The dining hall at 11:31 was a different animal than breakfast. Louder. Fuller. The smells competing for dominance in a way that made my stomach loud enough that a passing Emerald kid glanced at me.
I stood at the start of the food line and stared at the options.
The thing about being transmigrated into a death game with a milk-based survival system is that you stop having strong opinions about lunch. You just need calories. Fuel. Something that doesn't require fifteen minutes of standing in indecision while your endurance stat ticks toward D-rank and your brain is still processing an orange-haired second year who read my entire emotional situation in under four minutes.
Aurora Fitzgerald. Silver tier. Twenty-two percent and climbing.
I pulled my eyes off the mental replay and focused on the food.
