Daily Life of Employee #1

Having wolfed down a bowl of food as if hiding it from prying eyes, Ayla couldn't resist the overwhelming wave of relief and fullness. She slumped right onto the table and passed out cold, dead to the world. The faint snore escaping her was enough to make her title as the empire's ruthless, tearless villainess—who once dominated high society—seem utterly laughable.

I tossed a musty old military blanket over her sprawled back and sank deep into the camping chair. Breathing in the chill air of the bunker, I fiddled aimlessly with the shotgun's pump action.

How the hell did I, a plain old military survival game geek from modern Earth, end up isekai'd into this batshit romance fantasy world, spoon-feeding canned goods to a duke's daughter?

Mana affinity of 0.1%. A perfect no-talent extra who couldn't even generate a static spark gripping a sword. That was my lot now.

Outside, sword masters and grand archmages—freaks beyond spec—squandered the national treasury on flashy love triangles and melodrama in this warped world. But that glittering romance wouldn't last a year. Hell, thanks to my meddling snowballing things, it was down to just 300 days before it all crashed spectacularly.

This world wasn't a romance fantasy to begin with. It was the prequel stage to a hardcore dark fantasy game, The Last Survivor, where everything gets devoured by the impending unknown catastrophe.

The culprits behind the apocalypse: Abyssal Spores. That horrific natural disaster would drag the world to ruin in the blink of an eye.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The Last Survivor System that dumped me in this mess. Should I at least be grateful it opened a shop for me?

To clear my head, I jumped up and tackled some miscellaneous chores. Time flew by.

"Nngh…."

That's when Ayla, facedown on the table, let out a contented groan and stirred. At the same moment, a translucent system window popped up in the corner of my vision with a cheerful ping.

I rolled my stiff neck and grinned. A perfect legal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠loophole to bypass that finicky World's Compulsion Force. She wasn't the plot-shielded villainess anymore—she was now the system-approved "my employee."

"Nngh… the water's not too cold, is it, maid…."

Ayla mumbled in her sleep and cracked her eyes open, looking rumpled. The fullness had sharpened her previously hollow gaze. But instead of her duke's mansion chandelier, she saw the cracked concrete ceiling. No silk sheets—just the scratchy military blanket.

"Sleep well, Employee #1?"

"H-Hiiik!"

Ayla yelped and scrambled back. Memories flooded back like a tsunami; her pale face flushed beet red, ready to explode. She reflexively wiped her mouth—her hand slick with greasy pork fat. Her red eyes shook like there was an earthquake.

I, heir to the duke's bloodline, shoveled some mystery meat chunk from a commoner into my mouth—with my bare hands?! And cried while doing it?!

Her fragile noble ego shattered from sheer humiliation, plain as day. Belly full, her aristocratic pride reared its head again.

Ayla shot to her feet, yanking her wrinkled dress taut, and bellowed with feigned dignity.

"F-Forget it! That pathetic display was just your vile illusion spell! As if I'd go crazy for some trash food like that!"

"Illusion? You licked the bowl clean with your tongue."

"Sh-Shut up! And… right! That scrap of paper I signed earlier!"

Ayla jabbed at the employment contract on the table and declared triumphantly.

"That contract's invalid! Per Imperial Law Chapter 3, Article 12: 'Contracts signed under duress where rational judgment is impossible—such as extreme starvation or life threats—lose all validity!' You exploited my hunger, so it's null and void legally!"

Oh ho. I figured her for a dumb villainess, but true to her elite education, she nailed a legal technicality in a pinch. Outside, I'd be sweating bullets. But this was my bunker—where reason and nonsense danced to the whip of capitalism.

"Impressive. Quoting imperial law to void the contract."

I chuckled, stood from the chair, and snatched the contract off the table.

"Fine. Contract voided."

"…Huh?"

My cool response left her blinking in shock. I chucked the paper in the trash and fixed her with a cold stare.

"Duress, as you said. Back to pre-contract status. You're not my employee anymore. So what are you? Just an 'illegal trespasser' on my private property."

"Wh-What…?"

"You scarfed my precious rations, so time for damages. Restore the spam and instant rice in your gut. Finger down the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠throat and puke it up now, or pay in kind."

"P-Puke it up?! How much was that stinky meat chunk worth anyway?!"

"This is an isolated underground bunker. A can of preserved food's worth beats a knight captain's mana sword. Got cash?"

Ka-chunk! I racked the shotgun pump for emphasis. The metallic snick chilled the bunker air.

"In capitalist society, freeloading's a serious crime. No means to pay? I'll evict the trespasser right now."

I nodded toward the massive iron entrance door.

"You saw it, right? Sealed tight with marble by the emperor and archmages—no exit. I'll shove you through the sewage outlet instead. Don't know the way myself, but maybe you'll swim through the shit and survive. Out there? The imperial knights and inquisitors hunting 'traitor allied with the demon king' will be patrolling with fire in their eyes. Lucky? Guillotine. Unlucky? Burn piously on the Sun God Church pyre. Ready to go?"

Ayla's face drained to corpse-white. Imperial law meant jack against my brazen capitalist violence and survival threats. Pyre or servant to a commoner? Nah, her real kryptonite was that lingering, violent, salty bliss of spam and white rice on her tongue. Etched into her soul in extremis. Exile meant never tasting it again—paralyzing her reason.

In ten seconds flat, the duke's pride waved the white flag.

"I-I… must've misremembered the law for a moment."

With trembling hands, she fished the contract from the trash and slid it toward me.

"This contract is perfectly reasonable… and my voluntary will!"

"Whine about invalidation later, and it's sewer express."

"Cr-Certain! I'm Bunker Employee #1!"

I snorted a laugh and lowered the shotgun barrel. Perfect. Now her slaving under me was proven "reasonable, voluntary employer-employee relations"—not kidnapping.

"Good. Keeping employee status? Then casual speech it is. First task: follow me."

I turned and strode toward the bunker's vast inner corridor. Ayla frowned at the casual ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠"banmal" but tailed me desperately to avoid eviction.

Passing the central passage, I swung open the thick blast door to the [Food Preservation and Hydroponic Cultivation Zone]. Cool air rushed out with towering metal racks.

I stopped before a dingy mound of dirt-cloaked sacks in the corner. Easily 20kg worth.

"This is your zone."

"Wh-What is this? Dirt-covered rocks?"

Ayla recoiled, hiking her skirt. I shoved a 1,000-won Daiso potato peeler into her hand.

"Apocalypse staple: potatoes. Your quota: peel all 20kg. Don't gouge the flesh—perfect, thin peels only."

Ayla gawked between the vicious(?) plastic tool and the dirt-pile mountain.

"A-Are you insane?! You want me touching dirt?! Heir to House Erzen, doing kitchen scullery work like the lowest maids?! Even if I surrendered, I'm a noble trained in imperial politics! This menial labor's beneath—!"

"Today's lunch: 'Spam Fried Rice.'"

I cut her tantrum short, deadpan.

"Chop that greasy spam you devoured into bits, fry crisp in green onion oil. When the meat's Maillard-browned, dump in hot rice, season with soy. Perfect meat-oil coating on every grain—insane char flavor. Top with crispy-edged sunny-side-up egg. Mix that salty fried rice with creamy yolk…."

"Guh…!"

Ayla's rant died. Her rage-filled red eyes glazed over. Saliva flooded her mouth, echoing clear in the bunker.

"But bunker rule: no work, no eat. No peeling, no lunch. Sit and watch me devour it solo if you want. Or quit. I'm off to cook."

I shrugged and took three steps toward the kitchen.

Crunch, thud.

Something heavy hit the dirt behind me. I glanced back.

There sat the empire's top villainess, who'd haunted nobles' wet dreams. Silk dress hiked shamelessly, crouched pathetically on the dirt. One hand gripped the 1,000-won peeler, the other a muddy potato.

"Hic… sob… sunny-side-up… if the yolk's hard… I won't forgive you…."

Tears and snot streaming, Ayla peeled frantically. Scrape, scrape. Clumsy strokes wasted flesh, but survival and hunger crushed her noble self to dust.

"Hey, don't butcher the flesh! That's my blood-sweat rations!"

I barked at the duke's daughter's head like a shitty boss, as she wailed over her potatoes.

"Waaah! Got it! Just peel good, right?! You bastard!"

Lulled by her sobs and scraping white noise, I summoned the holographic system shop in midair.

Exploit Ayla for SP, fortify the bunker, siphon excess capital from outside without tripping the Compulsion Force. A razor-sharp plan curled my lips into a deeply satisfied smile.