Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

​Emily’s eyes practically sparkled. Seafood had always been her ultimate weakness—a rare luxury she had seldom enjoyed in the past.

And here was one made by a real master.

She picked up her fork, unable to hold back her craving, took a single bite of the crab, and let out an involuntary, soft gasp of pure delight. ”April... This is incredible. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted!”

​April took a forkful of the butter-poached prawn. The texture was immaculate—tender, sweet, and bursting with rich, ocean-fresh depth.

It was served in such a perfectly portioned, delicate size that attempting to take a mere taste and leave the rest felt like an insult to the palate.

​Without a word, April and Emily devoured the entire plate, leaving not a single droplet of saffron sauce behind.

​April wiped her lips with a linen napkin, a rare, profound glint of satisfaction in her dark eyes. ”Sensational. The execution of the seafood is absolute perfection.”

​”Are you giving it a ten?” Emily asked eagerly, scraping the last bit of butter from her fork.

​”Almost,” April murmured, tapping the control console. ”But it’s a nine-point-nine.”

​”A nine-point-nine?” Emily blinked. ”Why deduct a zero point one if it was this good?” They practically licked the plates.

​”Because the portion size was too small,” April replied smoothly, though a subtle, amused curve touched her lips. ”If a chef leaves a judge wishing for just one more bite, he loses a tenth of a point for restraint.”

​Down on the main arena floor, a triumphant chime chimed, and the master board flashed brightly: STATION 32: 9.9.

​A wave of awed murmurs rippled through the entire venue. Standing at station thirty-two was a tall, sharp-featured man with striking blonde hair and a flawless white coat embroidered with gold trim.

He hailed from Japan—a legendary alumnus of Tokyo’s elite Culinary Institute, renowned worldwide for producing the most meticulous seafood masters in the industry.

​Hearing his record-breaking score, the blonde chef didn’t jump or cheer. He merely rested his hands on his prep counter, lifting his chin high with a stiff, icy posture, as if a 9.9 were the bare minimum expected of his presence.

​”That’s Renzo...” a nearby contestant whispered in hushed, intimidated tones. ”He won three international seafood championships in Europe before even turning twenty-five. We’re all small fries compared to him.”

​Even Philippe, standing over at station twenty-four, looked across the floor at the Japanese master, his grey eyes reflecting a quiet, fierce respect for the sheer wall of talent standing before him.

​”Nine point nine,” April murmured, her eyes glinting with sharp, cool expectation as she watched the blonde Japanese master down on the arena floor. ”Though savory mastery is one thing... pastries are another matter entirely.”

​”Are you expecting someone to top a nine-point-nine in the dessert round?” Emily asked, taking another sip of her tea.

​”Not at all,” April replied smoothly, resting her hands on her lap. ”In fact, I’m setting the threshold at an eight for the next round. Pastries are mostly about sweets, balance, and delicate sugar craft. If they can’t land at least an eight to complement a heavy savory course, they aren’t worth keeping.”

​Down below, the central arena lights dimmed briefly before flaring back up into a warm, golden hue. The MC’s voice boomed over the speakers, announcing the transition into the mandatory Pastry & Dessert stage.

The remaining contestants quickly cleared their savory stations, bringing out specialized marble slabs, tempered chocolate units, and high-precision baking tools.

​”The pastry round is simple,” April noted, watching the chefs scramble as the timers reset. ”I don’t care how talented they are with meat or seafood. If their desserts overload the palate with unrefined sugar or fail to deliver proper balance, they’re out.”

She was no expert but her foodie instinct could judge this much.

​”Let’s see if your favorite chef can hit an eight,” April added with a subtle, dry smirk, glancing toward station twenty-four.

​Emily leaned forward against the glass, her eyes fixed on Philippe as he carefully melted dark chocolate over a water bath. ”He’ll make it, April. I know he will.”

”Spoken like a girl from a fairytale,” April said.

​Her tone, however, held neither pleasure nor lightness. A quiet, dark gravity settled over her face as she watched the soft glow in Emily’s expression.

​April had seen this pattern before—not just in the movies they had shared, but in the harsh, unforgiving realities of human nature.

For someone like Emily, who had been starved of love and attention for so long, who had suffered without ever catching a breath of fresh air, the faintest spark of warmth in the dark could pull her in. It was a dangerous kind of magnetism, one that could blind her sister to the very path she had painstakingly escaped from.

​And April had no intention of letting her fall into a trap.

Whether that freckled guy was a good guy or a bad guy, he had no place in their futures and she refused to let Emily be strung along by her feelings either.

Because feelings made one... Irrational.

​While Emily remained captivated by the glass, watching Philippe temper dark chocolate with meticulous care, April subtly tilted her head toward her High Steward.

​Samuel stepped closer instantly, leaning down with effortless, silent precision.

​”Keep an eye on Emily for me,” April whispered in a low tone meant only for his ears, her eyes never leaving her twin. ”Especially if she finds herself involved with that chef.”

​Samuel’s posture remained ironclad, his dark eyes sharpening behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he bowed his head slightly.

​”Understood, Miss April,” Samuel murmured back, his voice an absolute promise. ”I will not let anything compromise Miss Emily’s safety or peace of mind.”

​Reassured by her High Steward’s unshakeable vigilance, April sat back against the velvet cushion, her cold, analytical gaze shifting back down to the arena floor.

​Down below, the ticking digital clock reached zero for the prep phase. The automated service lift gave its familiar, low chime, ready to deliver the first wave of delicate confections.

​”Let’s see,” April said coolly, setting her teacup down. ”Who actually understands the art of a proper dessert.”