"Whatever," Magnus sighed, the weight of boredom and mild annoyance dragging down his voice. It was the 19th time Bob had said no to something Magnus suggested—though, to be fair, he'd lost count around the 12th. "You're like a broken kettle, Bob. Always whistling, never useful."
"I take offense to that," Bob muttered. "But more importantly, I won."
"Introduce him before I change my mind."
"Yes, my lord," Bob replied, his face lighting up with a victorious grin as if he had just slain a dragon with paperwork. He clapped his hands once, way too dramatically.
With a puff of smoke and a faint scent of burnt marshmallows, the throne room's doorway shimmered.
Out stepped a man who looked like a theatrical disaster chef crossed with a minor villain from a cursed fairytale. He was tall, thin in the way that looked both elegant and slightly haunted, with long arms and bony fingers made for delicate work—or dramatic gestures.
He wore a double-breasted black chef's coat with silver embroidery shaped like flames licking up the sleeves, buttoned with skull-shaped toggles. A deep crimson scarf was tied around his neck in a loose knot, and it fluttered as he walked, like it had its own flair for the dramatic. His chef's hat was tall, crooked to the side like it had a personality of its own, and bore a stitched-on patch with a fanged smile.
His face was sharp—too sharp. Gaunt cheeks, high cheekbones, and a nose like a carving knife. His skin had a pale grayish hue, like he hadn't seen sunlight in years—probably because he hadn't. One eye was a vibrant gold, glowing faintly with some sort of cursed culinary confidence, while the other was hidden behind a monocle with a cracked lens. His eyebrows were angular and constantly arched like he was perpetually judging the room. And then there was his mustache: black, curled, waxed to wicked points at the ends, and proud. Oh-so-proud.
His lips curled into a devilish grin as he stepped forward, each boot clinking—not with spurs, but with potion bottles strapped around the ankles like a mad alchemist had decorated him. His coat swished with each step, revealing belts and vials filled with mysterious spices and suspiciously glowing herbs.
"Behold," Bob announced with too much pride, "the most promising applicant for head chef in all of Mugthos—Gustav the Gourmet."
Gustav bowed with theatrical grace, spinning once, causing glitter—actual edible glitter—to shimmer off his coat. "It is an honor, my lord Demon King. I bring with me three Michelin screams and a cursed spoon once used by the Witch of Eternal Hunger herself."
Magnus blinked. "What the hell is a Michelin scream?"
"Recognition given when your food is so good it makes people scream… in horror or delight. It's all about volume."
Marianne, who had just arrived with a mop in hand, gave Gustav a once-over that bordered on concern. "Do you wash your hands before you cook?"
Gustav tilted his head, monocle glinting ominously. "You don't?"
Marianne flushed. "N-no! I meant—I was asking if you do!"
"I do," he replied with a grin. "Trained by the best. A very strong human chef who once boiled a dragon alive using only a rice cooker and unresolved rage."
"That's… cool, I guess. You're hired," Magnus said lazily, swirling his finger in the air like he was casting a spell of indifference. He looked more like a bored cat than a Demon King.
Bob's mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a faulty trapdoor, but wisely stayed shut. He'd learned his lesson.
"Wonderful!" Gustav declared, holding up his twisted black spoon like a knight might hold a sword. "Then allow me to prepare the most exquisite feast your infernal tongue has ever tasted!"
Magnus reclined deeper into his throne. "Just keep the kitchen standing. I don't want another spontaneous fire like last week."
"That was the maid's fault," Bob muttered.
"I heard that!" Marianne shouted from across the hall.
Magnus shut his eyes and let the chaos fade into background noise. He could finally relax. Maybe even nap.
"I guess that's all..." he muttered, staring up at the ceiling.
[Watcha doin']
He groaned. "You again? Why do you sound like a chatroom gremlin?"
[So, how's life?]
"Don't talk to me like a friend, fox."
[Sure, sure~]
"I can't belie—"
The throne room doors creaked again, this time too smoothly, like someone had oiled them just for this entrance.
Gustav returned, this time pushing a silver cart with a velvet cover, a towering roast beast steaming on top and a dainty tea set beside it. He balanced a tray of desserts on one arm, walking like a catwalk model who'd studied at a haunted culinary academy.
Each of his boots still clinked, his monocle now fogged from steam, and his scarf looked freshly fluffed.
"Behold, my lord!" Gustav cried, voice echoing like he was performing in an opera. "A roast beast basted with dragon bone broth and seared using the flames of regret—paired with peppermint tea brewed under a full moon with whisperleaf and remorse!"
Magnus opened one eye. "Normal."
Gustav froze. "Ah… but appearances deceive!"
"I didn't ask for lore," Magnus said. "Just feed me."
Bob leaned over. "Peace in this palace? That's rarer than Pride saying thank you."
"I heard that," Lucian's voice echoed from the distance.
Magnus picked up a fork like it weighed a hundred pounds. He poked the meat—it jiggled. Took a bite.
Chewed. Thought.
"…Not bad."
Gustav nearly exploded with joy. "Heavens! That's the highest praise I've received since the skeleton king screamed in delight before dying a second time!"
"Keep it up and I'll scream too."
Marianne strolled over, unimpressed. "Looks overcooked to me."
"I—You dare!" Gustav gasped. "This was cooked at precisely 387 degrees, soul-locked for five minutes!"
She squinted. "Nope. Burnt edges."
"Blasphemy!"
"Enough," Magnus groaned. "Don't burn anything. Don't summon anything. And don't make the tea talk, Gustav."
"Can I make it sing?"
"No."
[Why did you hire him again?].
"So i won't get bored"
[Oh! Then look forward for the next chapter]
"Stop breaking the fourth-wall, idiot."