Morning of August 4th.
The miHoYo game studio, inside the central kitchen.
Don't ask why a game studio would be equipped with a kitchen as big as a five-star hotel's—just know that Ms. Eden has money to burn.
The glass sliding door of the kitchen had been pulled open a crack.
The range hood hummed as it ran, and the air was filled with the aroma of stock that had been simmering for a long time.
Welt Yang stood before the counter, wearing a gray apron washed until it had faded somewhat, its sleeves neatly rolled up above his elbows, revealing solid forearms that steadily gripped a chef's knife.
"Chop, chop, chop."
The blade rose and fell on the solid wood cutting board, the rhythm as even as if performing some kind of percussion music.
A round, plump red onion quickly disintegrated under his hands into fine strips of completely uniform thickness.
Ever since he'd formed a pact with Su Yu, Welt Yang's life had undergone earth-shaking changes.
Over at Anti-Entropy's research division, Tesla and a few others were manning the helm; once that controllable nuclear fusion technology emerged, all the old friends from back on the Mu Continent came flying back.
For that crowd of scientists, as long as they could research this most advanced energy technology that surpassed the era, forget "Honkai invasion"—even if you told them "tomorrow Ultraman is coming to Earth to fight monsters," they'd choose to believe without hesitation.
Welt, the original initiator of the "Wotan Plan," had instead been mercilessly booted out of the research team by Tesla, told to pack up his bedroll and go help out at Su Yu's studio.
If anyone else knew of this, they'd probably be flabbergasted—that famous CEO of Anti-Entropy Entertainment was now actually at a newly opened studio, playing "assistant" to a producer who'd just risen to fame.
But Welt was happy to live this way; after all, games and animation were his areas of expertise to begin with, and now that ten-year burden had finally been lifted, everything he shouldered finally understood.
Old Yang's mood turned excellent as well, and he regained the vitality to throw himself into what he loved.
And as the saying goes, having an elder at home is like having a treasure—Old Yang fully demonstrated what it meant to be a true "treasure man," even though the version of him in this world didn't have the Authority of the Herrscher of Reason.
But it didn't matter; those memories of past battles, the traces of wielding power, still remained within his soul.
So.
Old Yang transformed into the entire studio's "ready-to-use plugin." In plain terms, he could help with anything—from writing code and running tests, down to repairing computers and clearing dust out of the cases.
The title of "Old Man Yang's Handyman Shop" had recently been spreading like wildfire among the miHoYo studio employees.
Especially after some diehard fans of "Arahato" recognized Old Yang and learned that the idol who made their favorite animation was actually at the studio too—and moreover so approachable, refined, and easygoing.
This made their respect for a certain game producer surge on and on, endless like the waters of the Yangtze River.
In his free time, Old Yang would also practice his skills using the studio's kitchen.
In Su Yu's words, Uncle Yang was going to become a peerless good man who could hold his own in both the parlor and the kitchen.
Inside the kitchen.
"Uncle Yang."
Bronie, chewing bubble gum, leaned against the kitchen doorframe and called out lazily.
The knife in Welt's hand paused.
He turned his head, his gaze passing over the lenses of his glasses to land on the somewhat reluctant white-haired girl behind Bronie.
Familiar golden eyes.
And that arrogance between her brows that submitted to no one.
That was Sirin.
That was the Herrscher of the Void who, during the Second Eruption, had nearly razed all of Siberia to the ground—and had even nearly taken his very life.
Welt's fingers gripping the knife handle unconsciously tightened.
Muscle memory seized the high ground of reason in this instant, his whole body assuming a defensive posture.
That was the wariness carved into his bones, unerasable even across worldlines.
But he soon discovered that this "mortal enemy" before him had a rather off art style.
Sirin hadn't summoned the Subspace Lance, nor was she floating in midair looking down on him from on high.
She wore an overly large white T-shirt, cuffs rolled up twice, both hands folded extremely awkwardly across her chest, chin raised high, even deliberately avoiding Welt's gaze as she stared at the ceiling light overhead.
The most absurd thing was, around her waist she was actually wearing a pink little apron printed with a HOMU pattern.
"This is..." Welt pushed up the glasses that had slid down his nose bridge, his voice carrying some hesitation.
"It's like this, Uncle Yang."
Bronie walked over and reached out to flick that ridiculous HOMU apron on Sirin, provoking the other to immediately widen her eyes into round circles like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"This white-haired idiot says she wants to learn a high-level domination technique that can 'quickly make men submit.' I think, in the entire studio, no one's culinary skills make them a more suitable mentor for this class than yours."
Sirin immediately jerked her head up and let out a heavy snort.
"That's right!"
Those golden pupils of hers were finally willing to look Welt straight in the eye, her tone as stiff as if delivering an ultimatum.
"Human, you should feel honored. Being able to assist this Queen—this young lady, yes, this young lady—in accomplishing the great feat of conquering Su Yu is a rare glory for you."
Welt looked at that Herrscher of the Void who was solemnly declaring she would "conquer Su Yu" while wearing a pink apron, and the string in his mind named "archnemesis standoff" snapped clean through.
Absurd.
Welt: Do I... do I have to conquer Su Yu too?
This was Welt's only feeling at this moment.
That fiend who once regarded humans as weeds, filled with hatred and bent on destroying the world, was now actually running into the kitchen and tying on an apron to cook for a man?
But he didn't laugh.
Welt's gaze lingered for a few seconds on Sirin's face, which looked somewhat tense from forcing herself to save face.
From those golden eyes, he didn't see that pure tyranny of the past—only a clumsy stubbornness driven by some wondrous force.
Perhaps this was the miracle created by that young man, Su Yu.
In this peaceful world without Honkai energy, using the most everyday warmth of ordinary life to dissolve that hatred so heavy it was suffocating. This was also the best opportunity for Sirin to fully integrate into this world and complete her own redemption.
Welt sighed.
In that sigh, he set down the heavy grievances accumulated over these long years, leaving only the helplessness a senior often feels facing a troublesome junior.
"Wash your hands first."
Welt set down the knife, grabbed the towel beside him to wipe his hands, then turned to open the faucet.
Sirin froze.
She'd originally prepared a bellyful of vicious words to counterattack this "defeated foe" if it dared mock her, but they were all jammed in her throat by this plain, unremarkable command.
"What are you standing there dazed for?" Bronie shoved her from behind. "Aren't you going to make a full imperial banquet that'll have the BOSS kneeling down and weeping on the spot? Hurry up and wash your hands!"
Sirin gritted her teeth, walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and fiercely scrubbed her hands.
Water splashed onto her large white T-shirt, spreading out patches of water stains.
"Today we'll learn the most basic thing first."
Welt took two tomatoes and a few eggs out of the fridge and set them on the counter.
"Tomato scrambled eggs—first learn to cut the tomatoes."
He held that chef's knife out toward Sirin, handle facing outward.
Sirin looked at the knife gleaming with cold light.
In her conception, knives were used to kill people—or, at the very least, to cut through space.
She reached out, four fingers tightly clenching the handle, thumb pressed hard against the spine of the blade, her whole stance looking less like she was preparing to cut vegetables and more like she was preparing to assassinate someone.
Welt stood half a step away watching, and rubbed his brow.
"Relax your wrist. That's a grip for holding a murder weapon. You won't cut through the tomato's skin—you'll only squeeze all its juice out."
Sirin pursed her lips in defiance. "I can cut open Imaginary Space itself, so a mere tomato—!"
She lifted the knife and, against the bright red tomato on the cutting board, chopped down hard like splitting firewood.
"Splat!"
Under the enormous impact, the tomato instantly burst open, red juice mixed with translucent seeds splattering everywhere.
A few drops of juice splashed onto the lenses of Welt's glasses, and left a few comical red marks on Sirin's fair cheeks as well.
On the cutting board, all that remained was a puddle of miserable mush; not even one piece of intact flesh could be found.
The kitchen fell into a dead silence.
Bronie leaned against the doorframe, silently blowing a huge pink bubble to cover the laughter she could barely hold back.
Sirin held the knife, frozen in place.
She stared hard at the tragic scene on the cutting board, her chest heaving violently a few times.
If there were Honkai energy right now, she would absolutely summon an imaginary black hole and exile this tomato that dared challenge her dignity, cutting board and all!
"A miscalculation! I just didn't control my strength well!"
Sirin threw down the knife through gritted teeth, trying to cover up her embarrassment.
Welt said nothing.
He pulled out a sheet of kitchen paper, unhurriedly wiped the tomato juice off his lenses, and put his glasses back on.
Then he took another brand-new tomato out of the fridge and placed it beside that mess from a moment ago.
"A knife isn't for chopping."
He kept some distance from Sirin and demonstrated a standard knife grip.
Index finger and thumb pinching the base of the blade, the other three fingers lightly hooking the handle.
"Use the back half of the blade to cut, the front half to draw."
"The tomato's skin is very tough. You need to first lightly slice open a cut with the tip of the blade, then follow that momentum downward. Don't use brute force—feel the texture of the ingredient."
Although the soul of the Herrscher of Reason had lost the Authority to reconstruct all things in this world, that precise ability to analyze the essence of things remained perfectly intact in his brain.
His mastery over heat, knife work, and force never relied on rote-memorized recipes, but on a near-instinctive intuition.
That was the composure only someone who had truly immersed himself in life—who had faced stove flare-ups and choking oil smoke countless times—could settle into.
Sirin watched Welt's grip suspended in midair.
This human called Welt was clearly just an ordinary person in this world, and no longer had the power of the Herrscher of Reason.
Yet he possessed a steadiness that left one unable to argue.
She bit her lip unwillingly and picked up again the knife she'd just thrown down.
Imitating Welt's manner, she awkwardly adjusted the position of her fingers.
Index finger pinching the blade, thumb hooking the other side. The handle was no longer clenched in her hand like a fire poker, but became somewhat more nimble.
She took a deep breath and pressed the knife tip against the smooth skin of the second tomato.
No chopping.
Following the direction Welt had just described, she tried to lightly apply force with her wrist and draw the blade back.
The blade nimbly sank into the red flesh, giving off a faint "shff" sound.
No juice splattered; the tomato was cut into two halves—not exactly even, but at least intact.
Sirin's eyes instantly went wide.
She looked at those two still fairly-shaped tomato halves on the cutting board, the corners of her mouth curving upward uncontrollably.
"Hmph." She raised her chin, giving Welt a very cocky profile. "See that? As long as I put in a little effort, this sort of thing is no problem whatsoever."
Welt looked at those crooked, completely uneven tomato chunks.
He sighed inwardly, but the lines of his face softened without his noticing.
"Yes, you're very talented."
Welt reached out and turned the knob of the gas stove.
A faint blue flame instantly shot up, licking at the bottom of the flat pan. He picked up the oil pot beside him and poured a base layer of oil into the pan.
"Next is beating the eggs." Welt's voice sounded very steady amid the roar of the range hood.
Sirin stared at the flat pan that had begun to give off steam, oil specks beginning to faintly jump, and the fingers gripping her knife involuntarily loosened.
She took half a step back, looked at the two raw eggs lying quietly on the counter, and swallowed.
Welt's slender fingers pointed at the two raw eggs on the counter, their surfaces dotted with droplets of water, an empty glass bowl beside them.
"Beat the eggs. Knock one against the rim of the bowl, pry it open along the crack, pour the egg into the bowl, then stir it evenly with chopsticks. Don't use too much force."
Sirin stared at the two oval objects as if examining some new type of miniature bomb.
She reached out, thumb and index finger pinching one of them. This thing's shell looked rather fragile.
She applied just a little force.
"Crack."
A crisp shattering sound rang out in the kitchen.
The whole egg burst open right in her palm, sticky egg white mixed with golden yolk dripping through the gaps in her fingers, splattering onto the counter drop by drop.
Bits of eggshell large and small clattered down into the glass bowl, some sticking to the back of her fair hand.
Sirin was stunned.
She shook her hand in disgust and looked at the tragic mixture in the bowl.
Bronie leaned against the doorframe and burst out laughing without mercy, the bubble gum in her mouth nearly flying out.
"Are you planning to make shell-scrambled eggs? The BOSS will probably need to book a dentist appointment in advance to eat this dish."
"Shut up! Th-this young lady simply hasn't grasped this thing's physical strength yet!" Sirin glared viciously at Bronie, then, in a fluster, snatched up a pair of chopsticks, bent down, and clumsily picked out the tiny bits of eggshell from that sticky glass bowl.
Having dealt with the egg tragedy, they finally reached the most crucial stage.
The faint blue flame continued to lick at the bottom of the flat pan.
Welt poured a little oil into the pan, and the surface of the oil quickly gave off a wisp of almost invisible blue smoke.
"You can pour in the eggs now." Welt took half a step back, yielding the spot. "Get close to the pan, and pour along the edge of the pan's bottom."
Sirin held that bowl of hard-won egg.
But before the rising waves of heat from the oil pan, she instinctively felt a trace of retreat.
That was a subconscious guard against unknown danger.
Her arm stretched out ramrod straight, her body leaning back desperately, the bowl held a full half-meter above the pan's bottom.
Then, she flipped her wrist, and half a bowl of egg crashed straight down into the hot oil like a waterfall.
"Sizzle—!"
The scalding oil instantly burst upon meeting the moisture.
A few tiny oil specks flew out like ejected hidden weapons, landing precisely on the back of Sirin's right hand that held the bowl.
"Ah! It hurts!"
Sirin abruptly yanked her hand back, and two glaring red spots immediately rose on her fair skin.
The sharp burning pain was like a match, instantly igniting that irascible soul inside this body.
She, a dignified Herrscher of the Void—when had she ever suffered this kind of physical-level humiliation?
She turned her head, staring hard at the flat pan still frantically sizzling away, killing intent seething in her eyes.
She snatched up the large metal soup ladle hanging on the rack beside her and raised it high overhead. That stance looked less like cooking and more like she was about to smash the ladle straight through this iron pan that dared challenge her dignity, stove and all.
"Stop."
Welt's voice wasn't loud, but it was steady enough.
He turned sideways, whisked away that ladle that had nearly become a murder weapon, and replaced it with a wooden spatula.
"The pan isn't at fault. You poured from too high up and made the oil splash."
Welt stood before the stove once more, holding the remaining half bowl of egg in his hand, wrist lowered.
"Watch closely."
His wrist turned lightly, and the egg slid evenly down along the edge of the pan.
The pan gave off cheerful sounds, and the golden egg quickly swelled up and bubbled.
Welt gripped the pan handle and lightly shook it back and forth twice, his other hand holding the wooden spatula and pushing flat across from the bottom, and the once flat-spread egg instantly rolled up into fluffy, appetizing chunks.
Flowing and smooth, not a single drop of oil splashed out of the pan.
Sirin cupped the back of her reddened hand, gritting her teeth as she stood to the side.
That violence begging to be vented, before this set of movements so full of a lived-in quality of life, was as if a punch had landed on cotton.
For that grand goal of making a certain someone weep and submit, what did this little burn count for!
Over the next half hour or so, the kitchen's trash can gained a few egg carcasses with charred black edges and a few tomatoes reduced to mush.
But in the end, a plate of tomato scrambled eggs whose color was passable enough was steadily served into a white porcelain plate printed with a HOMU pattern.
The bright red, thick sauce wrapped around the golden egg chunks, steam rising up, carrying a rich aroma of intertwined sourness and sweetness.
Sirin picked up her chopsticks, hesitated for two seconds in midair, and finally lifted a piece of egg coated in tomato juice, carefully bringing it into her mouth.
At first came the mellow sweet-and-sour of tomato released after stir-frying, followed immediately by the soft, tender freshness of egg that had soaked up the sauce.
That was a flavor completely unfamiliar to her—none of that cold, pungent chemical-synthetic taste of the nutrient fluids in the Babylon Laboratory, only the warm, homey air belonging to human society, melting bit by bit on the tip of her tongue.
Her eyes brightened bit by bit, her pupils slightly dilating, and her chewing unconsciously quickened a little.
"This... does this count as a success?"
She swallowed the food in her mouth, looking eagerly at the two people beside her.
Bronie pinched a single chopstick and leaned over, and with a face full of disdain picked a small clean piece of egg from the edge of the plate and put it in her mouth.
"Mm..." Bronie smacked her lips. "The salt was added a bit too early, and the tomato's sourness wasn't fully drawn out. But as a rice-accompanying dish, it barely passes."
Welt tasted a bite too.
He pushed up his glasses and gave his consistently rigorous evaluation: "The heat control is still a bit lacking—the eggs are half a notch overcooked, and the tomato isn't soft enough yet. But as a first attempt at cooking, it's already fine."
Hearing these two comments, Sirin's originally tense shoulders instantly relaxed.
"Hmph."
She set down her chopsticks with a clack, chin raised high, her features full of undisguised smugness, the grievance of being splashed by hot oil earlier already flown off to the highest heavens.
"See! As long as this Queen—" she forcibly swallowed that title back, "as long as this young lady gets serious, no matter what it is, I can handle it in a few quick moves!"
Looking at this white-haired girl before him whose tail was about to curl up to the ceiling, a barely perceptible softness surfaced in the depths of Welt's profound eyes.
He sighed silently in his heart.
That young man Su Yu's prestige had indeed reached some unbelievable level.
To make that Herrscher of the Void, who took destroying the world as her sole life creed, willingly hole up in this cramped kitchen full of the smell of oil smoke, merely to make a plate of home-style cooking that could be acknowledged.
"Then don't just bask in your smugness—start reinforcing your practice." Welt turned around, turned on the faucet, and began washing the used cutting board. "That plate just now was only a blind cat bumping into a dead mouse. Wash your hands clean and prepare the ingredients for the next dish."
"There's more to learn?!" Sirin leaned over to the sink, hollering. "This young lady's plate of tomato scrambled eggs is already unrivaled under heaven—isn't that enough for him to eat!"
"Just this one vegetable dish, and you expect to make the BOSS submit?" Bronie continued unwrapping a new piece of bubble gum beside them, sparing no effort to fan the flames. "You haven't even made a meat dish—why on earth would he kneel down and cling to your thigh?"
The range hood's humming continued to roar.
The sound of blade colliding with cutting board, the clatter of water rinsing the cookware, the white-haired girl's exasperated complaints, and that cyber little devil's occasional venomous quips wove together lively in this kitchen of less than ten square meters.
This scene brimming with the humble warmth of everyday life, if placed back in that world ravaged by Honkai, would absolutely make everyone who knew them drop their jaws.
If there had been no Great Eruption that swept across the globe.
No Babylon Laboratory built on the boundless, bitterly cold snowfield.
None of that hatred and those oaths congealed in despair.
Everything happening in this kitchen wafting with the scent of scallion, ginger, and garlic—perhaps this was precisely the most ordinary "peaceful daily life" that purple-haired girl should have had from the very start.
But none of that mattered anymore.
In this gently reconstructed world, even the Queen of Honkai was, in her own clumsy way, before a pan of hot oil, groping her way onto the road to her own happiness.
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