Dimensional Overseer: I Can Manipulate DNA!
Chapter 38 – Dinner for Old Times

Chapter 38 - 38 – Dinner for Old Times

Chapter 38 – Dinner for Old Times

"Huh?" Zane blinked slowly, his breath still ragged from the hours of training. A soft glow hovered above him—a familiar translucent box suspended in the air. He squinted, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked again, but it didn't vanish.

'A... Secondary Stigma?'

With trembling fingers, Zane opened his menu, forcing himself to stay calm despite the exhaustion weighing down every fiber of his body.

[Name: Zane Darkborn]

[Age: 17]

[Race: Human / ???]

[Level: 0]

[Current Dimension: Lower Earth]

[Unlocked Dimensions: None]

[State: Awakened (Evolution: 0/10)]

Core Stigma:DNA Manipulation

Secondary Stigma:Flash Step

[Stats: (Average in 'Lower Earth': 10)]

Strength: 12

Agility: 9

Stamina: 12

Health: 10

Core Energy: 153

Dimension Resistance: 203

Bonus Points: 0

"Flash Step..." Zane whispered to himself, staring at the words with wide eyes. 'I actually unlocked a Secondary Stigma... just from training?' He hadn't thought that was even possible. He always believed Secondary Stigmas came from defeating monsters, leveling up, or through other rare circumstances. Yet here it was—earned through sheer repetition.

A flicker of hope lit in his chest. 'That means... if I keep pushing, keep mastering techniques, I might be able to earn more.' It wasn't just about brute strength anymore. There was a clear path forward—painful, yes, but now proven.

"Zane?" Fiora's voice cut through his thoughts.

He looked up slowly to see her walking toward him, concern etched across her face. "You okay?"

"Huh? Oh—yeah." He blinked, shaking off his daze. "I just... needed a moment to breathe."

He put the glowing box away and finally forced himself to stand, though his legs wobbled like jelly beneath him. His shirt was torn nearly to ribbons, grime and blood smeared across his arms. He looked more like a survivor of a battlefield than a trainee.

Fiora gave him a once-over and raised an eyebrow. "You've been at it for nine hours," she said with a small, impressed smirk. "That's... a little unhinged, honestly."

Zane chuckled weakly. "Guess I got a bit carried away."

But Fiora could see it. That deep, burning hunger in his eyes. The way he seemed to shake not just from physical strain, but from the weight of something else—something that drove him harder than most people would even dream of pushing themselves.

That look... It was obsession, but not just for power. Desperation lived behind his determination. She didn't know if it would save him or break him.

"Well, you're about to collapse," she said gently. "So, it's time for a break and some food."

"Huh? Oh... food, right." Only now did he feel the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. It was like a black hole in his gut.

"You look starved," Fiora teased, nudging his shoulder. "Let Aunt Fiora show you what real cooking looks like. Bathroom's on your left. Go clean up first."

Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the penthouse.

Zane stood there for a beat, stunned by her sudden shift in tone. Then, shaking his head, he trudged to the bathroom and washed the sweat and grime from his body. The hot water felt like a blessing, peeling off layers of stress and fatigue. Afterward, he put on his clothes and stepped out, calling out softly, "Fiora?"

"The kitchen's over here!" came her voice.

Following the sound, Zane found himself stepping into a massive kitchen—larger than his entire apartment back in Sector 11. It was spotless, gleaming under warm lighting, equipped with everything from high-end appliances to a countertop that could probably seat six people comfortably.

A rich, mouthwatering aroma hung in the air. His stomach growled audibly.

"Take a seat," Fiora called from the stove. "It's almost ready."

He sat down cautiously at the dining table, still feeling like he didn't quite belong in such a lavish place. "Thank you... for doing this. I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." Fiora glanced back and grinned. "It's nice to have someone to cook for. Eating alone gets boring."

Her voice was light, but it stirred something deep inside Zane. His eyes shifted to her back, to the way she moved—graceful, focused, comfortable in a way that was... familiar.

And then, like a slow leak in the dam, an image slipped through.

A kitchen—much smaller, cluttered. A woman humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. Light from the window casting warm shadows across the floor.

Zane's chest tightened.

'No... don't go there.' He looked down, eyes fixed on the table. 'Get a grip.'

But his heart didn't listen.

"And done," Fiora announced, breaking his trance. She turned and placed a plate before him. "Pasta with red sauce. Haven't made it in a while. Thought we could share something simple."

Zane didn't move.

"Zane?" Fiora tilted her head. He was motionless, staring at the plate as if it were something alien. "Oi. Snap out of it."

But he couldn't hear her—not really. Her voice was just an echo in the distance. The scent of the dish. The steam. The shape of the pasta. It all became a torrent that pulled him under.

'No. No no no—why this? Why this meal?'

"Zane!" Her hand shook him lightly, and finally his vision refocused. He looked up, disoriented.

"What happened, kid? You good?"

"Yeah... yeah, I'm fine." He forced the words out, swallowing the tremor in his voice.

"You sure?" she asked, eyeing him carefully.

"Yeah," he lied again. "It's not the food. Just... something else."

Fiora didn't press. She nodded and took her seat across from him.

Zane finally picked up his fork. His hand trembled as he speared a few pasta shells and brought them to his mouth. The moment he tasted it, warmth bloomed through his body like a sunburst.

It was incredibly flavorful and pleasant. The sauce was perfectly cooked and the pasta itself was soft yet not mushy. One single bite was enough to shake Zane to his entire core.

'Why... why does it still taste so good?' His hands shuddered.

It made him sick. He wanted to hate it. He needed to hate it. This dish was supposed to be a grave—buried along with that day. But instead, it welcomed him like an old friend.

His breath caught. A lump formed in his throat. 'I don't want to remember. I don't want to feel this.'

He had avoided this dish for five long years, ever since—

"Zane?" Fiora's voice was soft now. She had taken a bite herself but paused when she saw his face. "Zane... why are you crying?"

He blinked. A tear slid down his cheek.

"What?" he muttered, wiping it quickly. Then another followed. And another. "Damn it..." He tried to stop them, but the tears came faster. No matter how much he wiped, they kept flowing.

"Don't... don't mind me," he choked out. "It's... nothing."

But Fiora didn't listen. Silently, she rose from her chair and walked around the table. She knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his trembling body and pulling him into a quiet, firm embrace.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's going to be okay."

Zane froze. Then, slowly, as if her words unlocked something fragile inside him, his head dropped. His shoulders shook. His defenses broke.

"It's... it's really delicious," he muttered through the tears, his voice small and broken.

Fiora didn't say anything else. She just held him there, while the past bled quietly into the present.