Smith Jr. stood in front of a stove holding a pan filled with egg fried rice. He lifted the pan off the fire and tilted it, pushing the rice down with a spatula into an empty bowl. For Smith Jr. egg fried rice was an extremely easy dish to cook. He didn’t even need to use the recipe. With a steaming bowl of egg fried rice in his hand, he looked around before settling his gaze on the ceiling. “System, I’m done.”

[Young chef, if that is egg fried rice, then you are a god. Since you are clearly not a god, then that is not egg fried rice. Please try again.]

“Not egg fried rice?” Smith Jr. furrowed his brow and stared at the bowl. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. It was filled with egg fried rice.

[Follow the recipe to cook egg fried rice.]

Smith Jr. frowned and went to take a look at the recipe. When he pulled it off of the refrigerator door, there were a lot more pages than he had first thought. The first page contained a list of the ingredients. The next page was filled with instructions on how to cook the rice. It had to be scooped out of the bag whilst wearing special gloves in order to prevent any bit of oil or dirt or sweat from getting in. It had to be washed three times in its pot with water, and the water had to be swirled in a specific manner. Smith Jr.’s uncomfortable feeling in his stomach grew even stronger as he read further and further down the page. For heaven’s sake, there was a specific angle that he had to hold the pot whilst washing the rice to prevent even a single grain from being lost. “System, how is anyone supposed to cook rice following this recipe?”

[Taste may be subjective, but there’s objectively a perfectly cooked egg fried rice. Follow the recipe to taste perfection.]

Smith Jr. frowned at the response. He seemed to be doing a lot of that, frowning. However, frowning wouldn’t change a thing. There was a piece of advice his father had given him when Smith Jr. was younger, and he had never forgotten it: If someone stronger than you tells you to do something, you do it. Smith Jr. and all his ancestors had abided by that piece of advice, and their family line could be traced back for over two hundred thousand years, so obviously, the advice worked. And Smith Jr. was no fool. That golem out there, Red Asura, it was way, way, way stronger than anyone Smith Jr. had ever seen before. With the golem staring at him from the entrance of the restaurant, Smith Jr. put his heart and soul into reading the recipe.

After studying the recipe, Smith Jr. produced another bowl of egg fried rice. “Finished. Please evaluate it, system.”

[The eggs aren’t spread evenly over all the grains of rice. Each grain of rice must be golden and shiny.]

…

Five tries later.

“Please evaluate it.”

[The eggs are undercooked. The residual heat isn’t enough for the eggs to finish cooking.]

…

Twenty tries later.

“Done.”

[A droplet of your sweat landed in the pan while you were cooking. Are you trying to sell egg fried rice or your sweat? Try again.]

…

Fifty tries later.

“Is this acceptable?”

[It is not. The rice at the bottom of the pan is one degree higher than the rice at the top. The rice must be kept in constant motion to keep each grain at the same temperature.]

…

Two hundred tries later.

“Kill me.”

[The system will not kill the chosen one.]

…

Five hundred tries later.

“Alright, what did I do wrong this time?”

[A single grain of rice was lost whilst emptying the water from the pot. Are you even trying?]

…

One thousand and one tries later.

“System, where are the eggs?”

[Do you think eggs grow on trees? The current stockpile has run out because of your constant failures.]

***

“I really don’t have any more eggs!” Karta said with bulging cheeks.

Vremya grabbed at Karta’s face, but the Labrador Retriever pulled back, avoiding his hands. “Stop being so stingy,” the old man said. “It’s just a few eggs.”

“A few!? You call a thousand eggs a few!?” Karta asked. “If you use them all, how am I supposed to train my chef?”

Vremya rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you say you’d help me out?”

“If you want eggs so badly, catch your own damn chickens!” Karta stared at Vremya, her cheeks still bulging. The eggs she was holding in her mouth made her feel a bit uncomfortable, but a little bit of discomfort was better than letting Vremya bankrupt her. She had already seen what the old man did to the alcoholic monk, Pozhar. “Look, there’s plenty of ways for you to get thunder chickens, okay? You can purchase them from the marketplace with spirit stones, or you can descend into a lower world, or you can create a leveling system and order your user to catch some for you. I said I’d help you out, but I’m a firm believer of teaching a man to fish instead of giving him one.”

Vremya rubbed his chin. It wouldn’t feel right to start another system now. The user of his first system couldn’t even complete the first mission. Where would he get the confidence to open up another? Of the two remaining options, there really was only one choice. As someone born from a river, his first response was always to go with the flow, to take the easy way out. “Where’s the marketplace?”

“It’s Rynok’s app in the lower left. The icon looks like a basket.”

Vremya tapped on the app, and Karta exhaled, letting the chicken eggs fall out of her mouth and into a bag. “Huh, there’s a lot of things on here,” Vremya said, his eyes lighting up upon seeing the display.

“Well, Rynok’s the god of the market,” Karta said. “Everyone agreed to use him as a broker. People put things up for sale, and other people buy them.”

“I suppose Rynok gets a cut of the sales for brokering it,” Vremya said. It made sense to him. The god must’ve been impressive for managing such a lucrative business.

“Nah.” Karta shook her head. “Every time a transaction is complete, Rynok gets a little stronger. It’s similar to how every time someone cooks or eats a potato chip, I get stronger.”

Vremya nodded, his head moving slowly. If that was the case, then he felt like he could understand why Karta was so upset by the fact potato chips were nearly pushed out of the snack market. Vremya browsed through twenty tabs in the marketplace before he finally found the chickens. There was a surprising amount of them. “Which ones should I get?”

“Thunder chickens,” Karta said. “They’re the best for low-level chefs; plus, they’ll eat anything. You’ll have to try very hard to starve them to death.” Karta stared at Vremya as he loaded his cart up with a hundred chickens. Her eyes widened. “Ooh! Since you’re semi-rich, you can buy a caretaker golem too. They’ll automatically harvest the eggs for you.”

Vremya shifted his gaze onto Karta. “I’ve seen your chicken farm. Where’s your caretaking golem?”

“I’m a poor lesser god with barely any divinity left,” Karta said and pouted. “How can I afford a golem?” She licked her lips. “When you get one, let me use it too, okay?”

“Sure,” Vremya said. He browsed the marketplace, and his eyes bulged upon seeing the price of the golems. The first one he saw cost one hundred thousand heaven-grade spirit stones! That was worth a thousand trucks! “Why are these so expensive!?”

“Err….” Karta blinked three times. “Try going through a few more pages until we find the cheap knockoffs.”

Vremya pressed the next-page button a few times. “There’s a pretty cheap one here,” he said. “It only costs ten heaven-grade spirit stones.” His brow furrowed. “The reviews for it aren’t that great though. It says here that the golem—”

“It’ll be fine,” Karta said, pressing her paw on the image of the golem, adding it to the cart. “Look at how cheap it is. Even if it breaks down, we can buy another one.”