Misha returned to the table with another round, setting each steaming plate down with care. The scent hit instantly—rich, hot, laced with spice and oil—and the trio's eyes lit up all over again.
The loli reached out with both hands the moment her dish touched the table, hugging it like treasure. Her staff clattered against the wood, ignored completely. She leaned forward, breathing in with wide, sparkling eyes. "It's just as perfect as before… maybe even more."
The sword guy's hand was already moving before she finished speaking. He grabbed a piece of chicken, biting straight in with zero hesitation. The crunch echoed faintly, followed by the burst of juice that made him shut his eyes in raw satisfaction. He tore off another piece immediately after swallowing the first. "Gods above… this is ridiculous. I could eat this every day until I die."
The dagger girl laughed softly, though her own hand was already sneaking in to steal a slice. "You're saying that like you've got any restraint left." She bit in, and her expression softened, disbelief flickering across her face. "Hells… it really does taste better than before."
The loli nodded furiously, cheeks puffed as she tried to speak through a mouthful. "See? I told you! It doesn't matter how full I get—there's always space for this food." She pulled the plate closer, glaring suspiciously at their wandering hands.
"Don't hog it," the sword guy said, reaching across.
"Exactly," the dagger girl smirked, already swiping another piece before he could.
The loli yelped, clutching her fork like a weapon. "Thieves! Both of you!"
The sword guy barked a laugh, grabbing a chunk before she could stop him. "Call me what you want—I'm not leaving a single crumb behind."
The dagger girl joined in, grinning as she chewed. "Better eat fast, little one, or we'll clear your plate for you."
The loli puffed her cheeks in outrage, then dove in even faster, determined not to lose another bite.
Their bickering filled the tavern, light and unrestrained, mingling with the scrape of forks and the clink of mugs. And beneath it all, there was no mistaking the truth: none of them wanted to stop.
Misha watched them with a quiet smile as she gathered the empty plates from their first round. None of the three noticed her leave; they were too busy fencing forks against one another, the loli growling every time one of her companions stole a piece. It wasn't noisy, exactly, but there was a kind of energy at the table—a rhythm of clinking cutlery and muffled laughter—that made the empty tavern feel alive.
Behind the counter, Sabrina slid another batch into the fryer. The oil hissed and popped, carrying with it that irresistible fragrance of spice and crisping meat. She tilted the pan slightly, letting the golden crust shimmer as the heat licked it, then shook her head with a faint smirk. "Look at them," she murmured. "They're eating like it's the last meal of their lives."
__________
The scent didn't stay indoors. It crept out through the open window shutters, spilling into the evening air. A merchant on his way down the street slowed, nose twitching. He glanced toward the tavern door, brow furrowing as if he'd just caught wind of a secret.
A pair of adventurers came next—dusty boots, travel-worn cloaks. They were mid-conversation until the same scent hooked them mid-step. Both stopped, exchanged a glance, then peered inside.
What they saw was a strange sight: a loli clinging to her plate like a dragon to its hoard, a dagger girl swiping bites with a thief's grin, and a sword guy chewing through his third portion as though the concept of "full" had ceased to exist.
The adventurers hesitated at the threshold. Then their stomachs growled audibly, betraying them, and they slipped inside.
The tavern shifted. Quietly, at first. Chairs scraped as new seats were taken. Boots scuffed against wood. A cough, a murmur, the low clink of mugs. Nothing loud. But nothing empty anymore. The air felt heavier, fuller.
In the corner, Tina stirred. She had been quiet for most of the day, but now, seeing the empty seats fill one by one, she rose from her chair. Without needing to be asked, she slipped behind Misha and began carrying out utensils and mugs, her steps a little clumsy but determined.
She set forks down at the new table, fumbling once when two clattered together, but caught herself quickly and straightened up. A faint blush colored her cheeks, though there was also a spark in her eyes.
Misha glanced over from the tray in her hands and gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Just like that. Keep it steady."
"Yes, ma'am," Tina whispered back, gripping the mugs tightly so they wouldn't shake. Her leg still bounced a little, but now it wasn't restlessness—it was energy. Nerves mixed with excitement.
Together, they moved between the counter and tables, the flow smoothening bit by bit. Tina shadowed Misha closely, mirroring her motions, learning without words. The once-empty tavern now had rhythm: plates placed down, mugs filled, silverware clinking, all in tune with the sizzling from Sabrina's fryer.
The room wasn't noisy. But it wasn't empty anymore, either. It felt alive.
At the counter, Woon watched the two of them work, his polishing hand slowing for a moment. A small smile tugged at his lips before he went back to his glass.
And just as the first wave of chatter began to rise, the bell over the door chimed softly, announcing yet another arrival.
__________
Arth stepped inside, brushing road dust from his sleeves. The scent of steel and sweat clung faintly to him, proof of the afternoon's work. His boots scuffed once against the floorboards—then he stopped.
The change was immediate.
That morning, the diner had been hushed, smelling of fresh varnish.
Now it was alive.
Lamps cast a steady warmth across the walls. Voices overlapped in a low, comfortable hum. Cutlery scraped, mugs tapped, chairs shifted. The air was rich with fried spice and baked bread, the kind of smell that sank deep into the chest and refused to let go.
Every table was full. Adventurers with dust still on their cloaks, townsfolk leaning close over their plates, even a hooded traveler silent in the corner—all caught in the rhythm of food and drink.
Arth's brows drew together.
Behind the counter, Woon caught sight of him and lifted a hand. "You're just in time."
Arth walked deeper into the room, taking it all in. "Didn't think we'd see this on the first day."
"Neither did I," Woon admitted, sliding a tray toward Misha. "But here we are. Apron's by the shelf."
Arth blinked. "You're putting me to work?"
"Unless you'd rather stand there watching us drown." Woon's tone was even, but his eyes carried the weight of the room.
Arth exhaled through his nose, reaching for the folded apron. He tied it on with a tug at the knot. "Where do you want me?"
"Drinks first. Then check the window table—they look like they're daring each other to keep going."
Arth's eyes flicked over. The trio sat surrounded by empty dishes, yet none of them seemed ready to quit. The mage was hugging her plate close, nibbling on a fry with a look of pure devotion. The swordsman groaned into his chair, one hand over his stomach, but his other hand still hovered near the next piece of chicken. The dagger girl had begun quietly sliding empties into a neat stack, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and surrender.
Arth huffed softly, almost amused. "That's a battle they're going to lose." He picked up a tray of fresh mugs, balanced it on one hand, and moved through the crowd. The air wrapped around him—warm chatter, the scrape of forks, the rich pull of spice in every breath. It wasn't noise. It was proof the place was alive.
.
.
.
By the time the last customer stepped out and the door eased shut with a soft clack, the Isekai Diner looked less like a business and more like the aftermath of a hard-fought siege.
The tables were in disarray. Mugs lay toppled on their sides like helmets discarded after battle. Plates were scraped so clean they reflected lanternlight. Chairs sat at angles that made no architectural sense—some halfway turned, others slumped like they'd simply given up trying to stand upright. Crumbs, grease, and seasoning dust streaked the floor in trails that could've been mistaken for tracks left by desperate survivors.
The air still pulsed faintly with heat. The scent of frying oil and spiced meat clung to the walls, the ceiling, even the glass of the lanterns. The room had the hush of something that had roared for hours and only just gone quiet. Lanternlight flickered gently, stretching shadows across the mess like the whole place was finally exhaling.
No one spoke at first. They just existed.
Woon stood behind the counter, arms crossed, shoulders rising and falling with quiet, slow breaths. His shirt clung to his back, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light at his temples. He wasn't panting, but he was close.
Sabrina leaned against the counter beside him. Her apron—crisp that morning—was now stained in layers, from collar to hem. A few strands of hair slipped from her braid, curling against her cheek. She stared ahead at nothing, expression caught halfway between pride and shellshock.
Jake dropped backward into a chair that was only mostly intact. The legs creaked under him, but he didn't care. His arms hung limp at his sides. "I think my knees just gave out," he rasped, like he was reporting a medical fact.
"I can't feel my shoulders," came Misha's muffled voice from somewhere below eye level. She was half under a table, collapsed on a pile of dropped cloths like they'd cushioned her fall during the final wave.
Tina lay flat on the floorboards, a wine-damp rag folded over her forehead like a battlefield dressing. One arm sprawled out, the other clutching a spoon she had forgotten to put down. "…I'm beat," she mumbled, voice small, barely moving.
Tyson had stationed himself against the doorframe, back pressed to the wood, head tilted slightly up. He breathed in the slow, heavy rhythm of someone who had run out of words before he'd run out of work.
Arth stepped in from the back, towel in hand, shirt damp at the collar, hair sticking up in odd angles. He looked around at everyone: the chairs, the toppled mugs, the exhausted faces.
"Looks like we survived the first day," he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips—but his eyes scanned each person carefully. "…Though, uh… can everyone actually keep going tomorrow?"
Woon didn't reply immediately, just rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll see."
Arth exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright… just making sure. Don't want anyone collapsing on day two."
Woon finally pushed off the counter. "You're fine. Go take a breather, if you need it."
No one moved much, but for the first time in a while, there was the faintest easing of shoulders.
Woon turned, cracked his knuckles, and walked toward the back kitchen.
Nobody followed. Nobody even straightened up. They just watched him go, eyes tracking him like people too tired to question anything but too conscious not to notice. The room settled back into stillness, the air thick with sweat, oil, and the quiet hum of lantern-light.
Time dragged—long enough for their muscles to cool and the ache in their joints to fully register.
Then it happened.
A shift in the air, subtle at first, almost unnoticed. Then stronger, rolling in like a living thing. The aroma hit.
Slow at first—like a faint breeze sneaking in through the cracks—then fuller, spreading through the diner with deliberate weight. Rich spices. Something creamy. Something deep and warm that clung to the ribs of memory even if none of them had ever smelled it before. It rolled over the tables and into their lungs, and every stomach answered with a low, undignified growl.
Tina's head snapped up, hair sticking to her temple. "What is that smell?"
Jake blinked like someone had called his name from another world. "I've never smelled anything like this before…"
Even Tyson's shoulders lifted slightly as he inhaled, the closest thing he had to visible curiosity.
Misha pushed herself upright with her arms, squinting toward the kitchen.
They didn't have to wait long.
Woon stepped out from the back, both hands wrapped in a thick towel around a massive iron pot. He carried it like it weighed nothing, but the metal still landed on the biggest table with a heavy, reassuring thud. Steam coiled upward in amber ribbons, the scent blooming even stronger now—warm, sharp, and unfamiliar in all the right ways.
Woon said nothing at first. He just set the pot down and lifted the lid.
A wave of steam surged out, thick with spice and depth and something that made every pair of eyes sharpen at once.
Tina leaned in, voice soft. "Is that… stew?"
"Curry," Woon said.
The word meant nothing to them and everything to their senses.
Misha stared like she'd just witnessed sorcery. Arth crossed his arms but didn't bother hiding the interest in his eyes.
Woon ladled the curry into deep bowls one by one. The sauce was thick and glossy, settling over soft white rice they hadn't even realized he'd made. Chunks of meat and vegetables peeked through the golden surface like treasure buried under spice.
Jake didn't wait for anyone. He took the closest bowl, blew on it once, and ate a spoonful.
"…Yeah. I needed that," he said, already going in for another.
Tina dug in next and blinked. "The meat's so soft… it just melts."
Misha shoveled a bite in, then another. "What is this flavor? I can't stop eating."
Arth took his first spoonful, chewed, and frowned slightly. "…Never had anything like this before."
Sabrina lifted a forkful of rice and sauce, tasting carefully. "It's rich… and the rice actually makes it better."
Tyson stayed quiet, but he finished half his bowl before anyone else had taken another bite.
Jake leaned back slightly, spoon resting in his hand. "I didn't expect it to taste this good."
Misha lifted her bowl with a careful hand. "You'll be making this again tomorrow, right?"
Tina smiled, setting down her spoon for a moment. "Honestly… I could eat this every day."
Arth took another measured bite. "If dinner's always like this, I'll have no complaints."
Sabrina offered a small, approving nod. "It's really well done."
__________
Woon stepped back slightly, letting them finish at their own pace. He watched quietly as Tina lifted another bite, paused, and smiled faintly at the flavor. Misha's eyes sparkled with each spoonful, her movements careful but eager. Jake leaned forward, chewing slowly, savoring every mouthful, while Arth's gaze lingered on his bowl, focused, yet relaxed. Sabrina's fork moved methodically, a small nod accompanying each taste. Even Tyson, usually reserved, hunched slightly over his food, finishing steadily without a word.
The diner was almost silent aside from the gentle scrape of spoons and the soft murmur of contented breaths. Steam curled from the bowls, warm and fragrant, filling the space with a comforting haze.
After a few moments, Woon's eyes drifted from their bowls to the window. Outside, the street was bathed in silver moonlight, calm and still, a quiet contrast to the warmth and motion inside.
From this day, their new daily routine began.
To be continued.....