"John, I'm back."
"Welcome back."
There were no emotional reunions or dramatic embraces.
To put it simply, they'd only known each other for a month or two. Their relationship hadn't reached the level where greetings needed to be heartfelt or theatrical. To put it more deeply, the greetings between two adult men were just that—plain and straightforward. No drama.
So Old John, standing behind the bar while wiping a glass, didn't even bother to lift his eyes. He casually asked, "Just got off the boat?"
"Returned to port this morning. Took care of some things, then came back."
Old John was familiar with the crab boat routine. After doing a quick mental calculation, he had a rough idea of Henry's current condition. He said offhandedly, "If you need to rest, go to your room. Don't just lie around the bar like some vagrant. I don't take in freeloaders here."
At the same time, he slid a glass of whiskey over to Henry—completely ignoring issues like legal drinking age.
"Got it," Henry responded, downing the whiskey in a single gulp before heading to the room behind the bar.
He could've kept working, but he decided to rest along with the others to avoid raising eyebrows. After all, working at high intensity for several days straight was a super overtime experience—even worse than what he'd endured before transmigrating. And even with a Kryptonian physique, he could feel something wasn't quite right.
Mind you, the Bering Sea in winter still has sunlight. In theory, that meant he was charging up while working. Thanks to his Kryptonian physiology, his energy levels didn't just hold; they even increased. But replenishing energy wasn't the same as replenishing nutrients.
Mentally, he could keep going—but once his mind relaxed, the fatigue hit like a wave. His body essentially crashed.
He didn't know how long he'd slept. Eventually, the urge to urinate woke him.
When he groggily got up, he didn't even care that the house's heating wasn't strong and the temperature was a little low. Still half-asleep, and only wearing a vest and shorts, he dashed to the toilet.
When he came out, he saw the bar had long closed. Old John sat up from the sofa by the wall, giving him a bitter look. He'd clearly been woken up too.
"John, why are you sleeping here?" Henry asked reflexively, then immediately realized it was a dumb question—he already knew the answer.
Sure enough, John's sharp tongue didn't disappoint.
"When you first showed up, I could drag you around with one finger. I swear, I must've been feeding you damn pig feed these past few weeks."
"You're lying on my bed. Even if I wanted to kick you out, it'd be hard. And you still have the nerve to ask why I'm not using my own bed? Even if you scrubbed your ass spotless, I wouldn't be interested in a man like you."
"Yes, yes. Next time I'll make sure to wash it clean, so you can properly admire it. That way we'll know whether you're truly uninterested."
He replied casually, grinning.
But right now, what mattered most was food.
Henry began rummaging through the fridge. He'd picked up a few ingredients at the store after coming back, and now was the perfect time to use them.
Since the old man was already awake, Henry figured he shouldn't just cook for himself. So he casually asked, "Want something to eat? I'm starving."
John, sitting at the bar, shook his head. "No. Eating in the middle of the night's no good for an old man's digestion."
Henry didn't respond. He just started preparing his meal.
Back before transmigrating, Henry had lived alone. Besides the usual takeout, he occasionally cooked for himself. Not because it was healthier or cheaper—but simply because he wanted to eat.
Whenever he saw some bizarre recipe or dish in a movie, and he couldn't find a restaurant that made it, he'd just do it himself. For instance, he once saw a dish called Red Wine Braised Chicken in a German family drama.
He wasn't really touched by the father-daughter bond in the film. Honestly, he clicked on it for the food. But no restaurant served that dish, so—he rolled up his sleeves and cooked it himself.
He even practiced tossing a wok just to make golden fried rice like he'd seen in anime.
Whether or not that rice lived up to expectations wasn't the point. What mattered was—it got him hooked on the art of cooking.
Over the month or so he'd been living with Old John, Henry had cooked a few times.
He wasn't about to magically become a Michelin chef just because he crossed dimensions. He couldn't whip up fried rice that glowed with divine light. But he understood how spices could elevate otherwise bland ingredients. Even things like bear paws or shark fins could taste great with the right seasoning.
In this new world—particularly in America a hundred or two hundred years ago—spices were still considered luxuries. The average household used only salt and basic herbs.
In Alaska, a place where fishing and oil dominated the economy, agricultural products had to be imported from Canada or shipped in from the mainland U.S. That meant a guy like Henry, a half-baked home cook, wasn't exactly in high demand here.
Fortunately, America's food culture thrived on heavy oil, heavy salt, and generous portions!
And as long as you didn't rely on foods dominated by giant grain conglomerates, you could still find high-quality ingredients among smaller producers. Sure, some items were duds, but that wasn't a big deal for someone like Henry—who had a superhuman sense of smell.
After a bit of practice, Henry had learned to weed out ingredients that were spoiled or about to go bad.
By avoiding items with strange chemical odors or excessive funky smells, he could consistently pick out ingredients of excellent quality.
Take, for example, the thick-cut steak he pulled out now. A simple pan-fry would be more than enough to bring out its flavor.
Combined with the precision of his super vision, acute smell, and Kryptonian brainpower, every cooking step was an optimization process—constantly searching for the most efficient, most delicious solution.
If scientists ever found out that he was using a super brain to study cooking, some of them might get so jealous they'd want to jump off a building.
But Henry didn't care about all that.
All his powers? They were there for one purpose: personal enjoyment.
Anyone preaching about "suffering builds character" was clearly being brainwashed. In the real world, suffering just meant your boss got to drive a nicer car. That's all.
Once all the steaks were fried, a pot of macaroni nearby had also finished cooking.
In Alaska, starch options boiled down to two things: macaroni and potatoes. There were other choices, sure, but they were either too expensive or hard to cook. So Henry had simply adapted to the local food culture.
After plating everything, he brought it to the table.
Old John didn't head back to bed. Instead, he opened a bottle of red wine and sat down.
It was a Californian red—tasty and affordable.
He poured a glass for each of them, then leaned back at the bar, staring at his wall of trophies and memorabilia. His eyes drifted, reminiscing silently about the past.
He muttered to himself.
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