Nico didn't immediately reach for her second helping. She set the golden skewer down, her eyes darting between the spot where the hologram had been and the man sitting at the head of the table. Despite her usual bravado, her voice held a rare, sharp edge of genuine curiosity.
"Hold on a second, 'Marshmallow-Papa'," Nico said, leaning forward, her brow furrowed in that familiar, analytical way she used to dissect choreography. "You cut that thing off mid-sentence. You mentioned 'Clause 7B' and then you just... deleted his access. If that system is as 'god-like' as you claim, isn't there a risk? What *is* Clause 7B, exactly? And what did you just do to our reality by breaking it?"
The table went quiet again. Even Aoi had lowered his plastic sword, his attention snagged by the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
Agung sighed, swirling the remnants of the Soto Betawi in his bowl. He looked at the nine of them—the women who had lived in the shadow of a system that treated their lives like a dating simulation.
"Clause 7B," Agung began, his voice calm, "is the 'Reset and Optimization' protocol. It's what keeps Isekai worlds tidy. It treats the inhabitants as assets rather than individuals. Essentially, it allows the Operator to wipe a timeline if the protagonist stops being 'entertaining' or if the narrative gets too complicated."
He looked at Umi, who was still looking at the spot where the knife had clattered.
"It's the reason that window popped up. The Operator saw that I wasn't playing the 'lonely mogul' script anymore. I was building a family instead of a collection. Clause 7B was the leash designed to pull me back into line—or, if I refused, to scrap the project and start fresh with a 'better' setup."
"So," Maki interjected, her voice cold, "when you 'canceled the subscription'..."
"I didn't just break the communication link," Agung clarified, his expression hardening as he looked at his own palms. "I severed our reality from the Isekai server entirely. We aren't being watched, recorded, or managed anymore. The 'narrative' is gone. From this second forward, we aren't a story to be edited. We're just... us."
"And the risk?" Eli asked, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the implications. "If we are disconnected from the source of your powers, what happens to the gold? The mana? You?"
Agung looked down at Hime, who was happily trying to poke the steam rising from the bowl. He reached out and gently moved her hand away, his touch lingering on her soft, messy hair.
"The power wasn't coming from them, Eli," Agung said softly. "It was coming from the *need* to be here. The gold, the house, the food—it was just the bridge. Now that I've crossed it, I don't need the bridge anymore. If the power fades, it fades. I'd rather be a broke, tired father in a real world than a god in a simulation."
He looked back at Nico, a faint, lopsided grin appearing on his face.
"So, to answer your question: Clause 7B is effectively dead. And for the first time in three years, I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen tomorrow. Isn't that better than a script?"
Nico stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching until it felt less like tension and more like a collective exhale. Finally, she picked up her skewer again, her trademark confidence returning with a snort.
"Well," Nico huffed, waving the skewer toward the kitchen. "If we're no longer in a simulation, then you'd better make sure that the 'real' taste of this wagyu is as good as the 'magical' one. Because if you're just a normal guy now, you don't have the 'God-buff' to save your cooking."
"Deal," Agung laughed, the sound echoing through the room, free of any digital interference. "Seconds for everyone?"