Chapter 28
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 28
Chapter Title: The Mayor and Rice
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Burp.
A satisfying fullness sent signals from my stomach all the way to my brain.
This is why humans are so fragile.
They cave so easily to their primal urges.
Especially the pleasure when hunger is sated—it's truly remarkable.
The old saying that a warm back and a full belly leave nothing to envy in the world is the truth of truths. Right now, I feel like I've conquered it all.
Of course, that feeling vanished into thin air like champagne bubbles the moment I opened the office door to a mountain of paperwork.
Thud.
I sank into the chair. The premium leather yielded under my weight with a pleasing creak.
Lunchtime was over.
It was gone.
I wished my mayoral life would end with it.
My stomach was full, but my mind was empty.
Helplessness wrapped around me once more.
In that helplessness, I fell into deep contemplation.
Deep contemplation, but the content was always the same.
How could I get kicked out of this damn mayor position?
I'd just eaten lunch with Seria.
"Rice..."
Rice.
Yes, rice.
What is rice to a Korean?
It's not just a collection of nutrients to fill the belly.
It can't be defined in such a dry, bland way.
Rice is an ideology, a culture, life itself.
Think about it. We're a people who start with rice and end with rice.
When we ask after someone's well-being, we say, "Have you eaten rice?" before asking about the weather, their mood, or if they slept well last night. Rice comes first—it's the most primal check on survival.
Even farewell greetings are "Let's grab rice sometime." A vague promise to keep the thread of connection alive, even if we might never meet again. That's rice too. Someone without a rice appointment is socially isolated.
When we need strength, we say we endure on "rice power." We firmly believe rice holds invisible energy, something that infuses vitality.
If we dislike someone, we say "ruins my rice." It means their mere existence spoils our sacred mealtime and lowers our quality of life—an extreme expression of disgust.
A livelihood is "rice-earning."
Fights to protect it are "rice bowl battles."
When income dries up, we say "my rice line's cut."
Yes.
Rice. Rice. Rice.
Everything boils down to rice.
This country is of rice, by rice, for rice.
What we call the white-clothed race.
Maybe that's not quite right.
A people who make pristine white rice their staple.
Three times a day, sometimes more, filling our bodies with pure white grains.
We're actually the white-rice race.
How did I overlook this fundamental truth?
Neo Incheon.
This city is too open. Too tolerant.
Every day, heroes and villains shoot beams from the sky, giant robots stomp the ground. Kids breathe fire in playgrounds, the neighbor auntie shops with telekinesis.
Even if the girl next door turns out to be a half-human, half-horse centaur, we'd just shrug, "No wonder her lower body's so sturdy." That's the Neo Incheon citizen for you.
Desensitized to stimuli. Nothing fazes them much anymore.
Their threshold is sky-high.
In a city where the surreal is everyday life, my petty rebellions wouldn't register.
Even major political scandals or gaffes would just be light gossip.
But.
No matter how desensitized they are.
The primal obsession with "rice" etched deep in Korean DNA hasn't vanished.
Yes. I need to strike that nerve.
Rice, the soul food of Koreans.
By desecrating rice, ruin their rice taste, incite public outrage.
And finally, get branded as the rice-ruining mayor, cutting my own rice line.
Make my three-syllable name poison at every dinner table, spoons clattering down in fury.
"I can't live because that Lee Garam bastard ruins my rice!"
The ultimate loathing. That's the realm I must reach.
"Now, how to ruin the citizens' rice taste."
The first dumb, brute-force idea that pops up.
Raise the price of steamed rice.
For example, issue an ordinance: "From today, all steamed rice in Neo Incheon restaurants is unified at 2,000 won!"
Hmm.
No. Too weak.
Sure, I'd get an earful of curses. Online forums would flood with "The mayor's lost it again," evening news would run endless interviews with pissed-off citizens.
But that's it.
Humans adapt. Koreans especially excel at it in crises.
After a few days of griping, they'd pay the 2,000 won and order rice anyway. "Everything's more expensive these days—rice too," they'd console themselves.
Worse, rice farmers and restaurant owners might love it. I could gain their support.
In the absolute worst case, headlines like "Brave decision by the mayor to reflect real prices!" and my approval rating spikes—a total disaster.
No.
Need bolder. More fundamental. More "rice-ruining."
Tinkering with price is amateur hour.
A true master shakes values and order itself.
Then it hit.
Flash!
A lightbulb in my head. A streak of lightning across my mind.
A thrilling jolt, like a million volts surging through stalled circuits.
"Yes, that's it!"
I shot up, fist clenched tight.
Grabbed the receiver on the desk.
Today, not the secretary's office—I slammed the direct Special Task Force button.
[Yes, Special Task Force Situation Room.]
"It's me, Lee Garam. The Special Task Force has a job—"
Click.
State my business and hang up.
This is the taste of power. Manners don't matter.
These little theatrics build my image, leading me to ruin.
The aesthetics of waiting.
Some things in the world gain value through anticipation.
Well-aged wine. Gomtang broth simmered for hours.
And the fruits of my plan, steadily marching toward doom.
Moments later.
Knock knock.
Ah! How long since I last heard a knock!
The payoff of my wait has arrived.
"Come in!"
The mayor's office door opened.
Two Special Task Force members entered. Something in their hands.
Thud.
A special alloy cage, unbreakable even by most superpowered strength—villain restraint gear.
Perfect execution. I just said "bring her," and they delivered her gift-wrapped.
Inside that cage.
A girl bound in black cables.
Every movable joint locked tight.
An artistically bizarre, sadistic restraint. The designer must be a pervert, a genius, or both.
Anyone would call it unethical, inhuman.
But it's fine.
Because I'm the mayor. And she's a villain.
The moment the glass wall opened, the air thickened.
A sweet scent seeped deep into my lungs with every breath.
Soft vanilla from fresh-baked cookies. Rich caramel syrup simmering. Faint cotton candy at the amusement park gate.
A dense sweetness that could spike blood sugar through smell alone.
And its source.
C-Rank Villain, Sugar Girl.
The walking dessert shop Polaris crushed last time.
Her colorful twintails evoked cotton candy, her frilly dress layered like wafers. Glossy skin like sugar-coated, endless sweet aura proving she wasn't human.
"Good work. Leave her and go."
"Yes, Mayor."
The agents set her down without hesitation and slipped out silently.
Clack.
The door's close echoed loudly.
Now, in this vast office: just me and the sweetly trussed girl.
I rose slowly from the chair.
One step.
Another.
"Eek!"
Her shoulders twitched at each shoe click on the marble.
Sniff sniff.
I flared my nostrils, approaching her.
Like a starving wolf before prey.
Though my belly's stuffed from lunch—acting's in the details.
"W-what! Get away!"
She screamed desperately.
But her rigid body just trembled—no escape.
"Heh heh heh..."
I chuckled low, guttural.
As creepy and gross as possible.
My honed acting for this moment.
"Y-you pervert! Get off me! Touch me and I'll scream! I'll report you! Sue at the Human Rights Commission, file with the Hero Association, blast it all online!"
Fierce resistance.
But alas.
"Report? To whom? I'm Lee Garam, mayor of this city."
Heh heh heh.
Ah, delightful.
Villain roleplay is always a blast.
If citizens saw this, my approval would drill to the earth's core.
"Now now, don't be so stiff."
"Eeeek!"
My fingers brushed her cotton-candy hair.
Fluffy, soft—barely different from the real thing.
I plucked a strand and popped it in my mouth.
Melt.
Sweetness dissolving on my tongue.
"Mmm...! The taste is perfectly stable."
Not just plain sugar.
Pure sweetness, like refined premium organic cane sugar—no off-notes.
Damn, it's good. Been curious since her Polaris fight.
"H-hey! Don't touch! No, don't eat! You crazy mayor!"
"Now now, relax. Deep breaths. One, twooo, three."
Sugar Girl flushed and thrashed.
"You. Do a job with me. Something perfect for you."
"Like hell I'd work with a pervert mayor like you! What're you planning?! Don't tell me... gathering villains for a suicide squad?!"
This girl's read too many comics. I like her.
Suicide Squad.
Round up city trash to clean bigger trash.
Cost-effective, success is my achievement, failure blames villains.
Huh? Not bad?
...No, snap out of it, Lee Garam! My goal is failure! Escape!
"Nothing so grand. Very simple."
"No! Absolutely not!"
"Of course, I don't respect refusal rights. That's democratic. But remember: this mayor can be angel or devil, depending on you."
"I don't care! No! Take me back now!"
Pretty stubborn. Fine, Plan B.
"If you keep being uncooperative, I can't help it?"
"W-what? Stop...! You gonna get rough with me!?"
Sigh, what do you take me for?
"Ever heard of Mystery Island, Ganghwa Island?"
"...!"
Sugar Girl's pupils shook violently.
Korea's largest, worst villain prison.
Iron fortress dug 50 floors underground.
No escapes since opening—a mega-prison.
Where captured villains "mysteriously" vanish.
A place of awe and terror.
Mystery Island Ganghwa. K-Impeldown. K-Alcatraz.
"They say it's full of fun guys. Psychopath serial killers to terrorists who tried to nuke a whole city. A daily villain all-star brawl."
I smiled straight into her eyes.
"Imagine: a place crawling with those monsters... and a small, sweet-salty girl like you shows up? What happens? They'd fight over eating you. You'd be a hit—a perfect snack."
"H... Heek..."
Her face went ghost-white.
Tears welled in eyes that'd held strong.
Drip. Drip.
Tears trailed her cheeks, sparkling like sugar crystals on the floor.
Simultaneously, a scent several times denser and sweeter exploded through the room.
"W-wait. Anything, anything... just not Ganghwa..."
Perfect surrender.
"Good girl. Knew you'd see reason."
"S-so... what... what do I... have to do...?"
I took a breath.
For dramatic effect.
Then opened solemnly.
The first button of my grand "Rice-Ruining" project.
"Bakery."
"...Huh?"
Sugar Girl sniffled, confused.
"Wanna run a bakery?"