One month had passed since that breakfast conversation, and my life had transformed in ways that were both calculated and chaotic.
The cooking lessons had begun immediately. Riya hadn't wasted time—within three days, she'd assembled a team of professional chefs, culinary instructors, and video production specialists. My mornings became a blur of knife techniques, flavor profiles, and ingredient preparation. My afternoons were dedicated to Hunter training. My evenings were spent reviewing footage and planning content.
The Photographic Memory talent proved invaluable. Every technique demonstrated, every recipe explained, every correction offered—all of it locked into my mind with perfect clarity. What should have taken months to learn, I absorbed in weeks.
But knowledge and execution were different things.
"Your julienne is uneven," Chef Margaux said flatly, examining my vegetable cuts with the critical eye of someone who'd spent forty years in professional kitchens. "Cooking isn't just memorizing steps. It's developing feel, intuition, muscle memory."
She was right, of course. My Adaptation talent helped bridge the gap faster than normal, but there were no shortcuts to true mastery.
Still, progress came quickly.
Within two weeks, I'd filmed my first cooking video—a simple pasta dish, nothing complicated, but executed with precision and presented with the kind of visual appeal that made people stop scrolling. Syra had overseen the production, managing lighting, camera angles, and editing with surprising expertise.
"Cooking shows are about personality as much as food," she'd explained, reviewing the rough cut with a critical eye. "People need to feel like they're cooking *with* you, not just watching you perform."
The video went live on a new channel Syra had created, carefully branded to be separate from the family name. "Yan's Kitchen" was simple, unpretentious, focused entirely on the food and the process.
The response was... modest. A few thousand views in the first week. Comments ranged from genuine interest to skeptical mockery.
*"Isn't this the dog-licker young master?"*
*"Rich boy playing at being a chef, how original."*
*"Actually pretty good technique for a beginner..."*
I'd expected the cynicism. The original Riyan's reputation cast a long shadow, and changing public perception would require consistency and time.
So I kept filming. One video per week, gradually increasing complexity. Basic techniques, simple recipes, nothing flashy—just solid fundamentals executed well and explained clearly.
By the second month, viewership had grown to tens of thousands. The channel's comment section showed a slow shift in tone:
*"Okay, he's actually serious about this."*
*"That knife work is legitimately impressive."*
*"I made his carbonara recipe and it was perfect!"*
The "dog-licker" comments persisted, but they were becoming background noise rather than the dominant narrative.
Syra had been surprisingly invested in the project, despite her initial reluctance. She reviewed every video before publication, offered strategic advice about content direction, and handled the growing business inquiries with professional efficiency.
Our relationship remained complicated—she still viewed me with suspicion, still watched for signs that I'd revert to the obsessive fool I'd been. But the outright hostility had dulled to something more like cautious professional respect.
"Don't get complacent," she'd warned after the channel hit one hundred thousand subscribers. "One scandal, one slip-up, and all this momentum disappears."
I'd taken her warning seriously.
Meanwhile, my Hunter training had intensified. Riya personally oversaw my combat sessions, pushing me harder than any instructor would dare. She was ruthless, uncompromising, and somehow simultaneously encouraging and terrifying.
"Your fundamentals are garbage," she'd said bluntly during one sparring session, disarming me with casual ease. "You've got talent and decent stats, but no real foundation. We're fixing that."
She'd proceeded to drill basic spear forms into my muscle memory with relentless repetition. Thrust, parry, sweep, strike. Thousands of repetitions until my arms burned and my hands blistered.
But it worked.
My Adaptation talent accelerated the process, my body learning and optimizing movements faster than normal. Combined with the Spear Saint talent, I could feel the weapon becoming an extension of my will rather than just a tool.
Livia trained alongside me most mornings, her archery practice a study in patient precision. She'd shoot for hours, each arrow placed with surgical accuracy, her Ice affinity manifesting in frost patterns that crept along her bowstring.
And she watched me. Constantly.
Her fingers would tap that rhythm whenever I was near—one-two-three, one-two-three—and her blue eyes tracked my movements with an intensity that made my skin crawl. The "deep obsession" wasn't just a status rating; it was a tangible presence, a weight I couldn't shake.
"You're improving so quickly, Yan," she'd say, her smile bright and her tone warm. "I'm so proud of you."
But underneath the warmth was something hungry, something possessive that made me very careful about how I interacted with her.
Four months after the cooking channel launched, my subscriber count had crossed five hundred thousand. Brands were reaching out for sponsorships. Culinary magazines requested interviews. My name was becoming recognized, not as "the dog-licker young master," but as "that cooking channel guy with the insane knife skills."
The system tracked my progress:
[Fame Index: 62% Continental Recognition]
[Task Progress: 74% Complete]
[Estimated Time to Full Completion: 4-6 weeks]
But fame alone wasn't enough. I needed something that would cement my reputation beyond just cooking videos—something that would demonstrate substance, character, depth.
That's when I remembered the timeline.
The Southern District Gate Outbreak. It was coming soon—within the week, if my memory of the novel's chronology was accurate. A B-rank gate would destabilize and break, flooding the district with monsters. Dozens would die, including Roy Mark, one of the minor Children of Destiny.
And Syra would be the one to clear it, cementing her reputation as one of the continent's elite hunters.
I had three options: intervene and try to prevent it, warn people and risk being dismissed as delusional, or let it play out and use the aftermath strategically.
The pragmatic part of me—the cold, calculating part that understood I was playing a different game than the heroes—chose the third option.
I hated myself a little for it.
But changing the timeline had risks I couldn't calculate. Saving Roy Mark might create butterfly effects that disrupted my knowledge advantage. It might alert whatever cosmic forces controlled this world's narrative that something fundamental had changed.
More practically, who would believe me? A teenage cooking content creator claiming to know when a gate would destabilize would be dismissed as seeking attention or suffering delusions.
So I waited, trained harder, and prepared for the aftermath.
---
The day of the outbreak, I was in the kitchen filming a video about braising techniques when my phone exploded with emergency alerts.
[GATE BREACH - SOUTHERN DISTRICT]
[ALL HUNTERS REPORT IMMEDIATELY]
[CIVILIANS EVACUATE TO DESIGNATED SHELTERS]
I stopped mid-sentence, pulling out my phone as notifications cascaded across the screen. News feeds, emergency broadcasts, frantic messages from Livia asking if I was safe.
"We need to stop," I told the production crew, already pulling off my apron.
Syra appeared in the doorway, already armored, her expression grim. "Southern district. B-rank gate went critical. I'm heading there now."
"Be careful," I said, and meant it.
She gave me a look I couldn't quite read—something between surprise and suspicion—then nodded once and was gone, moving with the kind of speed that reminded me exactly how dangerous she was.
I dismissed the crew and pulled up news coverage on the main screen.
The footage was chaos. Camera drones captured scenes of destruction—buildings torn apart, streets cratered, civilians running in panic. Monsters poured from the broken gate like a flood: Razorwings with blade-tipped wings, Stonehide Brutes that shrugged off conventional weapons, and a pack of Shadowstalkers that melted in and out of darkness.
Hunters scrambled to respond, but the surprise attack had already claimed lives. I watched bodies being carried away, injured civilians being evacuated, and felt that cold calculation settle over me.
This was necessary. Tragic, but necessary.
Then Syra arrived on screen, and everything changed.
---
She hit the battlefield like a force of nature, her greenish-white hair streaming behind her as she moved with speed that made her almost blur.
A Stonehide Brute charged toward a group of trapped civilians. Syra intercepted, her light flexible sword—Whisperwind, I remembered from the novel—already in motion.
*Slash.*
The blade cut across the Brute's knee joint, severing tendons. The monster stumbled.
*Thrust.*
Her sword punched through the gap in its stone hide, piercing the vulnerable flesh beneath. The Brute roared.
*Pivot.*
Syra spun away from a retaliatory swing, her wind magic propelling her backward ten feet in an instant.
*Slash-slash-parry.*
Three Razorwings descended on her position. Her blade moved in a precise sequence—deflecting the first's dive, severing the second's wing, and using the momentum to redirect the third into the ground.
*Stomp.*
Her boot came down on the grounded Razorwing's skull with enhanced force, crushing it.
The entire exchange took four seconds.
A Shadowstalker emerged from darkness behind her, claws extended.
*Spin.*
Syra twisted, her sword already cutting in a horizontal arc. Wind magic enhanced the strike, extending the blade's effective range by two feet.
*Slice.*
The Shadowstalker's head separated from its body before it even realized it was dead.
*Thrust-thrust-slash.*
She pressed forward into the monster horde, each movement economical and lethal. Her blade found weak points with surgical precision—throats, joints, eyes, any vulnerable gap in armor or hide.
A pack of five Stonehide Brutes charged in formation.
*Step left.*
Syra sidestepped the first Brute's charge.
*Slash.*
Her blade severed its Achilles tendon as it passed.
*Jump.*
She vaulted over the second Brute's swing, using wind magic to add height.
*Thrust down.*
Her sword plunged through the top of its skull mid-air.
*Land.*
She hit the ground in a crouch.
*Roll forward.*
The third Brute's fist cratered the pavement where she'd been standing.
*Upward slash.*
Her blade cut through its wrist as she rose from the roll.
*Spin.*
The fourth Brute's charge met her rotating blade, the edge cutting across its eyes and blinding it.
*Thrust.*
The final Brute received her sword through its throat before it could adjust to her positioning.
Five kills in eight seconds.
The camera drones struggled to track her movements as she carved through the monster horde. Every step was purposeful. Every strike was precise. Her sword never stopped moving—it flowed from one form to the next in continuous deadly sequence.
*Parry-riposte.*
A Razorwing's diving attack deflected, her counter-thrust piercing its chest.
*Sidestep-slash.*
A Shadowstalker's ambush avoided, her blade opening its throat.
*Block-kick-thrust.*
A Stonehide Brute's fist caught on her sword, her boot slamming into its knee to unbalance it, her blade punching through its eye socket.
Her wind magic wasn't flashy—no massive tornadoes or dramatic displays. Instead, it was tactical. A burst of acceleration here, a blade extension there, redirecting enemy attacks, propelling her out of danger zones.
Efficiency. Precision. Lethality.
Thirty minutes into the fight, she'd cleared half the monster horde single-handedly.
A massive Razorwing—easily C-rank, larger and more dangerous than the others—descended toward a group of injured hunters. Syra saw it, her green eyes narrowing.
*Sprint.*
She crossed fifty meters in three seconds, wind magic propelling each step.
*Jump.*
She launched herself at the descending Razorwing, sword raised.
*Vertical slash.*
Her blade, enhanced with concentrated wind magic, cut through the creature's wing membrane.
The Razorwing screeched and spiraled.
*Air step.*
Syra used wind magic to create a platform mid-air, pushing off it to adjust her angle.
*Horizontal slash.*
Her blade severed the Razorwing's head as she passed.
*Land.*
She hit the ground in a perfect three-point stance, already scanning for the next threat.
The injured hunters stared at her with expressions of awe and terror.
Forty-five minutes. The monster horde was down to scattered remnants.
*Slash-slash-thrust.*
Three Shadowstalkers eliminated in rapid succession.
*Parry-counter.*
A Stonehide Brute's charge redirected, her blade finding its brain through the ear canal.
*Thrust-withdraw-thrust.*
Two Razorwings impaled on consecutive strikes.
Fifty minutes. The battlefield was littered with monster corpses.
Syra stood in the center of the carnage, her sword still ready, her breathing controlled despite the extended combat. Blood—not hers—covered her armor and face. Her greenish-white hair was matted with gore.
But her eyes were clear, focused, already scanning for any remaining threats.
The last Shadowstalker tried to flee into darkness.
*Wind Blade.*
Syra's magic manifested as a crescent of compressed air, traveling faster than the eye could track.
*Slice.*
The Shadowstalker fell in two pieces.
Silence.
The gate had been cleared. The outbreak contained.
Syra lowered her sword slowly, her posture finally relaxing slightly. Around her, other hunters were emerging from cover, civilians were being evacuated, and emergency responders were flooding the area.
The camera drones captured her standing alone in the devastation, a solitary figure covered in blood but unbroken.
A hero.
---
I watched the entire fight from my screen, my analytical mind cataloging every technique, every tactical decision, every demonstration of skill.
A+ rank wasn't just a number. It was this—the ability to single-handedly contain a gate outbreak that should have required a full hunter team.
The media coverage was relentless for days. Syra's face dominated every news outlet. Interviews, commemorations, public speeches. Her favorability with the public skyrocketed.
And I watched it all with careful attention, waiting for the right moment.
On the seventh day after the incident, I made my move.
I'd spent the previous week preparing something different from my usual cooking content—a charity initiative using my platform and growing influence. I organized a memorial fundraiser, coordinating with families of the fallen hunters to create something meaningful.
The project was simple: a video series honoring each hunter who'd died in the outbreak. Not just their names and ranks, but their stories—who they were, what they loved, why they'd chosen to fight.
I filmed each segment personally, treating it with the respect it deserved. No dramatic music, no emotional manipulation. Just straightforward honoring of people who'd sacrificed everything.
The first video featured Roy Mark, the minor Son of Destiny who'd died in the initial monster wave. His family provided photos and stories, and I presented them with quiet dignity.
The series went viral.
*"Young Master Riyan shows unexpected depth..."*
*"Using his platform for good—respect."*
*"Maybe we judged too quickly based on past behavior."*
I donated all ad revenue from the series to the hunters' families fund. Publicly. Transparently. With accounting records available for anyone who wanted to verify.
The gesture was calculated, strategic, designed to shift public perception. But it was also genuine. These people had died because I'd chosen not to intervene, and this was the only atonement I could offer.
Three weeks after the outbreak, my subscriber count had crossed two million. My name was becoming recognized across the continent, not as "the dog-licker," but as something more complex.
The system confirmed what I already knew:
[Ding!]
[Fame Task Completion: 100%]
[Continental Recognition: 91%]
[Public Favorability: Significantly Improved]
[Rewarding Host with Skill: Aura Breathing]
Warmth flooded my body as new knowledge integrated into my mind. Aura Breathing—a technique that would strengthen my body passively, even during normal activities.
[Ding!]
[New Task Generated...]
[Would you like to open it?]
"Yes."
[Task: Achieve First Place in Reyas Academy Entrance Exam]
[Time Limit: 2 months]
[Reward: Yunling Spear (★★★★★)]
[Additional Objective: Defeat or surpass Alex Karots in exam rankings]
[Bonus Reward: +500 Villain Points]
I smiled coldly.
Finally. A direct confrontation with the protagonist.
Time to show destiny exactly what its "villain" could do.
---