I Only Wanted A Class In The Apocalypse

Chapter 1841: Burger Is the Best Meal I Ever Had!

Hye smiled, but it wasnʼt a friendly expression. It was the smile of a man who had realised that even the mighty Hescos were blinded by their own shadows.

”If your race truly has a place for every talent, then why does your design for filtering power aim to produce such a tragically small pool of prodigies?” Hye asked, his voice steady as he leaned forward.

He pointed a finger directly at Moth, cutting through the generalʼs practised composure.

”Iʼd bet my kingdom that you werenʼt the only successful apocalypse winner in your generation. Not by a long shot. And yet, look around you. How many of those peers managed to keep pushing until this very day?”

Moth fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. The flickering candlelight in the tent seemed to dim as the weight of the question settled over him. Hye didnʼt wait for a verbal response; the silence was the loudest answer he could have asked for.

”I can tell you are the sole prodigy left standing from your era,” Hye said, his tone softening but remaining firm.

”But you need to stop for a minute. Just one minute. Ask yourself this: how many others—how many brilliant minds and strong hearts—fell into the abyss while you were busy climbing to the top? How much potential did your race burn away just to produce one of you?”

”Big races like mine donʼt need weak, failed talents,” Moth finally said. The words came out sounding like a recorded message, a mantra he had repeated to himself a thousand times until it had become a core part of his programming.

He sounded less like a man and more like a machine reciting a cold, governing directive. ”The Hescos cannot—and will not—tolerate failed prodigies. If you fail, you are a waste of space. Itʼs that simple.”

”No, you are wrong,” Hye calmly objected. ”If Iʼm building an empire, I wonʼt say no to any prodigy, no matter how ʼshortʼ or limited his talent might seem. In fact, a true leader should always be hungry for more talent. I should feel a constant shortage, a constant need for more hands to hold the line, not the other way around. To discard a talent because it isnʼt ʼperfectʼ is the height of strategic arrogance.”

”Then you shall be prepared for a lifetime of disappointments, setbacks, and huge, agonising losses,” Moth sighed, the sound echoing with the weariness of centuries.

”You still donʼt get how the big races got to where they are now. We didnʼt just roll the dice and come out on top through sheer luck. We were strict—brutally strict—with our prodigies. We ensured our survival by making sure we never tolerated even the shadow of failure!”

”Strictness versus support and care... these are two totally different viewpoints on how to build a future,” Hye said, a calm smile playing on his lips. ”But for me, the choice is clear. Iʼll keep growing my prodigies. Iʼll keep hunting for new talents in the dirt. And I will never settle for a system that filters them like theyʼre nothing more than silt in a river.”

”Iʼll be curious to see where your kingdom stands in a few hundred years,” Moth added honestly. There was no mockery in his voice, only a strange, haunting respect.

”And I wish you great luck. Because even though I believe what my people and many others are doing is the ʼperfectʼ thing for the race, I still... in my heart, I still donʼt feel itʼs the right thing to do.”

Before the philosophical rift between them could widen any further, the tension was broken by the arrival of the food. The aroma was intoxicating—exotic spices, perfectly seared meats from creatures Hye couldnʼt name, and sauces that glimmered like liquid jewels.

”Yeah! Just in time!” Moth shouted, his sombre mood vanishing instantly. He looked like a kid celebrating a big birthday present, his eyes widening at the spread. ”Believe me, you will crave these dishes for the rest of your life. The only problem is... I think after what happened here today, the resort wonʼt be welcoming you back for seconds.”

Moth was referring to the brutal way Hye had handled Olana earlier. It was a diplomatic disaster that most men would be losing sleep over, but to Hye, it already felt like a distant, forgotten memory.

”I can still find chefs at other places to make me these meals, right?” Hye asked. He began to work his way through the spread, taking a deliberate bite from every dish presented to him. He couldnʼt deny the quality. Every single morsel carried a complex, layered profile—tastes that were alien, refined, and unlike anything he had experienced on Earth.

”You canʼt deny it, can you?” Moth laughed, catching the look of genuine surprise on Hyeʼs face as he chewed a piece of shimmering blue poultry. ”This is the best meal youʼve ever tasted in your life.”

”Itʼs good. I wonʼt deny that,” Hye admitted. He took another series of bites, pausing for a moment as if he were an elite food critic making a final judgment. Then, he shook his head slightly. ”But honestly? It canʼt even come close to a real burger sandwich.”

”A real... what?” Moth paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Hye suddenly realised his mistake. He was bragging about a greasy, human street-food staple in front of a cosmic foodie who specialised in the finest delicacies of the universe.

”Oh, well...” Hye cleared his throat, feeling the absurdity of the moment. ”Itʼs a local commodity from where I came from. Back on Earth.”

”And itʼs a very delicious one, apparently,” Moth said, his curiosity piqued. He set his fork down and looked at Hye with a serious expression. ”Can I get a meal of this... ʼburgerʼ?”

”Well, Iʼm afraid thatʼs going to be a bit problematic,” Hye decided to be blunt. There was no point in beating around the bush. ”The cows... the primary raw material we used to make that meal... theyʼre extinct. The apocalypse took the livestock first.”