Master of Lust-Chapter 321 - -

Chapter - 321

The convoy of white, refrigerated trucks wound its way through the Simplon Pass, a snake of steel navigating the frozen spine of the Alps. The scenery was postcard-perfect: jagged peaks dusted with eternal snow, pine forests that looked like they held secrets, and a sky so blue it hurt the eyes.

Rick sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, looking at his reflection in the side mirror. Or rather, he was looking at the reflection of Henri Vancroft.

The bio-synthetic mask was a marvel of terrifyingly expensive engineering. It felt cool and gelatinous against his skin, responding to his facial muscles with perfect elasticity. He touched his mustache—a thick, grey walrus affair. He felt the phantom sensation of his own lip beneath it.

"Stop touching it," Sharon snapped from the driver’s seat. She was wearing the uniform of an Alpine Delights logistics manager: a crisp white shirt with the company logo, black slacks, and a headset. She looked professional, efficient, and ready to snap someone’s neck. "You’re going to smudge the adhesive."

"It’s self-sealing," Rick said, his voice emerging as a perfect, resonant baritone with a heavy, pretentious French accent. He blinked. The retinal contacts itchy but functional. "And I’m not touching it. I’m admiring the craftsmanship. Two million dollars well spent. I look exhausted, overweight, and chemically dependent on butter. It’s perfect."

"You need to act the part, Rick," Nadia said from the sleeper cab behind them. She was dressed as a sous-chef, her hair tucked under a toque. She was currently monitoring the truck’s telemetry and the encrypted comms channel Johnson had set up. "Henri isn’t just a face. He’s a personality. A volatile, arrogant, culinary dictator."

"I know," Rick said, dropping the accent for a moment. "That’s why I need an upgrade."

He opened the System Interface. He had money to burn and a role to play. He couldn’t just look like a chef; he had to know the difference between a béchamel and a velouté, or Silas Warner’s personal food tasters would execute him before the appetizers were served.

[System Shop > Skills > Lifestyle > Culinary Arts]

He scrolled past ’Home Cooking’ and ’Line Cook’. He went straight to the top shelf.

[Skill Book: ’The Michelin Warlord’ (Legendary)]

[Description: Grants mastery of French, Italian, and Molecular Gastronomy. Increases knife speed by 50%. Grants passive skill ’Kitchen Tyrant’ (Intimidation bonus against staff and service workers).]

[Cost: $50,000.]

"Bought," Rick whispered.

A golden light flashed in his mind, followed by a sudden, intense headache. It felt like someone had shoved an entire library of cookbooks, a history of French agriculture, and the muscle memory of chopping a million onions directly into his frontal lobe.

He gasped, gripping the dashboard.

"Rick?" Sharon asked, glancing over.

"I’m fine," Rick groaned, rubbing his temples. "Just... downloading. Did you know that the secret to a perfect demi-glace is the ratio of roasted veal bones to mirepoix? And that using margarine is a sin punishable by death?"

He looked at his hands. They felt different. Lighter. Dexterous. He picked up a pen from the dashboard and twirled it through his fingers with the speed of a balisong knife.

"I know kung fu," he muttered. "But with spatulas."

"Great," Sharon said, downshifting as they approached a bend. "Save the cooking show. We’re coming up on the Outer Perimeter."

Ahead, the road was blocked. It wasn’t a police checkpoint. It was a private military fortification disguised as a toll booth. Heavy concrete barriers forced traffic into a single lane. Armed guards in white snow-camo gear stood by, holding assault rifles. A black SUV with a mounted turret was parked on the ridge overlooking the road.

"Silas isn’t taking chances," Nadia whispered. "That’s Warner Security. They’re not on the payroll of the Swiss government; they are the government in this canton."

"Relax," Rick said, slipping back into the Henri persona. "We are the caterers. We are essential personnel. Just don’t shoot anyone unless I say ’flambé’."

The truck rolled to a halt. A guard approached the window, his face hidden behind a mirrored visor. He didn’t ask for license and registration. He held up a scanner.

"Papers," the guard said, his voice digitized.

Sharon handed over the manifest and their fake IDs. The guard scanned them.

"Vehicle inspection," the guard announced. "Step out. Open the back."

"Is there a problem?" Sharon asked, projecting ’annoyed logistics manager’ perfectly. "We are on a tight schedule. Mr. Warner does not like his produce sitting in the sun."

"Standard procedure," the guard said, unmoved. "We scan everything. X-ray and chemical sniffers. Step out."

Sharon looked at Rick. They had a problem. The truck wasn’t just carrying foie gras and truffles. Hidden in the false bottom of the crates were three MP7 submachine guns, ten kilos of C4, a Barrett sniper rifle, and enough poison to kill a small army.

If they x-rayed the truck, the game was over before it began.

Rick opened his door and stepped out. He didn’t look nervous. He looked furious.

"What is the meaning of this delay?!" Rick roared, his French accent thick and dripping with disdain. He adjusted his white chef’s coat, marching toward the guard. "Do you know who I am? I am Henri Vancroft! I am responsible for the palate of the most powerful men on Earth! And you are stopping my truffle shipment?"

The guard turned, his weapon lowering slightly. "Sir, step back. We need to scan the-"

"Scan?!" Rick got right in the guard’s face, utilizing his new Kitchen Tyrant passive skill. "You want to blast my A5 Wagyu beef with radiation? You want to ruin the molecular structure of my caviar with your clumsy x-rays? You are a philistine! An imbecile!"

While he shouted, waving his arms dramatically, Rick mentally accessed his Inventory.

[System Inventory: Active]

[Range: Touch/Proximity (10 meters)] 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

He couldn’t stop the scan. But he could change the results.

As he paced back and forth, shouting about the delicacy of saffron, he focused on the back of the truck.

[Select Items: C4, Weapons, Poisons, Ammunition.]

[Action: Transfer to Inventory.]

Zip.

It was instantaneous. One second, the contraband was hidden in the crates. The next, it was floating in the pocket dimension of the System. The crates were now filled only with expensive cheese and air.

"Scan it!" Rick screamed, gesturing at the truck. "Go ahead! Irradiate the food! And when Mr. Warner asks why his lobster tastes like airport security, I will give him your badge number! I will have you peeling potatoes in a gulag!"

The guard, visibly withered by the assault, signaled his team. They ran the portable x-ray scanner over the side of the truck.

The monitor showed... cheese. Vegetables. Meat. Nothing else.

The guard looked at the monitor, then at Rick. "It’s clean," he muttered into his radio.

"Of course it is clean!" Rick spat. "I run a kitchen, not a cartel! Now, let us pass, or I will personally ensure your next meal contains enough laxative to turn your intestines into a water slide!"

The guard waved them through. "Go. Just go."

Rick climbed back into the truck, slamming the door. As they rolled past the barrier, he let out a long breath and winked at Sharon.

"And that," he said, "is how you cook a goose."

"You moved the guns," Sharon stated, accelerating. "Into the Inventory."

"Had to," Rick said. "I’ll put them back once we’re inside the service entrance. Can’t have us showing up to a war without party favors."

He looked at the winding road ahead. "Now, onto Phase Two. We need to make a sale."

He pulled a small, black obsidian pyramid from his Inventory. The Black Market Beacon.

"Nadia," he said. "Get ready to track a signal. We’re going fishing for a shark named Valerius."

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