Chapter 780 --780

Chapter 780: Chapter-780

"Fine," Heena muttered, picking up the ledger she had bought from the stationery stall. "Keep your secrets. But if a Lu family assassin drops through my ceiling tomorrow because you lied about the threat level, I am using your core code to fuel my hearth."

Heena turned her attention back to her business plans, completely unaware of the sheer, absolute panic currently paralyzing the AI hovering over her shoulder.

The System was trembling so hard its golden fur was vibrating.

Because the terrifying truth was... Heena was absolutely right.

The Transmigration Authority did not hand out vacations to its apex predators. And the world Heena currently believed to be a quiet, low-stakes environment where she could peacefully sell ink and potatoes was a ticking time bomb. This dimension was a chaotic, high-level catastrophe waiting to happen, woven with insane political conspiracies and violent power struggles that were completely hidden from the original Lu Heena’s sheltered, narrow perspective.

The original owner’s final wish for a "peaceful life" wasn’t a simple task—it was the ultimate, impossible challenge.

But the System was strictly bound by its operational protocols. It couldn’t warn her. It couldn’t tell her that the "simple" men she was interacting with were walking disasters, or that her harmless little grocery store was about to be dragged into the dead center of an imperial hurricane.

If she finds out I knew what was coming... the System thought, a digital tear welling in its eye as it watched Heena calmly calculate the price of a sack of flour. She is going to actually kill me. I am going to die in a matriarchal dimension over a bag of potatoes.

Heena knew perfectly well that the Transmigration Authority bound its Systems with iron-clad operational codes. If the glowing furball couldn’t speak, it meant the rules physically prevented it from doing so. Pressing the issue now would just be a waste of breath, and she had far more pressing physical realities to deal with.

Leaving the trembling digital cub to float in its own silent panic, Heena turned her attention entirely to the back courtyard.

She began unpacking the massive haul she had purchased from the hardware alley. The heavy cast-iron woks were set securely over the fire pits. The clay braising pots were lined up neatly on the wooden shelves. She unrolled the leather canvas and arranged her terrifying collection of eight specialized knives in a row on the stone preparation counter, placing the dense date-wood rolling pin right beside them.

Once the tools were in place, Heena stepped back, crossing her arms as she critically evaluated the heart of her new empire: the kitchen stove.

It was a massive, standing-height brick hearth. From an ancient standard, it was actually quite luxurious—she didn’t have to squat in the dirt to cook, and the wide stone surface provided plenty of room to juggle multiple pots at once.

But from Heena’s hyper-optimized, modern perspective, the structure was a complete disaster.

The fire pits were far too wide and poorly insulated. The thermal efficiency was an absolute joke. To keep a steady, high heat going under her new cast-iron woks, she would have to burn through an obscene amount of premium charcoal and thick firewood. For a business that required constant, controlled boiling to distill pure alcohol and extract essential oils for cosmetics, this stove would bankrupt her in fuel costs alone within a month.

It has to go, Heena decided, her dark eyes tracing the mortar lines of the old bricks.

She would have to completely demolish the existing hearth and rebuild it herself. She needed a closed-draft furnace design—something that channeled the heat directly upward into the woks and distillation stills, maximizing the burn time of the wood and minimizing the smoke filling the courtyard.

She reached out, tracing a finger over a soot-stained brick, fully prepared to start sketching the demolition blueprints in the dirt.

Then, a sudden, blinding throb of pain radiated from the center of her spine, shooting straight up into her neck.

Heena gripped the edge of the stone counter, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed her eyes shut. The adrenaline of the market, the thrill of spending silver, and the satisfaction of cooking had successfully masked her physical reality for the past few hours.

But as the silence of the empty apothecary settled around her, the exhaustion hit her like a falling timber.

She was twenty-two, inhabiting a frail, sheltered body that had been brutally beaten with wooden staves just four days ago. Beneath her soft new cotton robe, her back was a lattice of fresh, agonizing scabs. She had spent the entire day walking, haggling, threatening street thugs, and hauling heavy supplies. She was running purely on spite and borrowed energy.

Heena let out a long, ragged exhale, opening her eyes and staring at the inefficient brick stove.

She was going to tear it down. She was going to rebuild it into a flawless, fuel-efficient furnace.

But not today.

Today, she was going to lock the heavy wooden doors, eat her braised river fish, and finally get some sleep.

.

.

.

Thirty minutes later....

The sharp, explosive sizzle of pork fat hitting the blazing-hot cast iron echoed through the quiet courtyard.

Heena had decided to test the heat distribution of her temporary stove setup. The braised river fish and fried potatoes were already resting on the stone counter, but the fire was still roaring perfectly. Not wanting to waste the premium charcoal, she had thrown a handful of chopped garlic, ginger, and the marinated chicken she bought earlier into the wok.

Instantly, a thick, incredibly rich plume of aromatic steam billowed up toward the wooden rafters.

Out in the front of the shop, the heavy wooden doors creaked open. Ren had just returned from the herbalist guild, carrying a heavy woven basket of dried medicinal roots. As he stepped over the threshold, his boots stopped dead on the floorboards.

He blinked, his delicate nose twitching.

The scent drifting from the back of the apothecary was intoxicating. It was a savory, complex blend of caramelized jaggery, roasted chilies, and seared meat that made his stomach violently contract with sudden, overwhelming hunger.

Ren frowned in confusion. Who is cooking?

Did Old Lady Lin hire a private chef from a tavern to celebrate their new location? Or had some wandering vagrant snuck into the back courtyard to use their fire?

Setting his basket of roots down on the front counter, Ren quietly untied his outer cloak and made his way toward the back of the shop. He pushed aside the heavy linen curtain separating the storefront from the courtyard, fully prepared to scold whoever had broken into their space.

Instead, he froze completely.

Standing in front of the roaring brick hearth, surrounded by a terrifying arsenal of brand-new, razor-sharp knives, was Heena.

She had discarded her heavy outer robes, wearing only the soft, dark-blue cotton tunic. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, exposing her pale, slender forearms. In her right hand, she wielded a heavy iron spatula, casually flipping the searing chunks of chicken in the massive wok with a fluid, practiced flick of her left wrist.

Ren stared at her, his dark, intelligent eyes widening in absolute, fundamental shock.

In this matriarchal empire, the kitchen was strictly, exclusively a man’s domain.

Men were the ones taught to balance spices, manage the hearth, and prepare delicate meals to soothe their hardworking wives. Women were the breadwinners, the scholars, the warriors, and the merchants.