Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives

Villain Ch 1629. Never Mess with People Who Handle Your Food

“You ruined my kitchen last week with that viral cake,” Michael snapped. “Now taste mine. And acknowledge it. Out loud.”

Allen looked at Jordan.

Jordan just sipped his wine.

Allen looked at Emma.

She leaned in. “If this gives you food poisoning, I’ll post it on two forums and a private subreddit.”

Allen groaned.

“Okay. I’ll eat later,” he said, shifting back slightly in his chair. “I mean, if I eat this now, I can’t… eat your perfect pasta.”

Chef Michael, who had been waiting with the discipline of a military sniper, leaned in slowly—expression unreadable, eyes narrowing.

“This is not just… a pasta, young man,” he said, voice low like a man delivering sacred scripture. “This is a twelve-layer handmade lasagna infused with smoked white truffle reduction, aged gouda bechamel, and imported flame basil. I braised the ragu for four hours. FOUR.”

Allen blinked. “Ah.”

“The noodles were rolled by hand. With imported flour. On a marble board I had flown in from overseas. I didn’t cook this. I composed it.”

Emma leaned back in her chair with a slow, impressed nod. “Chef Michael is in his villain arc again.”

Allen held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay—I’ll eat the pasta first. Then the cake. Alright?”

Chef Michael gave a short nod. “Fair.”

Allen forced a polite smile, already bracing his taste buds.

Because no matter how good it was, Michael would be watching.

Allen picked up his fork like a man stepping onto a battlefield.

The pasta—whatever overly sacred name Michael gave it—sat steaming on his plate like a divine offering. Layered. Glossy. Unapologetically rich. The smell alone hit like a warm punch to the nose. Creamy, cheesy, and dangerously inviting.

He took a bite.

Paused.

Okay.

Okay, yeah. It was good.

Like, good good. The kind of good that made him want to close his eyes and sigh like he was in a slow-motion food commercial on an elite cooking channel.

But also… too creamy.

Like, a rich-people level of creamy that made his taste buds scream for a little balance.

He chewed slower, carefully placing his fork down like it might explode if he moved wrong.

He nodded once. “It’s good.”

Because it was good.

But also—Allen remembered one of life’s golden rules, “Never mess with people who handle your food.”

Especially if that someone was Chef Michael—an emotionally repressed culinary genius with a vendetta list and a knife collection that had its own locked drawer.

So yeah. Allen still wanted his life. Preferably unpoisoned.

He kept his expression neutral, maybe a little respectful, definitely not sarcastic.

Even if his taste buds were swimming in cheese.

Emma, sitting across from him, was already on her second bite. Her eyes widened.

“Oh yeah. Good. This is nice.”

Her voice was genuine. That made it worse.

Michael narrowed his eyes and turned to Allen, who immediately tensed.

“Your face lacks genuine expression, young master,” the chef said flatly.

Allen deadpanned, swallowing thickly. “My face always looks like this. I never overly show emotion.”

Michael raised a brow. “Really.”

Before the tension could ignite into a verbal culinary brawl, Jordan cut neatly into his serving and lifted the bite to his mouth.

He chewed. Smiled faintly.

Then dropped the boom.

“It’s a bit creamy for my tastebud.”

Allen froze. Mid-chew.

His soul briefly left his body.

Emma, next to him, let out a sharp little “pffft” and quickly pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh while looking at her lap.

Michael turned his whole body toward Jordan with the same energy one might turn toward a heretic at the Last Supper.

“Really?”

Jordan gave a slow nod. “Yes. Not too much. Just a little. The others are perfect, like always.”

Michael stood still for a long moment. Then gave the most professional nod known to mankind. “I will fix it next time. Thank you for your suggestion.”

Allen exhaled like he’d just survived a boss fight.

They continued to eat, conversation returning to semi-normal. The pasta was a hit, creamy or not, and Allen finished it politely while occasionally glancing at Michael just to be sure he wasn’t writing down his name in a Death Book.

Once the plates were cleared, Michael returned with a final flourish.

The chocolate cake.

Not just a cake. This one looked straight out of a fantasy cutscene. Dark sheen. Subtle shine. A little gold leaf on top, because of course there was. It didn’t just sit on the plate. It rested—like a smug noble who knew no other cake dared challenge it.

Michael placed a slice in front of each of them and stepped back like a general awaiting judgment from the gods.

“Now eat my cake.”

Emma picked up her fork and stabbed it in with delight.

Allen hesitated for a second.

This was it.

The rematch.

Round two of the dessert war.

He took the first bite.

And damn it—

It was good.

Smooth, dark, perfectly bitter with just the right hint of sweetness. It didn’t try to impress. It just was.

Allen chewed slowly.

And as he looked up, he caught Michael’s eyes across the table.

The man wasn’t smiling.

But there was that faint flicker—just a sliver—of smug victory. Like he knew. Like he had waited for this.

Allen met that look, lifted his fork again, and muttered under his breath, “This is good.”

Emma beamed, chocolate already on her cheek. “Em~”

Jordan took a bite, nodded once. “This is perfect.”

Michael folded his arms, but didn’t back away. Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, eyes locked on Allen like he was issuing a formal culinary duel.

“So?” he said, voice cool, deliberate. “What do you think?”

Allen blinked, sensing the trap. “I just said it’s good.”

“No,” Michael said, narrowing his eyes. “Not just good. I want you to compare. My cake… or that viral shop cake you brought here.”

Jordan didn’t hesitate. “Yours.”

Emma wiped chocolate off her chin. “You, one hundred percent. That viral one tasted like it was trying too hard.”

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