#Next day.....
The sun was beginning its descent when Bahamara shifted into its evening rhythm. The city always seemed busiest at this hour—not the frantic pace of midday trade, but the heavy, lingering hum of people returning from their work. Adventurers in mismatched gear trudged through the streets, boots thudding against cobblestone, their laughter carrying across alleyways like rolling waves. Merchants clapped their stall shutters closed one by one, the final exchanges of coin rattling faintly as buyers haggled for end-of-day bargains. The smell of roasted nuts, spiced meat skewers, and horse sweat mingled in the air.
The diner sat in a calm quiet after the day's cleaning. A faint mix of soap and wood polish lingered in the air, the kind of smell that said someone had put in the effort. The floorboards still had that slight tack of recent scrubbing, and the lantern light picked up the faint sheen of wax in the grain.
Tables were set out in steady rows, spaced with enough room to walk between them. Each one was wiped clean and carried a small salt-and-pepper set at the center. Nothing special—just glass with tin tops—but it gave the tables a finished look, like the room was waiting for company.
The chairs were lined up neatly, their wood backs catching a bit of the amber glow. Simple, sturdy pieces, meant to be used rather than admired, but their even arrangement gave the space a comfortable order.
The counter had been cleared, its surface smooth under the light. A few tools rested nearby—knives, ladles, cutting boards—set aside where they'd be easy to reach once work began. In the kitchen, shelves held jars of salt, herbs, and flour, with pots and pans stacked in their places. Quiet for now, but ready to turn busy at a moment's notice.
There wasn't anything fancy about the place. No decorations, no unnecessary polish. Just a clean, steady setup that felt prepared to welcome whoever might walk through the door.
Behind the counter, Woon leaned with his arms folded. He looked relaxed at first glance, but the way his jaw tightened now and then gave him away. His eyes kept drifting to the door, like he was waiting for something to happen—or maybe worrying that nothing would.
Sabrina stood next to him, her apron tied snug, hands resting behind her back. She was the opposite: calm, almost stern. Her gaze swept the room with quiet calculation, like she was rehearsing orders in her head, making sure she knew exactly what to do the moment someone asked.
Misha circled the tables for the fifth time, cloth in hand. The wood surfaces were spotless, but she still checked the shine on the glasses, still shifted each chair a finger's width closer to perfect alignment. She knew it was unnecessary, but it was easier to fuss over details than to stand still and think about the moment ahead.
In the corner, Tina sat curled into a chair with her knees pulled up under her chin. She looked calm enough, but her eyes betrayed her—darting to the door every few seconds, never quite resting. She hugged her legs tighter, as if to hold down the nerves bubbling beneath her quiet exterior.
At the entrance, Jake and Tyson stood like sentries, arms crossed. They weren't pretending to be polite doormen; they looked more like bodyguards keeping watch. Their presence alone said the diner wasn't going to tolerate trouble.
The air in the room felt stretched thin, the silence heavy enough that every small sound—breath, shuffle, heartbeat—seemed louder than it should. Everyone was waiting for something, anything, to break it.
It was Woon who finally spoke.
"Misha." His voice was even, but it carried an edge that made her straighten.
Her head snapped up. "Yes?"
"Flip the sign."
For a moment she only blinked at him, as if the words needed a second to land. Then, with a small nod, she tucked the rag into her apron and crossed the floor.
The hinges groaned faintly as she pulled the door open. A cool draft slipped in, tugging at the hem of her apron and carrying with it the muffled hum of the street—boots on cobblestone, a hawker's voice rising and falling, the distant clang of a blacksmith finishing his day's work.
The glow of the setting sun washed across her face, softening her sharp features for the briefest moment. She reached up and turned the wooden sign from Closed to Open.
Her hand lingered on the doorframe. From that threshold, she watched the world outside: merchants straining behind carts heavy with goods, adventurers trudging toward taverns with the weight of their weapons dragging at their steps, children weaving through the chaos in bursts of laughter.
For half a breath, she wondered if any of them would even glance this way. If any would step off the familiar street and into their little corner of uncertainty.
She let out a quiet breath, then stepped back inside. The door closed with a soft chime, the latch clicking into place louder than it had any right to be.
"It's done," she said, her voice low, almost careful.
Woon gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. The others exchanged quick looks, but no one spoke. The silence returned, heavier now, settling in with the weight of expectation.
And just like that, the waiting began.
__________
The minutes after Misha flipped the sign felt long. Everyone in the diner kept half an ear toward the door, waiting for the first step across the threshold. The muffled sounds of the street carried through the walls—boots striking cobblestone, the distant call of a vendor, a burst of laughter that rose and faded. Inside, no one spoke.
Then the bell above the door rang.
Ding.
The sound was small, but it cut through the quiet.
Three figures entered.
At the front was a young man with a longsword strapped to his back. His armor showed clear signs of wear, dents along the plates, scratches where blades had struck before. Dust clung to his boots, leaving faint marks across the clean floorboards. He stood easily enough, but his eyes didn't stop moving, scanning the room as though weighing it.
Behind him came a girl in light leather armor. A pair of daggers rested at her sides. Her gaze flicked across the tables, the counter, the windows—sharp, quick, controlled. She didn't look hostile, but she carried herself like someone who preferred to know the exits before sitting down.
The last to step in was the smallest. A young mage, staff taller than she was, the polished wood bumping faintly against the doorframe as she entered. Her robes were simple, the edges still marked with dust from the road. Unlike the other two, her wide eyes moved with open curiosity. She stared at the tables, the ceiling beams, the sunlight spilling across the floor as though the place were more interesting than anything outside.
The swordsman's thoughts were straightforward.
We were headed to our usual place by the bridge, but the line was spilling out the door. No chance of getting a seat tonight. We started wandering the streets, hoping to find someplace decent. Then, out of nowhere, a smell hit us—rich, warm, not the kind you forget after a long day on the road. We stopped, glanced around, and that's when we noticed this place. Looked new. Never seen it before, not even in passing. Figured it was worth checking out, as long as the food isn't just another pot of thin stew.
The bell settled as the door shut behind them. A few heads in the diner tilted toward the newcomers, then just as quickly turned away. The silence lingered, stretched thin by expectation.
Misha stepped forward to meet them.
"Welcome to the Isekai Diner," she said, voice clear, smile calm but steady. "Please, this way."
The three adventurers traded quick looks. The swordsman gave the smallest nod. The dagger-user lifted her shoulders in a quiet shrug. The mage's grip on her staff tightened as she bounced on her toes, her eagerness obvious.
Misha led them toward a table by the window. The last of the sunlight reached across it, glinting off the polished wood. The trio sat down, each in their own way—the swordsman with a slow, measured ease, the rogue straight-backed and alert, the mage almost hopping into her chair.
Misha set menus before them. Smooth wooden boards, letters carved carefully into the surface, easy to read.
"Please take your time," she said.
The swordsman leaned over his, scanning quickly. The rogue's eyes flicked from the menu to the kitchen door, then back again. The mage dragged a finger down the list as her lips moved, reading each dish silently.
The tension eased a fraction. For the first time since the sign had flipped, the diner no longer felt like it was holding its breath.
Menu – A
Name – Price/plate
• French Fries – 10 copper
• KFC Chicken – 20 copper
• Veg Sandwich – 10 copper
• Non-Veg Sandwich – 20 copper
• Onion Rings – 5 copper
Drinks – Price/bottle
• Pawn's Wine – 10 silver
___________
The moment their eyes landed on the menu, silence fell over the table. The three leaned in slightly, the afternoon light streaming through the window catching on the polished wood and highlighting the etched lettering. The menus themselves weren't parchment or leather like they were used to but smooth wooden boards, neatly carved and easy to read. Strange words stared back at them, unlike anything they had seen in the taverns or inns they normally frequented.
"K...F...Shee?" the sword guy read out slowly, frowning. "What's that supposed to be?"
The dagger girl leaned in closer, her brow creasing as she tilted her head. "No idea. Is it a food? Or a place?"
The loli tilted her head too, her small finger running across the letters with a deliberate curiosity, as though touching the word itself would make sense of it. "It doesn't sound like food... but it sounds fun. I wanna try something from it."
Before the others could comment, she tapped the menu with the tip of her finger, the motion sharp and decisive. "French fries, a veg sandwich, and wine. I'll have those."
The other two stared at her like she'd just rolled dice without looking. Their silence stretched for a beat, broken only by the muffled laughter and footsteps outside the window.
"You're actually ordering that?" the sword guy asked, his voice somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
"Mm-hm." She nodded firmly, her wide eyes unwavering. "It sounds interesting."
The dagger girl leaned back in her chair with a shrug, the leather of her armor creaking softly. "Whatever. I'll take the chicken. And wine."
The sword guy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his gauntlet scraping lightly against his stubble. "...Fine. Non-veg sandwich. Wine too."
Misha smiled brightly, already jotting it down on a small notepad she carried. The warmth in her tone made it seem as though nothing about their choices was unusual.
"Perfect! I'll be right back with your order."
She turned smoothly on her heel and carried the slip over to the counter. Behind it, Woon glanced up from polishing a mug, his sharp eyes flicking briefly toward the group before meeting hers. He gave a single, short nod.
"Alright."
Sabrina was already in motion at the stove. The pan of oil had been heating steadily, a faint shimmer across its surface. The instant she lowered in the freshly cut potatoes, the quiet hum of the room was broken by a sharp, satisfying hiss. Tiny bubbles rose and popped in quick bursts, releasing a savory fragrance that immediately drifted across the diner. It wasn't heavy or greasy—it was clean, crisp, with just enough spice to prick curiosity.
Woon, steady as always, brought out three solid wooden mugs. He tipped the bottle carefully, the deep red Pawn's Wine swirling into each one. Under the glow of the overhead lamps, the liquid gleamed almost like a gemstone, releasing a faint fruity aroma into the air. It was smooth, sweet without being cloying—a stark contrast to the thick, bitter ales and harsh meads most adventurers were accustomed to after long journeys.
Back at the table, the adventurers couldn't help but react. The smell reached them first, faint but undeniable, and each of them instinctively straightened in their seats.
"...Doesn't smell bad," the sword guy muttered, though his tone carried the weight of reluctant approval.
The dagger girl smirked slightly, her fingers drumming lightly against the table. "I've never smelled anything like this before—nothing even close."
The loli kicked her legs under the chair, humming happily, her staff leaning against the table beside her. "Told you it'd be fun."
The room itself seemed to shift subtly. What had started as hesitation—the stiff air of customers testing an unknown place—was slowly being replaced with something else. Anticipation.
___________
Just a few minutes later, Misha returned—tray balanced with the ease of a veteran server, each step smooth and graceful, almost too elegant for a place this small. The faint clink of dishes against wood chimed with her movements, a rhythm of anticipation that drew the trio's eyes.
She set the tray on the table with a muted thud. One by one, she placed the dishes down—first the plates, each steaming hot, each radiating color and aroma so rich it almost painted the air itself. Golden browns, vibrant reds, the sheen of glaze catching the lamplight. Then came the mugs—frosted on the rims, tiny beads of condensation trickling down their sides as though the drinks themselves exhaled a cool sigh.
The trio froze.
They hadn't even finished their casual chatter. Honestly, they hadn't expected the food for another half hour, at least.
"Wait… already?" the guy blinked, leaning forward as though the dishes might vanish if he looked away.
"Did they have it pre-cooked or something?" the dagger girl frowned, suspicion still clinging to her voice.
But then—
The scent hit them.
It wasn't a subtle whiff. It crashed into them like a wave breaking against stone. Hot. Crispy. Savory. The fragrance of spiced oil and grilled meat tangled with buttery bread and smoky undertones. There was even a faint sweetness somewhere in there, hidden behind the sharper spices, like a melody weaving through a roaring chorus.
Their throats tightened. Saliva pooled. Instinct overrode doubt.
The loli couldn't wait. Her small hand darted out, snatching a fry. She shoved it into her mouth.
Crunch.
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as if lightning had just struck. The crackle of the fry echoed faintly in the still air, the sound so crisp it made the other two unconsciously lean forward.
She didn't speak. Couldn't. She only reached for another fry, her little fingers trembling with urgency. Then another. And another. Every bite carried that same golden crunch, followed by the soft, steaming interior that seemed to melt against her tongue. Her cheeks flushed pink, her breaths shallow, as though each fry stole air from her lungs in exchange for joy.
The dagger girl, unable to resist any longer, leaned in and tore off a piece of chicken. The skin broke with a satisfying snap, juices glistening where the crust gave way. She chewed once—just once—and froze.
Her brows furrowed, not in displeasure but in disbelief. She stared at the morsel in her hand like it had betrayed the natural order of the world.
"This is…" Her voice was hushed, reverent almost. "…what even is this flavor?"
The guy, emboldened, lifted his sandwich and took a hearty bite.
Crunch. Squish.
He stopped mid-chew. Time seemed to slow as textures collided in his mouth. The bread—soft, buttery, delicate, like clouds pressed into a bun. The chicken—juicy, hot, wrapped in a perfectly golden crust that gave way with the gentlest pressure of teeth. A whisper of spice followed, not overpowering, but coaxing the tongue to chase more.
He swallowed, chest rising sharply as if he'd just come up from drowning. His hand, almost on autopilot, reached for the mug of wine. He took a sip.
Cold. Smooth. The liquid slipped down without sting, without bite. It didn't burn like mead. It didn't cling bitterly like cheap ale. It was light, refreshing—like cool rain after a long march through dust and heat. His lips parted slightly, stunned, his eyes darting between the food and drink as though they couldn't possibly belong to the same world as the gray stews and rock-hard bread he'd eaten all his life.
The table went quiet, save for the crunches, the gulps, the faint hums of satisfaction leaking out without thought.
Then—an empty plate. An empty mug.
The sword guy blinked, almost dazed, staring down at the bare wooden surface where food and drink had once been. His fork still rested in his hand, hovering in midair as though expecting another bite to magically appear. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, searching for lingering flavor, unwilling to admit it was already gone.
A slow exhale left his chest. His heartbeat felt heavier, not from exertion, but from shock. Meals in this world had always been something endured, never celebrated. Food was fuel. Something you swallowed, not something you remembered. Yet now—his body craved more. His stomach rumbled so loud it earned a glance from the dagger girl, who was still chewing slowly as if rationing out every last shred of taste.
The wine, too… He licked his lips unconsciously, chasing the ghost of that smooth, refreshing note. Not a burn. Not bitterness. Just… clean delight, as if the liquid itself had washed away fatigue clinging to his bones. He wanted more. No—he needed more.
He looked to the others. The loli's cheeks were stuffed like a squirrel's, her hands busy piling fries into her mouth before anyone else could claim them. The dagger girl's usual guarded expression was gone, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable—like she couldn't quite bring herself to admit that the food had shaken her.
For a brief, strange moment, he felt awe. Not just for the food, but for what it meant. A taste this good in a world so starved of flavor—it was like stumbling into an oasis after wandering deserts.
He coughed once, trying to regain composure, then lifted his hand. His voice came out firmer than he expected, though a flicker of awe still colored his tone.
"Three more servings of everything," he began, almost reverently. His eyes narrowed with hunger, then he added with growing urgency, "And ten glasses of wine."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then—
"Three?" the dagger girl shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. "Are you serious? You think three plates are going to be enough after that?" She jabbed her fork at her own empty dish as if presenting evidence of a crime.
The loli, cheeks still puffed like a squirrel's from stuffing down the last of her fries, swallowed hard and slapped her tiny hands on the table. "No way! At least twenty more! Twenty! And double the fries, or I'll riot!" Her voice cracked with childlike indignation, yet her glare carried all the seriousness of a general demanding reinforcements.
The sword guy blinked. "…Twenty?"
"Yes, twenty!" she barked back, crossing her arms. "If you're going to order, order like you mean it! Three's a snack. I want a feast."
The dagger girl leaned back in her chair, smirking now that she'd regained control of her expression.
"Honestly? She's right. I don't know what that was, but one more plate is just torture. It'd be worse than not eating at all. Order big, or don't bother."
"Big?" the sword guy muttered. "Three servings is big."
"No," both girls said at the same time, their voices slicing through his words.
The loli leaned forward, eyes blazing. "You'll thank me later when we're all too full to move."
The dagger girl tapped her mug against the table with deliberate rhythm. "And don't forget the wine. Ten glasses won't even last half an hour at this rate. Make it… thirty."
"Thirty?!" His brows shot up.
She smirked. "Unless you plan to hog it all yourself."
The loli raised her hand like she was swearing an oath. "I vote for thirty."
The sword guy ran a hand down his face, groaning. His comrades were insane. But when he looked again at his empty plate, at the faint glisten of grease left behind from that heavenly fried chicken, his throat tightened. He wasn't any better.
"…Fine," he muttered, then raised his voice, looking straight at Misha across the room. "Forget what I said earlier! Bring us twenty servings of everything—no, make it twenty-five! And thirty glasses of wine!"
A heavy silence hung in the tavern. With no other patrons present, the echo of his booming order seemed to bounce off the wooden walls and ceiling beams, filling the empty space like a challenge to the building itself.
Misha, however, didn't even flinch. She only gave a small, knowing smile—as if she had expected nothing less from her very first customers—and dipped her head in a graceful bow before turning back toward the kitchen.
The dagger girl chuckled lowly. "See? That's more like it."
The loli beamed, practically bouncing in her seat. "Best decision you've ever made!"
The sword guy leaned back, resigned but strangely satisfied, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. Restraint? Long gone. Tonight, the only law at this table was hunger.
To be continued.....