Once again I started to change subject to modeling.
"I was thinking about the modeling industry—"
Riya's glass hit the table with a sharp *click*.
The sound wasn't loud, but it cut through my words like a blade. I stopped mid-sentence, watching as my mother's expression shifted from interested to... amused? No, not quite. There was something darker underneath, something that made the air in the room feel heavier.
"Modeling," she repeated, and there was a dangerous edge to her voice that the warm tone didn't quite hide. "You want to become a model."
"Yes," I said carefully, suddenly aware I'd stepped onto uncertain ground.
Riya leaned back in her chair, picked up her lemon juice, and drained half the glass in one long pull. When she set it down, her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
"No."
The refusal was flat, absolute, delivered with the kind of finality that ended arguments before they began.
Livia made a small sound of surprise. Syra looked like she was trying not to smirk. And I felt my carefully constructed argument crumbling before I'd even finished making it.
"Mom—"
"Let me explain something to you, Yan." Riya's voice was pleasant, conversational, but there was steel underneath. "Do you know what happens to pretty boys who become models? Especially ones who look like you do?"
I had a sinking feeling I was about to find out.
"They become masturbation material," she said bluntly, and Syra choked on her tea. "Girls buy their magazines and photos so they can rub their pussies while staring at your face. Men do the same, depending on the demographic. The entire industry is built on sexual commodification dressed up as 'art' and 'fashion.'"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Livia had gone very still beside me, her blue eyes wide and her fingers curled into fists against the table. Syra was staring at our mother like she'd never heard her speak quite this directly before. And I... I was trying to process the fact that my mother had just torpedoed my plan with surgical precision.
"I—" I started.
"You want fame? Recognition? Influence?" Riya interrupted, her tone shifting back to something warmer but no less intense. "I respect that. I even approve. But I'm not letting my son turn himself into jerk-off material for strangers. That's non-negotiable."
She picked up her lemon juice and took another long sip, her eyes never leaving mine.
"However," she continued, and I felt a flicker of hope, "I have a better idea."
I waited, not trusting myself to speak yet.
"Cooking," Riya said simply. "You'll learn to cook, and you'll make videos. Cooking shows, recipe tutorials, whatever the current trend is. Build your following that way."
I blinked. "Cooking."
"Cooking," she confirmed, and her smile widened. "It's respectable. It's skill-based rather than appearance-based—though your looks certainly won't hurt the viewership numbers. It builds the same kind of public recognition you want, but without the degenerative aspects of modeling. And—" she leaned forward, her expression shifting to something almost playful, "—it's useful. Models learn to pose and look pretty. Cooks learn to create something people actually need."
Syra made a sound that might have been a laugh quickly suppressed. "You want him to become a celebrity chef?"
"Why not?" Riya shrugged, the gesture somehow managing to be both elegant and dismissive. "The Descartes family has always valued practical skills alongside combat prowess. Yan wants independence and recognition? Fine. He can earn it by actually mastering something worthwhile instead of standing in front of cameras looking decorative."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. The logic was sound, even if I hated it. Cooking videos could build the same kind of public platform, the same reach across the continent. And my mother had just made it abundantly clear that modeling wasn't an option she'd support.
But there was also the unspoken message underneath: *I'm protecting you from something you don't fully understand yet.*
"I don't know how to cook," I said finally.
"Then you'll learn." Riya's tone brooked no argument. "I'll hire the best instructors. Professional chefs, culinary masters, whatever you need. You have your Photographic Memory talent—use it. Study techniques, memorize recipes, practice until you're good enough to build a following."
She stood, moving around the table with that fluid grace that spoke of absolute confidence. When she reached my chair, she placed a hand on my shoulder—the touch warm, maternal, but I could feel the strength behind it.
"This is what I'm offering, Yan. Take it, or continue being invisible for the next three years. Your choice."
It wasn't really a choice, and we both knew it.
I looked up at her, meeting those blue eyes that held calculation and concern in equal measure. "And if I agree? What are the conditions?"
"Smart boy," she murmured, and there was genuine approval in her voice. "First: you maintain your training as a Hunter. Combat practice, mana control, everything. The cooking is secondary to your real future."
"Agreed."
"Second: Syra oversees the project. She has experience with public relations from guild work. She'll keep you from making idiotic decisions and ensure your public image stays clean."
I glanced at Syra, who looked like she'd just been handed a particularly complicated puzzle. Her expression shifted between surprise, suspicion, and what might have been curiosity.
"Mom, I don't—" Syra started.
"You'll do it," Riya said, her tone leaving no room for discussion. "You've spent years complaining about Yan's behavior. Here's your chance to actually shape him into something less embarrassing."
Syra's jaw tightened, but she nodded slowly. "Fine. But if he screws this up, it's on him."
"Fair enough," I said before the situation could deteriorate further.
Riya's hand squeezed my shoulder once, then released. "Third condition: no shortcuts. You learn properly, master the fundamentals, build your skills legitimately. I won't have you representing this family with half-assed efforts."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied, and meant it. If I was going to do this, I'd do it right.
My mother smiled—a real smile, warm and slightly dangerous. "Good. I'll start making arrangements today. Professional kitchen setup, instructor interviews, video production equipment. We'll have you filming within the week."
She moved back to her seat, picked up her lemon juice, and raised the glass in a mock toast. "Welcome to your new career, Yan. Try not to burn the house down."
Livia, who'd been silent through the entire exchange, suddenly grabbed my arm with both hands. Her smile was bright, but there was something intense in her eyes. "This is perfect, Yan! I'll help you taste-test everything. We can do it together!"
The possessiveness in her tone was impossible to miss. I glanced at her, noting the way her fingers had locked around my sleeve, the subtle shift in her posture that angled her body toward mine.
"Sure, Liv," I said carefully. "That would be helpful."
Her smile widened, and her fingers tapped that rhythm against my arm again. One-two-three. One-two-three.
Syra gathered her things with less enthusiasm, but as she passed my chair, she paused. "Maybe you really have changed," she said quietly, her green eyes assessing. "Or maybe this is just another phase. Either way, don't waste my time."
Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Riya finished her lemon juice and stood, smoothing her dress with practiced elegance. "I have guild business to attend to. Yan, expect a schedule by this evening. Livia, stop clinging to your brother and finish your breakfast. And both of you—training session at three. Don't be late."
She swept out of the room, leaving behind the faint scent of lemon and the weight of expectations.
I let out a long breath, my mind already recalculating. Cooking instead of modeling. Not what I'd planned, but the fundamental goal remained the same: build fame, establish influence, create a foundation separate from family connections.
The method had changed. The objective hadn't.
Livia's fingers were still wrapped around my arm, her blue eyes studying my face with that unsettling intensity. "You really meant it, didn't you? About Fera?"
The question was quiet, almost hesitant, but there was something hungry underneath it.
"I meant it," I confirmed. "That obsession was pathetic and pointless. I'm done with it."
Her smile was brilliant, radiant, and completely at odds with the darkness I could sense lurking behind it. "Good. Because you have so much more important things to focus on now."
She released my arm slowly, reluctantly, and stood. "I need to go practice. But I'll see you at training, right?"
"Right."
She left with one last glance over her shoulder, and I was finally alone with the servants clearing dishes and my own thoughts.
I pulled up the system interface mentally.
[Ding!]
[Task: Become Famous in This World - Updated]
[New Path: Culinary Fame]
[Sub-Task: Master cooking fundamentals within 3 months]
[Sub-Task: Launch successful cooking video series within 6 months]
[Sub-Task: Achieve continental recognition within 2 years]
[Reward: Unique Skill Aura Breathing]
[Time Limit: Two Years]
The system had adapted to the change in plans. That was... surprisingly flexible.
I stood, moving toward the windows that overlooked the estate gardens. The morning sun was bright, the grounds immaculate, everything perfectly maintained by the army of servants the family employed.
Modeling would have been easier. More direct. But my mother had made a valid point, even if her delivery had been characteristically blunt. The modeling industry came with baggage I didn't need—objectification, sexual commodification, the wrong kind of attention.
Cooking, on the other hand, was skill-based. Respected. And with the right approach, it could build the same platform while positioning me as someone with genuine talent rather than just a pretty face.
My Photographic Memory would let me memorize recipes and techniques perfectly. My Adaptation talent would help me refine my skills rapidly. And my improved Charm would make the videos engaging, watchable, the kind of content that went viral.
It could work.
It *would* work.
Because failure wasn't an option. Not with curses hanging over my head, not with a protagonist destined to destroy everything I cared about, not with a goddess watching to see if I'd live up to her expectations.
I turned away from the window and headed for my room. I had three hours before training, and I needed to start planning. Research current cooking trends, identify gaps in the market, figure out what kind of content would resonate.
The path had changed.
But the destination remained the same.
And I'd reach it, no matter what obstacles the world threw in my way.