Agung didn't hesitate. He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor—a mundane, grounding sound that felt more significant than any celestial chime. He walked to the high-tech, wall-to-wall industrial refrigerator and pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, there was no manifestation of golden mana, no shimmering portals to a pantry of the gods. Just fresh, raw reality: a carton of eggs, a bundle of bok choy, some leftover scallions, a block of firm tofu, and a modest container of sambal he'd made himself the day before.
He felt the weight of twelve pairs of eyes—nine idols, three children—fixed on his back. The "God-buff" was officially gone, and with it, the safety net of perfection. If he burned the garlic, it would stay burned. If the seasoning was off, he couldn't just snap his fingers to fix it.
He rolled up his sleeves, revealing arms that were still "marshmallow-soft" but lacked the unnatural, starlit glow they'd had moments ago.
"So," he muttered, mostly to himself as he pulled out a well-worn wok. "Back to basics."
Behind him, the shift in the room was palpable.
The initial shock of the "system break" had transitioned into a strange, quiet observation. For three years, their lives had been curated, punctuated by scripted events and the looming presence of an 'operator.' Now, the silence wasn't just an absence of noise—it was the sound of a blank canvas.
Umi was the first to move. She stood up, her movements fluid and purposeful, and walked over to the kitchen island. She didn't say a word; she simply grabbed a knife and a cutting board, sliding them toward Agung.
"The leeks need a finer chop," she said, her voice steady. Her "complicated smile" from earlier had settled into something genuine, something grounded. "If we're going to be 'real,' we might as well be efficient."
Kotori followed, pulling an apron from a hook and tying it around her waist. She walked over to the fridge and began checking the expiry dates—not because she was worried, but because she was *caring*. "We have enough for a stir-fry, but we're low on rice. Agung-kun, you'll have to stretch the portions if you want everyone to have a full bowl."
Maki, usually the most guarded, leaned against the counter, watching Agung's hands as he worked. She wasn't judging his technique or looking for a "God-tier" shortcut. She was watching how he held the spatula—his grip a little shaky, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"You're nervous," she noted, though there was no mockery in her tone. It was a statement of fact, acknowledging his humanity. "You're worried you aren't enough without the magic."
Agung paused, the sizzle of the wok filling the air—a loud, chaotic, beautiful sound. He looked at the faces around him. Nico was hovering near the stove, waiting to critique the smell; Eli was helping Yuki and Aoi settle down; and Hime was watching him with wide, trusting eyes.
"I am," Agung admitted, sliding the tofu into the hot oil. The aroma of garlic and chili hit the air—sharp, pungent, and undeniably real. "I'm terrified that without the 'God' status, I'm just... me. And I'm not sure if that's enough to keep this family together."
He glanced at them, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"If the magic is gone, all I have is my effort. And I'm not even a professional chef."
Rin stepped up, grabbing a plate from the stack. "Hey, 'Marshmallow-Papa'. You're the one who stood up to that holographic jerk for us. You think we care about 'God-tier' food?" She bumped his shoulder with her own, her grin bright and unforced. "We've had three years of 'perfect' meals that felt like plastic. I think we're all ready for something that tastes like it was actually cooked by someone who cares."
As the dinner prep continued, the "Executioner" vibe of the idols had completely dissolved. They weren't a harem of goddesses or a collection of assets; they were a group of women rediscovering the agency of their own kitchen.
They weren't waiting for a plot point to happen. They were waiting for dinner.
Agung plated the stir-fry, the steam rising in simple, messy plumes. It wasn't gold-leafed or magically infused; it was just a home-cooked meal, slightly charred in spots and smelling faintly of the memories of a street-sweeper who had finally come home.
He set the final plate down, and for the first time in years, he didn't feel like a character in a story. He felt like a father.
"Dinner's ready," he said, his voice quiet. "And... I think it's exactly the way it should be."