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HFfC: CH 4: A Morning Without Misfortune
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 08:34:53 +0000 UTCDing.
The bell above the café door chimed one last time that evening as Zero stepped back into LeBlanc, the air outside cool against his back.
He closed the door gently behind him, carrying the lightest bruise of exhaustion on his shoulders. Some neighbors had slammed doors. Some had muttered curses. One particularly athletic old man had thrown a cabbage with shocking precision. Thankfully, Zero had dodged it. Barely.
"All things considered," he muttered, "not a bad haul."
Despite everything, he'd managed to deliver every pack of cookies. Some people even said thanks—albeit quietly, like it might be a crime.
The streets outside had calmed. The sun was gone. Aetherion's version of night had settled fast, without the flickering nightlife or honking cars he remembered from his past life in LA. Here, most stores were shuttered by sunset. Lamps glowed with runes instead of bulbs. The streets looked like a frozen painting—quiet, poised, ancient.
Zero looked out through the café window, watching the last of the foot traffic drift away. "Night life's kind of extinct here, huh."
He shrugged, flipped the café sign to CLOSED, and locked the front door with a soft click. The runes on the glass dimmed to a low glow. Lights off. Back upstairs.
The loft welcomed him like a warm breath, still smelling faintly of coffee and baked sugar. He made another cup—because of course he did—and sat alone at the wide dining table. The steam curled upward from the mug, curling like a question in the dark.
Zero reached into his pocket. From it, he pulled out the card. Sōma Yukihira.
The art looked like a tarot card: ornate border, glowing inlaid lettering, and a stylized illustration of the smirking anime chef with messy red hair and apron.
Zero turned it slowly in his hands. "An anime chef," he muttered. "Guess it's time to experiment."
He placed the card face-up on the table, then pushed his chair back and sat on the floor, legs crossed. Eyes closed. Breath even.
He didn't know what he was doing. Not exactly. But through the day, he'd felt something—a tingling under the skin. He was faster. Stronger. His sight had sharper edges. The world felt more… elastic. And then there was the other thing. The deeper thing.
The strange prickle in his blood. Like a pressure behind his bones. A hum, faint and low, but always there. He focused. The sensation bloomed, warm and unsettling in his palm. Without fully thinking, he whispered. "...Fuck it."
He grabbed the kitchen knife from the side table. Pressed it gently to the palm of his hand. And cut. A shallow slice. Not deep—but enough. The pain was sharp and clean. Blood welled instantly and dripped to the wooden floor. As the first drop struck, something snapped in the air. A hiss of sound, like breath drawn through a flute.
A magic circle flared into existence beneath him, drawn in light and arcane symbols. It formed around the blood, which continued to fall—not downward, but upward and sideways and inward, flowing against gravity, spiraling in midair like water dancing. The blood pooled—suspended—and from it, a shape began to rise.
Zero clutched his hand, startled, but the pain was already gone. He looked down. The cut had healed. Perfectly. No mark. No scar. Not even a drop of blood left.
"Archdemon body," he whispered. "Awesome." The blood-formed shape continued to build. Flesh. Hair. Eyes. Muscle. Clothes absent, but detail perfect.
And when it was done, a second Zero stood barefoot in the loft's center, blinking like he'd just woken up from the same dream.
Then—"Hey!" the clone shouted, voice identical but a touch higher-pitched. "Give me some clothes, man!"
Zero blinked. "My hand was bleeding! You get your own damn clothes!"
"Oh—right. Okay, that's fair."
The clone turned and walked briskly into the bedroom. Zero remained seated, staring at the space the circle had been. The floor was clean now—no residue, no glow, just wood.
From the bedroom came rustling, the sound of hangers clacking. Then footsteps. The clone returned, dressed in matching casual clothes. He looked exactly like Zero. From the boots to the hair-tie. Except… the eyes.
The clone's eyes were just a touch more animated. Lighter. Like he was seeing the world for the first time and couldn't wait to ruin it gently.
The clone crossed his arms, mirroring the real Zero. "So," he said, cocking an eyebrow, "what now, boss?"
Zero crossed his arms, eyeing the clone. "So… you can talk."
The clone smirked. "Can I?"
Zero raised a brow. "Same sarcasm too. Great."
The clone threw his hands up. "I mean, I'm literally you."
Zero narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? Then if you're really me, you should know what I'm about to say next."
The two of them locked eyes—Then, at the exact same moment, both raised their arms and shouted. "It's EXPERIMENT TIME!"
They broke into identical high-pitched giggles.
"Ehehehehehe!"
"Ehehehehehe!"
Zero leaned on the table, laughing. "Oh god. We're annoying."
The clone grinned. "Yeah, and now the universe gets double the dosage."
Zero stepped forward and squinted, reaching out to pinch the clone's arm. "Okay, serious question—how independent are you?"
"OW!" the clone shouted, flinching. "That hurt!"
Zero recoiled, blinking. "You feel pain?"
Without missing a beat, the clone reached forward and pinched Zero right back.
Zero yelped. "Ow!"
The clone nodded, satisfied. "That's how independent I am."
Zero rubbed his arm, expression flickering from amusement to intrigue. "That's… fascinating. It's like I can create life."
He paused, raised both arms dramatically, and began laughing in a rising crescendo. "Ehehehehe… EHEHEHEHE… AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The clone raised a finger. "Okay, stop. You sound like a third-rate Saturday morning cartoon villain."
Zero coughed, cleared his throat, and stood up straighter. "Right. Sorry. Got carried away."
"Let's… stick to the testing."
They stood across from each other. Zero lifted his left hand. The clone lifted his right. Then they mirrored again. Then they swapped. Then they tried to dance at the same time. The clone fumbled the spin.
"Okay, so you're not automated," Zero muttered. "You're not a puppet. You've got your own motor control."
"Thank god," the clone said. "I'd hate to be bad at dancing just because you are."
Zero sat and read the front of a book he found. The clone cooked eggs in the kitchen while humming a different song entirely. Both stayed aware of what they were doing.
"So," the clone said, cracking an egg one-handed, "we can multitask without lag."
Zero nodded. "That's terrifying."
"Terrifyingly useful."
"Alright," Zero said. "Say something I wouldn't expect."
The clone looked thoughtful. "I kinda ship Sanji and Zoro."
Zero blinked. "...Okay, wow. That's weirdly specific."
"I am you," the clone said. "Just a little freer."
They tried dozens more: reflex checks, memory sync, taste difference, magic sensitivity. Each time, Zero learned something—and laughed more than he had in years.
But then—As the clone sat on the edge of the table, swinging his legs, he looked up and said: "Hey… What happens when I die?"
Zero froze. He set the cup of coffee down slowly. "...What?"
"I mean," the clone shrugged, "I can feel things. I can think. And I… I think I feel a kind of pull. Like I'm not… completely separate from you. Like I'm real, but I'm anchored."
Zero frowned.
"Don't get me wrong," the clone added. "I'm not scared. Just curious."
A pause.
"I think you could dismiss me."
Zero looked down at his hand. The one he'd cut earlier. The skin was flawless now. Not even a line. The blood had disappeared, but something had remained. A link. "I can feel it too," he said softly. "Like a thread between us."
The clone nodded. "Then… try it. See what happens. You can make me. Maybe you can unmake me."
Zero hesitated. Then, quietly: "I don't want to hurt you."
The clone smiled gently. "You won't. I am you. Just on loan."
Another pause. Then Zero closed his eyes. Focused. And willed it. The clone didn't scream. Didn't flinch. He shimmered. Softly. Like water losing its shape. And with a sigh of magic, the blood-born body unraveled into mist, and was gone.
Silence fell.
Zero sat still for a moment. Then looked at his hands. He was alone again. But something lingered—not sadness, not guilt. Just… the knowledge that he could create something that real. And let it go.
…
The warmth of morning sunlight filtered in through the loft's tall windows, slipping between curtains like golden fingers. The sound of clattering hooves, murmuring voices, and distant bells told Zero the city was awake long before he was.
He lay there for a moment, eyes still half-lidded, wrapped in the quiet comfort of crisp sheets and a mattress that didn't sag on one side. The pillow didn't smell like dust or borrowed regrets. The blanket held no burn holes or cigarette ash.
This was new.
A new day, in a new world, with no curses riding his shoulders.
Zero let out a slow, satisfied sigh before finally pushing himself upright. He rubbed at his eyes, blinked away sleep, and stretched until his spine popped.
The cool air against his skin nudged him toward the bath chamber—a tiled alcove with silver piping and a copper tub that gleamed like a polished coin. He filled it with steaming water, stepped in, and let out a quiet groan as warmth soaked into his bones.
After, as he toweled off, his eyes caught on the full-length mirror beside the wash basin.
He paused. There he was. Still him. Still Zero. Except…
The horns. Just above his brow, short but distinct. Dark, elegantly curved like blackened ivory. He reached up and touched one gently. It was cool and smooth, but warmed beneath his touch. They felt less alien now. Less strange.
He pulled on a clean, soft grey shirt and casual trousers—nothing fancy, just something comfortable. Rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Tied his hair loosely back. Looked in the mirror one last time and offered himself a small, lopsided smile.
"Handsome," he said. "Just with horns now."
He padded down the stairs barefoot.
The café below greeted him like a half-forgotten dream, cozy and waiting. Sunlight slanted in through the front window, casting gentle beams across the counters and wood floors. And there, by the sink.
"...Of course," he muttered.
The dishes. Yesterday's cookie-baking aftermath. Mixing bowls, spatulas, baking sheets, all piled like silent witnesses to his sugar diplomacy.
He rolled up his sleeves again. "Well," he said with a smile, "can't very well call myself a proper café owner if I let this pile win."
The water ran warm, the soap foamed easily. He hummed to himself as he worked, slipping into a rhythm both new and familiar. There were no accidents. No sudden slips. No knife nicks or shattered mugs. Nothing burst, tipped, or went mysteriously missing.
He even found himself singing.
"Every breath you take… every move you make…"
The dishwater sparkled under the morning sun, and for the first time in either of his lives, cleaning felt... nice.
When he finally dried his hands and looked around, everything sparkled. The café was spotless. His chest swelled with quiet pride. He looked down at his palm—the same one he had cut yesterday. No scar. Not even a trace. Archdemon body, he thought. Seriously underrated.
He turned toward the center of the café floor. "Alright," he said to no one in particular. "Let's do the clone again." The ritual had no incantation. No summoning gesture. Just blood and will.
He took a small paring knife from beneath the counter. Its edge was sharp, ceremonial in its simplicity. He drew it across his palm with practiced calm.
The cut opened. Blood welled instantly—deep crimson. And as the first drop hit the wood, the world responded. Light bent.
A circle of magic bloomed across the floor—runes spiraling outward in perfect alignment. Symbols that flickered and pulsed with alien logic.
The blood rose against gravity, swirling in an elegant arc, collecting in midair, congealing—not as gore, but as potential. The pool formed into limbs. Then a torso. Then a face.
Zero watched, silent, as the fluid solidified with gentle pulses—like a body remembering how to be born. Moments later, the figure stood tall. A perfect replica of Zero. Naked, blinking, barefoot.
"Hey again," the clone said, brushing hair from his face.
Zero blinked. "...Hi again."
He tilted his head. "Wait. Are you the same one from yesterday?"
The clone shrugged. "No. But I remember him. Your memories are part of me. Think of me as... yesterday's sequel."
"Creepy," Zero muttered. "But efficient."
The clone grinned. "That's basically our brand."
Zero stepped behind the counter and returned with the Sōma Yukihira card in hand. The edges shimmered faintly, the art styled like a tarot card, elegant and mysterious. The cocky red-haired anime chef winked up at him with playful confidence.
"Time for fusion," Zero said. "Let's see what this does."
The clone nodded. "Alright. What do you want me to do?"
Zero frowned. "Shouldn't you know?"
"I know how I work," the clone said, "because I am you. I'm just a blank slate until you plug something in."
Zero rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Okay then."
Test One: Hand the Card Over
The clone held it. Nothing.
Test Two: Place on Chest
The card just slid off.
Test Three: Slap Gently with Card
The clone glared. "Ow."
"Science," Zero said innocently.
They tried pressing it to the palm. Waving it like a wand. Chanting random shonen anime phrases. Nothing worked.
"...Hold still," Zero said.
He raised the card slowly, positioned it between the clone's horns, and pressed it to the forehead.
The moment it touched skin—It glowed.
The card shimmered, bent inward, and sank into the clone's body like light soaking into cloth.
The clone stumbled back a step, hand to his temple.
Then his form began to shift.
His hair turned red, vibrant and wild. His posture changed, looser and more cocky. His clothes melted into casual modern wear—black t-shirt, fitted jeans, white apron.
His grin widened.
"...Oh," the clone said, voice laced with new inflection. "This is fun."
"Holy shit." That was all Zero could say at first.
His mouth hung slightly open, arms slack at his sides as he stared at the clone—his clone—who now stood in the middle of the café, grinning like he owned the place.
Wild red hair. Relaxed, cocky posture. Clothes that looked like they were snatched from a modern culinary school student. The change wasn't just physical. It was vibe. This wasn't Zero anymore.
It was Sōma Yukihira.
Zero's awe quickly morphed into something more mischievous. His lips curled upward into a mockingly contemplative smirk.
"…You know," he said slowly, squinting as he leaned in, "you got shorter."
Soma blinked. "What?"
"Yeah," Zero said, now circling him, hand on his chin. "Definitely shorter than me. Adorable. Bet you can't even reach the spice rack without a stool. Ehehehehe."
"Hey!" Soma snapped. "You're only taller because your stupid demon horns count toward your height!"
"Ah, denial," Zero said, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. "The first symptom of accepting shortness."
Soma looked ready to throw a ladle.
Zero waved him off. "Alright, alright. Moving on. Any changes besides your total makeover and downgrade in height?"
Soma crossed his arms, tapping his foot with dramatic flair. "Yeah, actually. I… know things."
Zero raised a brow. "You mean, like, secrets of the universe?"
"No, I mean—my body knows things. Muscle memory. Like there are techniques I've never learned but… they're just there." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. "It's like having memories… but not in your head. In your bones."
Zero blinked. "...What the fuck does that mean?"
Soma didn't bother to explain.
He stepped toward the counter, eyes locking on a nearby cutting board. On it rested a chef cleaver and a lonely yellow onion.
"Watch," he said simply.
Zero did.
In one seamless motion, Soma reached out—right hand snatching the cleaver, left hand grabbing the onion. He peeled, halved, and began slicing with speed so fluid it looked animated. The knife flashed like silver fire, the onion thinned into perfect ribbons.
By the time Zero's eyes could track it, the board was already full of flawless julienned strands, clean and even as machine cuts.
Soma exhaled and placed the cleaver back on the board with a satisfied clink.
"…That's not even my fastest," he added casually.
Zero stood blinking.
Then nodded slowly.
"I guess… you're really a chef."
Soma folded his arms, grinning. "Of course I'm a chef."
Zero stepped behind the café's counter, flicked on the coffee siphon, and started prepping a brew.
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking.
"Yeah, but you're still not on Liu Mao Xing's level."
Soma stopped cold.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"That child from Cooking Master Boy?"
"Ohhh, now he's 'that child'?"
Soma growled. "I will make you eat your words."
"Please do," Zero said as he measured the beans. "Clone One."
"Don't call me that!" Soma snapped. "My name's Soma. Get it right."
Zero waved a hand over his shoulder. "Sure thing. Show me what you've got, Soma. If you're half as good as you think you are, I might let you take over the kitchen."
"Deal," Soma said, already stalking into the prep area. "But when I blow your mind, I want you to say I'm better than Liu Mao Xing—out loud."
Zero poured water into the siphon and smiled behind the rising steam.
"We'll see."
Soma cracked his knuckles.
"Time to cook."
The kitchen of Café LeBlanc was not large.
It was a narrow room, barely enough space to stretch your arms in either direction without bumping into something—a counter here, a cupboard there. The oven nestled snug beside the chopping station. The spice rack sat humble and quiet in the corner.
But in Soma's hands, the room became a stage.
A symphony hall.
A culinary arena.
Pots clanged like battle drums. The sizzle of oil danced in the air like applause. Soma moved with the confident rhythm of someone who had done this not a thousand times—but forever. His steps were sharp, exact. Every reach was deliberate. He chopped with hypnotic precision, flipping a pan in one hand while tossing seasonings in the other.
Zero watched from behind the café bar, clutching his coffee, eyes wide.
"You're using the whole damn kitchen," he said.
"Correction," Soma called over the bubbling of broth, "I'm commanding it."
"You just flipped a cutting board with your foot."
"And it landed perfectly."
Zero pointed. "That spoon is spinning by itself."
"I seasoned it mid-air."
"Show-off."
Soma grinned without looking back. "I am you, remember?"
Zero laughed, and in the middle of it—he paused.
He blinked.
Something strange tugged at the edge of his chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just… a thread. A warm, quiet attachment. Not just to the clone—but to the act itself. To the movement. The fire. The strange, effortless dance of two pieces of a soul moving in tandem.
Soma, still chopping, glanced over his shoulder.
"You're thinking weird things."
"I'm not."
"You are. I'm you. I can tell."
Zero looked down at his coffee. "It's just strange. Talking to you. Watching you do all this. You're me. But not me."
Soma plated the food with the kind of grace most chefs would kill to fake. He wiped the edges of the dish with a cloth, added a final sprig of something green and fragrant, and slid it onto the countertop in front of Zero.
Steam wafted from the plate.
It looked… perfect.
Golden-brown seared meat, glazed with something sweet and sharp. Soft mashed root vegetables folded into a swirl beside it. A reduction sauce so rich in color it practically shimmered.
Soma wiped his hands on a towel and said, "You're overthinking. I'm you. I get it. But just… enjoy this life, yeah?"
Zero met his gaze.
Then smiled.
"...Yes, chef."
Soma raised a brow. "Oh, now I'm 'chef'?"
"From the smell alone?" Zero leaned in. "It's already a hundred times better than anything I've cooked."
Soma beamed as he moved to clean up. "Damn right."
Zero lifted his fork. The moment it touched the meat, it slid through like silk. He brought the first bite to his mouth, closed his lips around it—
And the world exploded.
Literally.
His clothes shredded off his body in an ethereal blast, as if the taste itself had declared war on fabric. His shirt burst apart, buttons pinging across the café. His trousers split at the seams. His hair whipped back in an invisible wind.
He slammed a hand on the table, eyes wide, pupils dilated.
"FUCKING HELL!"
Soma nearly dropped a saucepan.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"
"I—" Zero gasped, fork still hovering. "It was so good I felt like I ascended! I think I saw the Ethereal Court of Seven Stars! They waved at me!"
Soma looked at his hands, horrified. "I need to tone down my skill…"
Zero, naked and uncaring, scooped another bite. "No. Absolutely not. But we do need clothes that can survive flavor-blasts."
"We can't have customers disrobing at the table," Soma muttered.
Zero groaned as he chewed. "Oh god it's nostalgic. It tastes like… like our grandma's cooking."
Soma blinked. "We don't have a grandma."
"Exactly," Zero said, eyes misty. "That's why I'm crying."
Soma stared. Then laughed. Zero cried and ate and wept and chewed and moaned and devoured. It was chaos. It was perfect. It was Café LeBlanc.
…
Zero licked the last streak of sauce from the edge of the ceramic plate, eyes half-lidded in reverent bliss. He set the plate down with care, like placing a holy relic on an altar.
Soma raised a brow from across the kitchen island. "Okay, that's enough worship. Get upstairs and put on some damn clothes."
Zero stood slowly, still a little lightheaded from culinary enlightenment. "Yeah. Thanks for the meal, Soma."
Soma grinned proudly. "You're welcome."
As Zero turned and wandered toward the stairs—completely naked, without an ounce of shame—Soma watched him disappear up the steps.
"Better than that Liu Mao Xing boy, am I right?" he called out smugly.
From above came a muffled, "Yeah, yeah... I eat my own words."
Soma chuckled, flicking a damp towel over his shoulder like a proper kitchen king.
Ding!
The café bell jingled, and the front door creaked open.
Soma turned. Standing at the threshold was Linda, the old dwarf woman from the locksmith shop next door. She wore a deep burgundy shawl and carried a small wicker basket of keys.
"Oh my," she said, glancing around. "I don't think I've seen you before."
Soma smiled smoothly. "Good morning. Welcome in! I just arrived this morning. I work with my brother, Zero."
Linda blinked. "Brother?"
Soma's smile froze for half a second. Right. Zero was an demon. Soma, in this form, looked fully human.
"Well," Soma said quickly, scratching his cheek, "I mean—like brothers. You know, with everything we've been through, it just… feels that way."
He let out an awkward chuckle. "Bit of a found-family thing."
Linda smiled politely, clearly too kind to press further. Then—Footsteps. Zero descended the stairs briskly, towel in hand, hair loose and falling past his shoulders. "Soma, did you see my hair ti—" He stopped mid-sentence. Saw Linda.
Paused.
Smiled casually. "…Linda! Good to see you. What brings you here?"
She tilted her head, amused. "Good afternoon, dear. What brings me? Just checking in. It's already past noon, and your café still had the 'closed' sign up. Thought something might've happened."
Zero stepped off the stairs, tossing the towel behind the counter and choosing not to tie his hair. "Ah—thanks for checking on me. Really. I was just making sure everything's ready before we open proper. A little test run."
Linda nodded. "Well, I won't impose on you and your brother while you're preparing."
Zero blinked. "...Brother?"
Soma flashed a bright smile behind Linda's back and mouthed, Just roll with it.
Zero cleared his throat. "Right. My brother. He's… uh. Very enthusiastic about cooking."
"I can see that," Linda said, eyeing the impeccably cleaned counter. "Everything smells wonderful in here."
Soma stepped forward with a friendly wave. "Ma'am, if you can, come by tomorrow morning. We'll be doing a breakfast menu. First proper opening."
Linda's face brightened. "Oh? I do love a warm breakfast."
She turned to the door. "Alright then. I'll look forward to it."
Ding.
The bell rang as she stepped out and gently closed the door behind her.
Silence returned.
Zero glanced sideways at Soma. "My brother?"
Soma grinned, smug and proud. "Saved your PR, didn't I?"
Zero rolled his eyes. "She's going to tell the entire block you're my long-lost blood sibling."
"Better than saying I'm your magical blood clone from another dimension."
Zero sighed. "Touché."
Soma stretched, popping his knuckles. "So… breakfast menu?"
Zero cracked a grin. "Yeah. Let's make it count."
Comments
Vrael333
Great! Brilliant! Exceptional! I long for more :)
