Broth That Warms Even the Heart
"Haha! Success, success, a total triumph!"
Ugh, my eardrums are gonna burst. The whole world seems to shake. It's been ages since the Marble Golem Manager laughed this purely and brightly.
"Who would've thought Trienta ingredients would be such a smash hit! I never imagined it!"
The project to handle special ingredients had been a roaring success from the get-go. Over the past week, Trienta ingredients had easily surpassed the previous quarter's vegetable sales. It was a phenomenal craze that might even challenge meat or liquor revenues.
"Especially the plant nutrients and fertilizers—they flew off the shelves! You were right! Worlds without World Trees are rare! Haha!"
...Honestly, I figured sap or grass juice might sell a bit. But who knew plant nutrients and fertilizers would dominate the sales?
Trienta classifies them as ingredients, sure, but I never dreamed anyone would actually eat them. Still, just like selling air conditioners in the frozen poles or thick fur coats in steamy jungles, there's always a market somewhere.
"By the way, I had no idea there were so many plant-world possessors and reincarnators out there. We've gathered some pretty meaningful data."
"The trend seems to have died down now, but there was that fad for 'non-humanoid regressors, possessors, and reincarnators.'"
"True enough. It's been years, so some must be settling into their grooves. I overlooked that. Anyway, thanks to you, I've been saving face lately!"
The Marble Golem Manager chuckled, saying he might even snag a luxury golden laurel wreath with his incentive bonus. Considering the average golem's size, it'd cost more than a sports car.
"Keep this up... Oh, right."
The Marble Golem Manager lightly tapped his palm with his fist, as if something had just occurred to him. A few stone chips flew from the crack in his palm.
I wish he'd break that habit. Stone dust always sifts into my hair after our chats.
"Here's this week's dinner allowance. Take it on your way out."
"Thank you, sir."
Dinner money, huh. Maybe I'll treat myself to something delicious tonight?
...System Industry spans every dimension we know—and those we don't. That's why it's one of the most racially diverse among interdimensional corps. You've got your famous humanoid types: elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins. Humanoid machines like AIs, androids, cyborgs. Galactisized transformable robots, slimes that grow by absorbing materials, half-human-half-beast types with spider or horse lower bodies, beastkin with animal features... the variety never ends.
Fairies and imps share coffee in the break room. An android caught secretly juicing industrial power from the pantry outlet gets audited for tax evasion and sighs. An orc grins sheepishly at elf boss harassment while gossiping with a goblin. Honestly, who knows how many races are here? Rumor has it someone tried cataloging them and quit at over 350,000 pages.
With such diversity, tastes run the gamut. Golems prefer dirt and stone. Their top pick? Soil frozen through winter, thawed in spring just before seeds sprout. The worst? Sprouty, verdant stuff that's been growing a while. Like fish—tastiest packed with eggs pre-spawn, flavor drains post-spawn when they're spent.
They say premium, silky soil seeps into your cracks, making you feel young and seamless again for a moment. What the hell does that even feel like? No clue.
Food gives energy, sure, but some tastes are beyond me. Point is, wildly different palates make group dinners a nightmare. No spot pleases everyone, so gripes are inevitable. That's why we get cash dinner allowances instead—go eat what you love. Colleagues band together for drinks if they vibe, or just pocket the cash for that feel-good boost.
Guaranteed one tasty meal a week? What a blessing!
...Or so I thought, but overtime again tonight?
"Sorry, Section Chief..."
"Apologies later—fix it first. Any contact?"
"Keeps going to missed call."
The whole department's on red alert. One employee pulled a pesky—but not catastrophic—blunder: ordered 1,000 boxes of 20kg ostrich meat. Twenty tons of ostrich meat. Not beef or pork, ostrich.
It happens occasionally. Meant 1,000kg, fat-fingered into 1,000 boxes. Happens.
"Hello, this is Section Chief Lee Hansoo of System Industry. About the ostrich meat—yes. Understood. Sorry."
"Hello, System Industry's—damn, hung up."
"Really?! Thank you! We'll ship three boxes right away!"
"Special deal this time—ostrich meat at 30% off... Oh, you already got the beef gift set... Got it. If you change your mind—"
Meat, especially fresh-chilled, has a short shelf life. And it's niche ostrich? No price edge over beef or pork? Curiosity might snag a few bites, but System Shop users chase max efficiency. Bland-but-cheap frozen bulk vs. pricey, eat-within-three-days exotic ostrich. Regressor, possessor, reincarnator with a system window—which ya picking?
Not limited to them, either. Frozen over ostrich? Nah.
"Sh-should we warehouse it and freeze time?"
"Last resort. Not now."
Time-freeze tech's cheap but glitchy. Some dimensions are "allergic"—feels like dumping preservatives by the ton, they say. No allergy here, so zero clue. Is that the vibe when System Industry glitches?
"Still 760 boxes... Ha. What now."
It's 3 a.m. Eyes hollow, everyone. Nonstop calls, and only 240 boxes down. No cancellations—System Industry doesn't dump mistakes on clients. Boss's orders, unborn or not.
Unborn chairman? Exists or not? Make up your mind.
"...Sorry. Coffee break."
"See you..."
Stray thoughts mean fatigue. Pantry-bound, eyelids droop. Coffee, coffee—strong stuff. Two instant packs in a paper cup. Hot water, a hair over half.
"Phew. Better."
Lava-hot, syrupy brew down the hatch—mind snaps awake. Why so potent? Label says human-grade. Not the near-decaf beastkin mix. Pulled the harsh stuff for all-nighter? Human coffee's near-poison to beastkin—emergency only. Doubled up on purpose...
Eh, alert now. Back to it. Holiday tomorrow—blessing... or not? Finish today, rest; drag on, forfeit holiday.
"Gotta hustle those calls..."
No holiday sacrifice—even with overtime pay, life's balance...
Need that long-legged uncle to haul 760 ostrich boxes. Desperately.
...Next day, 4 p.m.
"Yes, yes... Thank you. Truly thank you...!"
"Done?"
"Last 12 boxes—sold! We're clear!"
Cheers erupt—hoarse from exhaustion. After dozens of hours, every last box sold. Heavy discounts midway, but beats trashing.
"Good work... And sorry."
The culprit bows to each desk.
"Company's tougher than this."
"Shit happens. Don't repeat, done."
"Who hasn't goofed?"
"But quarterly results..."
"If they nitpicked, we'd be blacklisted elsewhere."
"I'm out. Whew, stamina's shot. Emergency OT ain't my jam..."
Annoying mess, but resolved decently? Fatigue trumps gripes—yawns, clock-outs. Holiday tomorrow—early home, crash hard.
"Me too... Urk."
Tension snaps—hunger hits. Since yesterday's lunch? Just that brutal coffee.
"Dinner time anyway—grab something."
What hits right now? Something warm, soft...