After fussing around for most of the day, Qi Yue finally realized he was starving. Eating came first, everything else could wait.
He opened the refrigerator. There were only a few eggs and some meat inside. But even that was enough to make his mouth water. How long had it been since he last had eggs or meat? The more he thought about it, the more he drooled.
How should I cook them? The moment that thought flashed through his mind, a wave of heat swept over his body.
What the h*ll—? His limbs suddenly moved on their own. He couldn’t control them. Before he knew it, his hands had picked up the eggs and begun working.
He put the eggs in a pot, added water, left a crack in the lid. Once it boiled, he turned the heat down and simmered for five or six minutes. After the eggs cooled, he gently cracked the shells all over, then put them back in a pot with tea leaves, cinnamon, star anise, bay leaves, salt, and soy sauce.
What the—? Tea eggs?
His hands moved with the skill of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
Then, as if possessed, he cracked more eggs into a bowl, mixed them with flour, added sugar, salt, and pepper, and let the batter rest for ten minutes. He poured it into a hot oiled pan, flipped it when one side browned, fried it until both sides turned golden, and slid it onto a plate.
Egg pancakes.
Next, two more eggs.
He beat them, mixed in equal parts water and a pinch of salt, whisked until smooth, strained the bubbles through a sieve, covered the bowl with plastic wrap, poked small holes with a toothpick. This is professional-level stuff, he thought numbly, was he making steamed egg custard?
And then, as if that weren’t enough, his hands moved on their own again: mincing meat, adding soy sauce, salt, cooking wine, an egg, his mind automatically whispered, stir clockwise.
What the h*ll, am I planning to switch careers and become a chef in the apocalypse?
Deep-fried zombie? Stir-fried zombie rat? Might as well just cough blood now…
He brushed oil on a nonstick pan, fried a thin egg sheet, trimmed it neatly, spread the meat filling on top, rolled it from both ends toward the middle, sealed it face down, steamed it over high heat—
A black line practically slid down his forehead.
Golden Fortune Meat Rolls.
Then he started caramelizing sugar, frying pork, adding spices and water, simmering it for hours before reducing the sauce.
Braised pork.
He stared at the table: plates upon plates of dishes made from eggs and meat.
A universal chef, apparently.
Only he knew that he’d had to use all his mental strength to force himself to stop. During the process, countless recipes had flashed through his mind, each perfectly detailed.
And as he cooked, he’d felt… happy. His spiritual power had surged, he could feel it growing.
When he finally tasted what he’d made—
Words failed him. It was that good. Even calling himself a top-class chef wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
Full and satisfied, his thoughts drifted again.
If only he had space ability, like in his fifth life… In the apocalypse, spatial powers were one in a billion. If he had it this time, he wouldn’t have to worry about starvation. He could even store these dishes inside.
The moment the thought formed, the leftover dishes, plates and all vanished.
Qi Yue jumped up, heart pounding.
Heavens are helping me!
Not only could he cook, but now he had space ability too!
This time, he was determined, he would not die miserably again. He’d live. And live long. Until he died of old age.
—
He tested it dozens of times.
Clothes, sofa, blankets, TV, medicine, none could be stored.
Raw meat? No.
Eggs? Also no.
But strangely, cooked food worked.
He tried again and again. The pattern became clear: Cooked dishes, plates, and bowls, all could be stored.
But not raw ingredients.
Even odder, he could store chopsticks, forks, ladles, rice cookers, frying pans, spatulas, kitchen knives, peelers, soy sauce, chili paste, salt, MSG, even the dishwasher.
Basically, everything related to cooking could go in.
Nothing else worked.
…A portable kitchen?
What tragic joke was this?!
Was he really meant to be a chef in the apocalypse?
And such a beautiful chef at that. But come on, when everyone’s starving, who’s going to bother recruiting a cook?!
Then it hit him, he could just cook and store everything now.
Qi Yue grabbed his car keys and sped to the supermarket.
He bought a whole cart of ready-to-eat food: sausages, smoked chicken, braised beef, pig’s feet. Then he stopped by a restaurant and ordered dozens of takeout meals.
Today would be an experiment. Once the house money came through, he’d make a large-scale purchase.
Back home, he opened the car trunk to test his ability.
But nothing.
No matter how he tried, the food wouldn’t go in. Everything stayed right there in the trunk.
What? Why isn’t it working?
His mental energy wasn’t depleted… Was it because he’d used the power too many times today? Or was there a daily limit?
He sighed.
Forget it. Rest first. Try again tomorrow.
He lay on the bed, exhaustion washing over him. After a whole day of tension, his body finally shut down.
When he next woke up, it was to the sound of his phone ringing, a real estate agent. Someone wanted to view the house.
He checked the screen—Wednesday.
He’d slept two days straight.
The apocalypse would begin at midnight, Sunday. That meant only four days left.
He spent the day showing the house, signing contracts, retrieving his jeep from the repair shop. He sold two of his three properties, the one he lived in didn’t sell: too old, no elevator. That still gave him 1.2 million yuan, plenty.
Tomorrow, he’d start stocking up supplies.
At the garage, he checked the takeout again, spoiled. All of it.
He threw it away in frustration.
Even the deli food couldn’t be stored.
Apparently, only food he personally cooked could enter the space.
D*mn this picky ability.
Thursday.
Qi Yue got up early and headed straight to the supermarket.
Rice, flour, noodles, seasonings, vegetables, fruits, chicken, duck, fish, pork, beef, mutton, eggs— cart after cart, load after load.
He drove back and forth all morning.
Then he ordered a full set of kitchen tools, every kind of knife, ovens, pots, and bowls, plus hundreds of sturdy pairs of chopsticks.
On the way, a few old neighbors spotted him, calling out: “Hey, Qi Yue, opening a restaurant? Where at? We’ll come by, give us a discount!”
He cursed inwardly. Heaven gave me rebirth, but not a proper cheat skill… Then reminded himself, every novel protagonist suffers before rising to glory.
He muttered like a mantra: I’m the protagonist. I’m the protagonist.
And only then did his heart calm down.
He went on to order more food and drinks from a processing plant, plus sturdy clothes.
By the end of the day, his garage and rooms were stacked floor-to-ceiling with supplies. Only then did he finally feel a bit more secure.
