The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 596

Chapter 596: Round Three: Wild Preparations

A mass holiday.

What followed the announcement that roused the Empire was a sudden and private declaration of a holiday.

Absurd? Maybe. But how could any company claim to be responsible if they forced employees to work on that fateful day? It would look like they had personally blocked their staff from receiving life-saving medical care.

So, aside from critical workplaces that offered triple pay to lure staff into showing up, the majority of companies simply gave up and called it a rest day.

Not that anyone was actually planning on resting.

Who in their right mind would lie down and relax when faced with such a tribulation?

Certainly not the masses furiously exercising their fingers. Certainly not the sleepless employees of Star Net and Star Mall, who had been praying for salvation since yesterday. And definitely not the military, who had an entirely different kind of battlefield ahead of them.

After the initial war over kitchen appliances, the Empire had fallen into a deceptive calm. Temples and places of worship, however, were anything but peaceful. They were filled with the sounds of wild chants, bizarre rituals, and candlelit ceremonies that no holy text had ever sanctioned.

And in family homes, a revolution of sorts was underway. Gaming-addicted relatives, once mocked for their obsessive habits, were suddenly heroes, put on the frontlines with the sole mission of winning something for their family.

Meanwhile, the overworked employees of Star Mall were running themselves ragged, redirecting resources with the speed and desperation of people who knew their company’s entire future rested on the next sunrise.

Then, in the middle of this chaos, a call went out.

"S-sir! You need to see this!"

"What now? Did you find a biotoxin? Because unless it’s bioterrorism, I really don’t have the time," said the supervisor, a husk of a man who had been clinging to life since yesterday.

"No, boss! It’s... worse? Or better?!"

"Just spit it out already, we don’t have time!"

"Sir... It’s a package. From Star Mall Vendor 11820251002!"

"!!!"

Every employee froze. That number was seared into their minds so deeply that they could recite it even in their sleep.

Moments later, they were all crowding the mail room, staring in shock at what looked like barrels lined up on the floor.

"Just what on Solaris is this?!"

The supervisor bent over the note attached, read it, and—shockingly—shed a tear.

The first instinct of the staff was to panic. Were they all about to be fired? Was this their death warrant?

But then the supervisor dry-heaved, clutched his chest, and shouted, "Prepare ice makers! Containers! In fact, prepare yourselves!"

"HUH???"

"Star Mall Vendor 11820251002... the vendor sent us drinks! To thank us for our hard work and dedication! There’s even an apology for the overtime!"

Silence.

All this... for them?

Apparently so.

And for the hours leading up to the release, the employees of Star Net and Star Mall worked with a vigor unseen in decades.

What overwork? What overtime? What hassle? They knew none of those words anymore.

Not after they, too, had taken a sip and finally understood why the rest of the Empire was willing to fight tooth and nail for it.

Meanwhile, in the military headquarters, there was an intense debate. Not about battle strategies. Not about enemy positions.

No.

It was about who among them had the skills to cook anything at all.

When the livestream about the shop update spread across the Empire, it reached the ears of the military like a siren song. The soldiers, hardened men and women trained for war, looked ready to salivate.

Marshal Julian had never seen so many hopeful eyes in one room, and unfortunately, they were all looking at him.

Because maybe, just maybe, he would give them good news.

Any kind of good news.

After all, they had tasted once before. That miraculous allocation. The divine scraps. And surely, surely, there would be more.

The Marshal cleared his throat, the room going silent. The soldiers leaned forward as if preparing to receive a sacred command. Their hearts pounded. Their fingers twitched, already imagining victory in the next round of purchases.

Because the losers who had been defeated last time couldn’t possibly lose again, right?

And then...

Marshal Julian, with the same gravity as if issuing a do-or-die order, declared:

"We’re in need of more cooks."

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