The restaurant lights cast a warm yellow glow on the perfectly pan-seared synthetic steak on his plate, its surface glistening appetizingly.
Medici speared a piece with his fork and chewed methodically. The hunger from intense mental work was gradually satisfied by the food, filling him with an almost languid contentment.
Outside the window was the standardized, verdant yet unsurprising landscaped garden of "Singularity" society, where several mechanical biomimetic birds perched on branches, their calls a bit too pleasant.
His personal terminal sat beside him, its screen automatically dimmed but not shut off.
During the promotion matches, officials allowed moderate public attention to intrude into contestants' rest periods, euphemistically calling it "emotional connection with the audience."
Medici didn't care. He was too lazy to even activate privacy mode.
At this moment, the screen faithfully displayed his profile as he ate, along with... a tsunami of frantically scrolling comments.
At first, there were only scattered discussions about the difficulty of the new version's command system, about the sanity-draining appearance of the Genestealers, about what flavor of nutrient drink the goddess Neil had today. But soon, the wind shifted.
The comments became dense, sharp, loaded with gunpowder.
"Medici, get out here! Explain what the hell servitors are?!"
"Transforming living people? Have you lost your mind?"
"Reported! This isn't just blood and violence anymore, this is promoting crimes against humanity!"
"Damn, yesterday I thought the Mechanicus was cool, today after Scorchwind's reveal, I nearly puked all over my immersion pod!"
"All that technical skill used just to disgust people, huh? You've got serious psychological problems, Old Thief Medici. S
ingularity's system should give you a comprehensive psychiatric evaluation!"
"Imperial soldiers shout 'For the Emperor,' but their allies turn living people into batteries and weapons? What kind of evil god is this Emperor?"
"I suddenly get why the Tival rebels exist. If this twisted Empire doesn't fall, who should?"
The wave of condemnation grew higher and higher, with a few attempts at rational discussion or defense scattered throughout, only to be instantly drowned out.
Medici's name became inextricably linked with "psychological perversion" and "anti-human setting."
The livestream's real-time emotional monitoring curve had probably spiked into the red zone like a flatlined EKG after cardiac arrest.
Medici cut another piece of steak, dabbed it in sauce, and put it in his mouth. He chewed seriously, his cheeks slightly puffed, his eyes not even glancing at the comments, as if the violent attacks scrolling across the screen weren't personal condemnations at all, but merely meaningless background noise in the restaurant's ambient music.
Only after he swallowed that bite and took a sip of water did he finally lift his eyelids, his gaze calmly sweeping across the frantically scrolling screen.
His expression didn't change. No flush of anger, no hurt from being misunderstood, no eagerness common to those trying to defend themselves. It was an almost cold calm, or rather, the absolute certainty of a creator who had total control over the world he'd written.
He cleared his throat, his voice transmitting through the terminal's microphone. Against the background of passionate condemnatory comments, it came through unusually clear, even a bit too flat.
"I know you're upset," he said, his tone like he was commenting that today's steak was overcooked by half a minute, "but hold on."
The comments seemed to choke on his reaction, their scrolling speed stuttering for just an instant.
Medici picked up his napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth, his movements unhurried.
"That's just how the Adeptus Mechanicus is," he stated, neither raising his voice nor adding emphasis, as if stating an inarguable fact like "water is wet." "It's not going to change."
He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through the screen toward the souls behind those indignant virtual IDs, souls that perhaps lacked any real imagination of the darkness beyond this "Singularity" world.
"And besides, this isn't some 'cruel setting' I invented just to gross people out."
He tilted his head slightly, the gesture carrying an ineffable seriousness, almost like an academic discussion. "Because in the foundational logic of the universe I've constructed..."
His voice remained steady, but the next words hit like a cold meteorite dropped into a boiling pot of public opinion.
"...the entire universe is like this."
The restaurant was quiet, with only the faint laughter of other contestants in the distance and the soft clink of utensils.
But through the livestream signal, countless viewers could almost hear the suffocating silence after those words landed.
"If you still want to play," Medici added, his tone carrying neither invitation nor warning, but more like an objective statement, "you'll see even more disgusting, worldview-shattering, more despairing things later on."
Having said that, he ignored the comments that instantly exploded tenfold, filled with question marks, exclamation points, and even more heated insults.
He lowered his head again, focusing on the remaining side of broccoli on his plate. He speared a floret with his fork, held it up to examine it, then put it in his mouth, chewing slowly and carefully.
His posture clearly said: The truth of the universe is like the food on this plate, objectively existing, unchanging regardless of the observer's preferences. You can choose not to eat it, but don't clamor for the chef to erase broccoli from existence.
As for the chef himself?
He simply finished his lunch in peace.
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~ Push the story forward with your Power Stones