Saving the God Emperor while Destroying the Worlds

Chapter 4: Arc 1.1: Culinary World

Ye Suiyuan opened his eyes.

The ceiling above was an elaborate painting of swirling clouds and gold inlay, so impossibly ornate it could have belonged in a palace of gods. His gaze lazily swept over the room. It has polished marble floors that reflected the intricate carvings of dragon motifs on the walls, silk draperies cascading like molten water over floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture carved from dark, rare wood, lacquered until it gleamed. A chandelier of crystal and gold hovered above, catching the sunlight in refracted rainbows that played across the room’s corners.

A faint scent of sandalwood and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of fine leather, polished metal, and something sweet, perhaps sugared tea or a confection tray left untouched.

He noticed the bed first. A canopy of embroidered silk, heavy and regal, draped in layers of pillows that seemed to float just above the mattress. A soft rug of deep crimson and gold covered the floor beneath, its threads gleaming faintly with the shimmer of some rare material.

Ye Suiyuan flexed his fingers. The room’s grandeur, the perfection, it all… mattered not.

“…Huh.” His voice was flat, almost bored. “…I live like this now?”

A subtle vibration, a flicker in his peripheral vision, alerted him to the System’s presence. “You are awake, Host,” the System said, voice measured, cautious. “You have entered the body assigned for this world. Your identity is the young master of a wealthy family. The Lee family. Lee family’s master, your father now, is a famous masterchef in City C and won the title Masterchef in the Culinary Cup. Privileged, influential, yet… expendable. Your position is classified as a cannon fodder in the narrative hierarchy.”

Ye Suiyuan let out a slow, deliberate sigh, his lips curling with faint amusement. “…Cannon fodder.” He turned his eyes to the reflection in the polished floor, noting the body he now inhabited. Fine, delicate features, almost too symmetrical; pale skin with a slight flush of health; hair black as night, falling in soft waves past his shoulders. Hands elegant and long-fingered, the sort that could hold a brush, a sword, or a tea cup with equal grace. Eyes… pale jade, almost luminous, calm but untested.

“…And I’m a cannon fodder,” he murmured, tilting his head. “…Why?”

“The System prompt selected the closest identity to the fragment of the God Emperor,” the black cat replied, tail curling as it hovered beside him, eyes glowing blood-red in the dim light. “A cannon fodder whose life path intersects most frequently with the fragment’s energy signature. Your narrative connection is optimal for fragment stabilization.”

Ye Suiyuan’s lips twitched. “…So I get to be a disposable little rich brat just to babysit a fragment?”

“Yes, Host,” the System said. “…And to interact with the world in a way that ensures the fragment’s survival and absorption. Your influence must remain… subtle. Lethal efficiency is unnecessary here. Observation and minimal contact suffice.”

He stood, stepping from the bed. The silk of the sheets slipped from his shoulders like water as he moved, and the floor beneath his feet made no sound. Everything was immaculate. Everything, artificially restrained to appear alive, vibrant, meaningful. Yet, he found it… dull.

“…Boring,” Ye Suiyuan said softly, voice threading through the system space. “…And I am supposed to care because…?”

“Because, Host,” the System replied, its voice flickering with what might have been concern or unease, “the fragment is fragile. Any deviation, any reckless action could destabilize it. Your influence will determine whether the fragment survives to be integrated into your essence.”

Ye Suiyuan let his gaze roam. A grand desk, stacked with scrolls, papers, and a quill dripping ink. A small table with a half-empty tea set. Ornate shelves lined with gilded books that he did not recognize, titles embossed in strange, curling calligraphy. Even the windowsills held tiny, intricate trinkets—porcelain animals, polished stones, gold-etched crystal figurines.

“…Well, I suppose a world without chaos is the most dangerous kind,” he murmured. He touched the smooth surface of the desk, running a finger along its carved edge, and felt a faint pulse—law energy, fragmented but coherent, clinging like a soft heartbeat.

“Host,” the System said cautiously, “you may explore the room and… your body. The cannon fodder identity is ideal for low-risk interaction with the shou protagonist and surrounding environment.”

“So, how do I identify this God Emperor of yours?”

“I will just notify you once he is near you. Also, host, the protagonist shou is your friend.”

Ye Suiyuan just hummed and flexed his fingers, testing the strength of his new body. Motion was smooth, controlled, flawless. Everything was ordinary, natural, human. And yet… he could feel the undercurrent, the latent link to the God Emperor fragment embedded somewhere deep within his chest, like a coiled ember waiting to flare.

“Then, give me everything. The memories of this body. How he lived, how he died, and why. Since he’s a cannon fodder, I might as well learn what pathetic little life he had before I start playing with it. And what role did the protagonist shou have in this little tragedy?”

The system’s tail flicked once, low and sharp. “Understood, Host. Retrieving the memory sequence now.”

A faint, golden pulse radiated from the black cat’s eyes, weaving itself through the space around Ye Suiyuan. It settled into the chest of the body, sinking deep into the latent soul imprint embedded there. A rush of sensations followed: warmth, fear, anticipation, hope, and the ever-present, gnawing awareness of mortality.

The memories came in fragments, flashes of mundane life interlaced with the small tragedies of ordinary ambition. The cannon fodder, Xielan Lee, the young master of the Lee family, had been earnest but largely unremarkable. Trained in etiquette, languages, and the minor arts of influence, he had grown up under the weight of wealth and expectation. His father, the famed masterchef, had little time for affection, and his siblings were distant, more concerned with social climbing than kinship.

He had loved cooking in secret, hidden away in the family kitchens during the late hours, experimenting with flavors, ingredients, and combinations that had been deemed beneath his station. He had wished, quietly, that he could impress his father, gain recognition, not just as a rich heir, but as someone capable of mastery.

But life, as cannon fodders often found, was cruelly scripted. He had been assigned to assist the protagonist shou, a cheerful, kind, and utterly white-lotus young man named Sulan Rou, whose life sparkled with luck and charm in ways that made the cannon fodder’s own efforts seem trivial. Wherever Sulan went, opportunity bloomed. Wherever Sulan faltered, the cannon fodder stumbled alongside him, suffering the consequences of proximity.

And when danger struck, a rival family’s plot, an ill-fated culinary competition manipulated by jealous competitors, a social scandal amplified beyond proportion, he had died protecting the protagonist, barely recognized by the world for his sacrifice.