After Transmigrating, I Raised Cubs in the Insectoid Clan - Chapter 8

While eating breakfast, Samuel could not help but marvel at how quickly Suter had recovered. He had originally thought that Suter’s child-like state would last at least a day or two, allowing him to enjoy that feeling of being relied upon a little longer. After all, who would not like a little tail who followed obediently with eyes full of admiration? Unfortunately, reality often goes against one’s wishes.

After breakfast, Samuel shut himself in the kitchen to prepare the strawberry cake he had promised the young Suter last night. Although the current Suter seemed to have completely forgotten the events of the previous evening; even his memory of acting spoiled to ask for cake had blurred; to Samuel, a promise was a promise. As long as the cake ended up in the same person’s stomach, it was not a breach of contract. Or so he told himself.

He hummed a tuneless little melody as he rummaged through the cabinets for flour, eggs, and several bags of milk, then tossed a large chunk of butter into a mixing bowl. The heavy cream needed whipping, but after searching the cupboards, he realized he had forgotten to buy an eggbeater yesterday.

“Tsk, a miscalculation.”

Samuel decided to order one immediately via his optical computer. Just as he pushed open the kitchen door, he saw Suter dragging a round little robot, sneakily moving toward the entrance. Their eyes met, and the air instantly froze. Suter stood paralyzed, his fingers still tightly gripping Qi Si’s metal casing. His eyes flickered before he looked away as if nothing had happened, though his ear tips honestly betrayed him with a flush of pale pink.

Even though his mental sea had partially recovered and his memories had mostly returned, certain obsessions seemed persistent. For instance, he remained entirely hostile toward this round-headed little robot.

Samuel raised an eyebrow. “Where are you dragging that to?”

Suter’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his brain worked frantically to concoct a perfect lie to throw the robot out, just as he had said last night, turning it into a piece of scrap metal in a Fringe Star junkyard. Ideas flashed through his mind:

• • “It is broken.”

• • “It needs repairs.”

• • “I am just moving it.”

Countless excuses surfaced, but in the end, he only managed to squeeze out a dry sentence: “Its casing was dirty. It needed cleaning.”

Samuel blinked, his gaze sweeping over Qi Si’s spotless, shiny exterior before returning to Suter’s forced, calm face. “Do you know how to book an on-site repair service?”

He realized he had asked a silly question the moment it left his mouth. Suter was the local here, while Samuel was the outsider who still had to relearn how to shop online. He smiled sheepishly, a hint of entreaty in his voice. “Help me buy a tool for whipping cream online. One that can be delivered immediately.”

Suter remained silent for a second, then expressionlessly lugged Qi Si to the doorway, the spot where trash was usually placed. “What do you need that for?”

“To whip cream,” Samuel answered casually.

“Cream?” Suter paused, his pupils constricting slightly. Although he tried his best to suppress the joy in his heart and told himself not to harbor undue expectations, the corners of his mouth still betrayed him by curling into a tiny arc.

Strawberry cake. Samuel still remembered the promise from that day.

At that moment, a soft “ding” came from the kitchen: the bread was ready. The warm yellow light of the oven slowly seeped through the glass door, illuminating the golden, fluffy bread inside, its surface gleaming with an inviting caramel luster. Strands of sweet, hot air escaped through the vents, quickly filling the kitchen. The sugary scent was almost tangible, making the entire space feel warm and soft.

Samuel was not a professional baker, nor did he have a particular preference for sweets. Only occasionally, when his little niece would come to visit, would he pull out a dusty baking book and clumsily follow the steps. Those lopsided finished products always earned him exaggerated gasps and hugs from the little girl. Thinking back now, perhaps a fair amount of acting had been involved in those reactions.

Suter, like a cautious kitten, followed silently into the kitchen. His steps were light, almost noiseless, with only the faint rustle of fabric revealing his presence. He stood half a step behind Samuel, his green eyes staring unblinkingly at the oven, his nostrils flaring slightly to catch every sweet molecule in the air.

Noticing Suter’s small movements, Samuel could not help but think of the look in Suter’s eyes when he faced the Pineapple Chicken at the dinner table last night. Consequently, when kneading the dough today, he had purposely poured in double the sugar and condensed milk.

“Try some.”

Samuel put on oven mitts and carefully removed the baking tray. He broke off a small piece of the fluffiest edge. The golden bread crumb trembled slightly between his fingertips, emitting inviting heat. He turned and brought the delicious morsel to Suter’s lips, a clear smile in his eyes.

Suter’s ear tips turned pink at a visible rate. He felt like a clam that had been stranded on a beach for a long time, its shell hardened and chilled by the years, only to have a warm tide gently pry open a crack at an unexpected moment. He lowered his head slightly, cautiously taking the bread with his teeth, careful not to touch the other’s fingers. The sweetness mixed with the milk fragrance exploded in his mouth.

“Is it good?”

Samuel watched Suter’s expression closely, only to find that the handsome face remained habitually calm. His heart began to sink. He wondered if his niece’s exaggerated praise had been a lie all along. Did children learn to use sweet words for favors at such a young age? He pictured his niece blinking her big eyes and saying, “Uncle’s cake is the best in the world,” and then remembered the expensive doll in the toy store the next day.

“It is good. Extremely delicious.”

Suter nodded firmly, the movement so large that the stray hairs on his forehead swayed with him. His green eyes were startlingly bright, like sunlight piercing through the clearest stream in a forest, reflecting on the smooth jade at the bottom. That genuine joy was so pure that Samuel could not help but laugh along.

“Go out and eat,” his voice softened unconsciously. “I noticed you did not eat much this morning.” He used his pinky to gesture an exaggeratedly small size. “Just a tiny bit. Can you even get full?”

Suter’s gaze dropped slightly, landing on the seams of the kitchen tiles. “Actually, I can,” his voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing the bread aroma floating in the air. “I usually drink nutritional supplements. They are fast and provide a strong sense of fullness.”

And they are cheap, Suter added silently in his heart, the sweetness of the bread still lingering on his tongue. This luxurious taste was too foreign to him, making him both crave it and fear it.

Nutritional supplements were originally produced as military supplies, contained in cold, silver aluminum tubes with black production numbers printed on them. Because of their extremely low price and variety, ranging from all-purpose types that theoretically provided all essential nutrients to enhanced types boasting special effects, they were quite popular among the low-income Zerg.

Suter remembered that the cheapest basic type at the school canteen was only 5 Star Coins a tube, while the fancy fruit-flavored and enhanced types on the shelves were more than five times as expensive. His long school life was like a dark tunnel, and the supplements were the thin silver thread running through it.

In the early morning before dawn, he would hide in a stall in the dormitory restroom to quickly squeeze down a tube of original-flavor supplement. He could still vividly remember the feeling of that thick, slightly metallic liquid sliding down his throat.

Because his studies were intense, the time he could allocate for off-campus part-time jobs was squeezed like a wrung-out towel. Worse still, students under 16 were prohibited by Imperial law from most formal jobs, which meant he could not even be a basic restaurant waiter. He had once worked as a helper in an underground repair shop, where the dim warehouse was piled with mechanical parts of unknown origin. The boss was a middle-aged insect with a face covered in oil who always weighed the bills in his hand several times when paying, as if the crumpled papers weighed a thousand pounds.

The Star Coins earned from three months of sweat left only a thin stack after paying tuition. He could not even afford the cheapest set meal in the school canteen, the one consisting of oily stir-fried noodles and a few withered yellow vegetables.

Notices for on-campus part-time jobs were always torn down as soon as they were posted. Those student union cadres in designer sneakers had cousins or distant relatives of some councilor who had already filled the easy, respectable positions like library organizers and lab assistants. Suter had once stood at the door of the student affairs office for an entire morning, only to receive an impatient wave from the clerk: “Full, full. Come earlier next semester.”

Until that rainy day, when a black hover-car stopped at the school gate and the window rolled down to reveal the Chairman’s majestic face. Rain dipped from the umbrella ribs onto Suter’s school uniform, creating dark stains. He remembered the first thing the man said: “You look very much like him.”

At that moment, Suter knew that the long tunnel had finally reached its end.

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