Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

The hum of the service lift broke the tense silence of the judging suite, elevating the first confection of the dessert round.

Samuel stepped forward, raising the silver dome to reveal a glossy, perfectly spherical raspberry tartlet garnished with spun sugar and gold leaf.

​April looked excited. Desserts were a must on her menu. She picked up her dessert fork, taking a small bite, but almost instantly, her brows knitted together.

The shell was crisp, but the fruit filling hit her tongue like a wave of pure, unrefined syrup, overwhelming the natural acidity of the raspberries.

​”Too sweet,” Emily murmured, dabbing her lips with a napkin. ”It completely masks the berry flavor.”

​”Cloying,” April agreed coolly. She tapped the interface on her console, inputting their evaluation. ”A six-point-four. No, make it five-point-four. I think I could do better and I don’t even know how to bake. This coming from a master chef is a disgrace.”

​Down on the arena floor, the LED board flashed the dismal score. The chef—a well-known pastry artisan from a high-end European bakery—slumped against his counter in disbelief before slinking away to pack his tools.

​”If a pastry chef relies solely on sugar to mask a lack of depth, they fail completely,” April said dryly, flicking her wrist to store the remaining tartlet into her spatial dimension regardless. Food was still food, and sugar reserves would be vital later, even if the execution fell short of her standards.

​Plate after plate ascended through the automated lift. A rich dark chocolate fondant scored a decent 8.2, surviving the cutoff, while an overly dense matcha mille-feuille flopped with a 7.1. Out of the dozens of remaining chefs, nearly half were eliminated within the first hour of the dessert phase.

Along the line, April began to wonder if she should’ve just had a separate baking competition for bakers because she was highly disappointed by these results.

​Finally, the lift chimed twice in rapid succession.

​The first tray bore a creation from station thirty-two. Renzo had prepared a delicate Japanese-style white peach mousse, encased in a translucent glass-sugar sphere and resting on a bed of crushed shiso-infused ice.

​Emily took a spoon, her eyes widening as the mousse dissolved effortlessly on her tongue and she hummed in satisfaction. ”It’s so light... Like eating sweet air.”

​April sampled a spoonful. The subtle tartness of the peach cut through the cream, creating an immaculate, balanced finish that refreshed the palate after his heavy seafood course.

But it was not quite there yet.

​”An eight-point-nine,” April declared, locking in the score.

​Down below, Renzo merely gave a brief, polite nod toward the judging box, his proud, distant expression unchanged as his name surged to the very top of the cumulative leaderboards.

​Moments later, the secondary lift chimed, elevating a dish from station twenty-four.

​Samuel lifted the dome to reveal a rustic, dark chocolate tart topped with a glossy mirror glaze, accompanied by a small portion of deep-red cherry compote. It lacked the theatrical flair of Renzo’s sugar sculpture, but the deep, roasted cocoa aroma wafting from the plate was undeniably intoxicating.

​Emily leaned in, holding her breath as April picked up her fork.

​April sliced through the tart; the crust yielded with a firm, clean snap, revealing a velvety, multi-layered ganache inside. She took a bite, letting the flavors unfold across her tongue.

The bitterness of the dark chocolate was sharp, rich, and intense, but the sour-sweet punch of the spiced cherry compote balanced it instantly, leaving a clean, sophisticated aftertaste.

​A subtle, undeniable glint of satisfaction flashed in April’s dark eyes.

​”He understood the assignment,” April remarked smoothly. ”He used dark cocoa to counteract the heavy fat from his previous savory course, resetting the palate entirely.”

​She tapped the screen, setting the score.

​Down on the floor, the master board chimed loudly: STATION 24: 8.8.

​Philippe let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ten minutes, a quiet, tired smile finally breaking across his freckled face. He bowed deeply toward the upper booths before beginning the meticulous process of cleaning his station.

​”Eight-point-eight,” Emily cheered softly, glancing over at her sister with a triumphant gleam. ”He made the cut!”

​”He survived the round,” April corrected, her tone calm and detached as she motioned for Samuel to harvest the remaining slice into her inventory. ”Which simply means he earns the right to cook for us again.”

She rose from her seat, smoothing out her skirt as the preliminary phase drew to its official close. ”Come, Emily. The final showdown for today starts after a short break. Let’s stretch our legs in the meantime.”

​”Yes, April!” Emily rose from her seat, excitement coursing through her.

​”I hope you fatten up with all this tasting,” April teased, reaching out to gently pinch her sister’s cheeks. ”You’re all bones.”

​”Ow! But I like the way I am,” Emily protested, playfully trying to duck away from April’s hands.

​”You’re just saying that because you don’t know how light you are,” April said with a slight smirk, stepping back. ”Samuel can probably lift you with one finger.”

​”Ahem,” Samuel chipped in, adjusting the bridge of his glasses with practiced formality. ”That is technically impossible, Miss April... but I believe I can manage with one hand.”

​April pointed at her assistant triumphantly. ”See?”

​”That goes for you too, Miss April,” Samuel added smoothly, his expression completely unreadable.

​Emily cackled under her breath, covering her mouth with both hands as April gasped inaudibly, her dark eyes widening in slight disbelief at her right hand man.

​”Whose side are you on?” April demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.

​”Your side, Miss April,” Samuel replied, bowing his head with absolute, unfazed devotion but it didn’t stop the tiny curve from appearing at the corner of his lips.

​”Tsk. Forget it,” April muttered, rolling her eyes and turning back toward the door as Emily’s quiet giggles continued to echo through the suite.

They made their way to the elevator and got in.