game. The description looked interesting, so he installed it instead of deleting it.
The game was broad in scope: players acted as chefs running a restaurant connected to countless dimensions through a wooden door, serving customers from different worlds.
At the same time, players became gourmet hunters who traveled through that door to explore unknown worlds in search of rare delicacies—capturing beasts for breeding in the restaurant's personal ranch, and cultivating plants in a private farm to ensure a steady supply of ingredients.
Combining management, combat, adventure, and collection, the game was addictive. Damian quickly finished the beginner tutorial, moved past the novice stage, and unlocked the warehouse, farm, ranch, and other basic facilities.
But the moment he activated the final feature the spatial gate, everything changed.
The scenery outside his hotel window shifted from low-rise buildings to skyscrapers scraping the clouds. The signs outside changed from elegant Chinese characters to flowing English.
The game became a system.
The restaurant materialized in reality.
The cramped hotel room expanded into a luxurious restaurant spanning hundreds of square meters.
The wooden door truly connected to all realms.
The farm and ranch became pocket worlds.
The warehouse became a personal storage space.
And Damian himself inherited the in-game character's physical stats—transforming from a thin otaku into a muscular, 1.85-meter-tall man.
People with a "golden finger" usually did well… depending on where they ended up.
As a cautious otaku, Damian absolutely did not want to transmigrate into somewhere like the Warhammer 40k universe or DC—full of aliens, superhumans, and technology that could kill him before he even said hello.
He just wanted a normal world where he could rely on his cheat, get rich, and enjoy life.
But transmigration was random, and since he was already here, he had to make do. Besides, he could return… eventually.
The wooden door could connect to any world, including his original one but it needed to unlock them one at a time, and the only way to unlock new worlds was to complete tasks issued by the system.
Every world required its own mission, and each mission involved earning a set amount of money.
Only restaurant revenue counted—no cheating through outside wealth or loopholes. Whether they paid in Yen, USD, or Yuan, it all counted as the same unit. If someone paid with a worthless currency while pretending it had value, the system would verify their origin and reject it.
Cooking and making money was easy for Damian. He'd lived in a foodie country for decades, traveled abroad, loved gourmet anime, and now possessed system-granted culinary mastery. Within days, he became a true chef.
If only customers didn't enter through random spatial door placements, Damian was certain he would've already reached the required first milestone: 100,000 profit.
"It's almost noon and still no customers," Damian murmured, glancing at the empty restaurant.
Ding-Dong-ling-long
As if responding to his thought, a crisp bell rang. The wooden door engraved with golden vine patterns slowly opened. A middle-aged man stepped out—curly hair, scruffy beard, black vest, faint blue glow in his chest, and soot-stained hands wrapped in cloth.
He smelled heavily of steel and sweat, like someone who hadn't showered in ten days of nonstop forging.
The moment Damian saw the man's face, one that frequently appeared in magazines, he knew who it was.
Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, CEO of Stark Industries, and recently missing for over half a month. And a wealthy man who clearly hadn't eaten properly for days.
"Welcome," Damian said, rising from his seat. "What would you like to eat?"
"Whiskey on the rocks and a cheeseburger," Tony answered without even looking at him, too busy tapping the wooden door, the tables, and the chairs. After stepping into the restaurant, a flood of information had inexplicably entered Tony's mind. Combined with the magical wooden door appearing in the cave and teleporting him across the world… his curiosity was about to explode.
Damian wasn't bothered; he'd seen this reaction several times already. Many had even weirder reactions such as shouting he was the devil.
He turned to the second newcomer.
"And you? What would you like?"
"A glass of ice water," Yinsen said, licking his cracked lips.
"Alright. Please wait a moment."
Damian nodded and headed for the kitchen. A rich customer had arrived and time to make some good money.
If a billionaire wanted a cheeseburger, then the ingredients would absolutely not be ordinary.
Currently, the wooden door connects two realms: the Gourmet World (Toriko) and the Marvel Universe.
Naturally, he would choose ingredients from the Gourmet World.
For the beef: White-Haired Cinderella Beef, served only in five-star hotels and above.
For the cheese: fresh slices from a natural Cheese Tree.
The whiskey: drawn from the Whiskey River.
The ice: ancient ten-thousand-year-old ice from Jötunheim.
As for Yinsen's ice water… Well, that would be complimentary. No need to squeeze every penny. hehehe.
Wait—no, that wasn't being greedy.
This was business. Yes. Business!
These ingredients were worth every cent. Their effects ranged from enhancing beauty and hair quality, to relieving fatigue, healing wounds, and strengthening the body.
Exactly. That was the reason. He wasn't a shady shop owner.
Damian nodded to himself, calculating how much to charge Tony.
Meanwhile, Tony—still tapping the tables and chairs—suddenly felt a cold shiver race up his spine.