Chapter 10 : What, You’re Not Satisfied?

Dinner time.

Milly climbed onto the high-backed chair, sitting quietly at the massive table, her short legs dangling in midair—her feet hovering nearly half a palm above the floor.

Once a tall adult, she now barely reached five feet—her new loli frame making the dining table loom like a monolithic altar.

She stared down at her ankles, wrapped in white silk. The lace trim at the top quivered with each small swing—like two snow-white butterflies perched, ready to take flight.

While Milly waited in silence, Stacy bustled in the kitchen.

Who would’ve thought—the pervert, the sadistic goddess—could cook?

Since transmigrating, Milly hadn’t eaten a single thing. On top of the relentless torment, her stomach had been growling for hours. If she didn’t get food soon, she’d collapse right in front of Stacy.

She rubbed her rumbling belly. Just a little longer. Food was coming.

But what would it taste like? Would otherworldly cuisine even agree with her?

Truthfully, Milly wasn’t picky. As long as it was edible and cooked, she could probably stomach it.

Yet nearly an hour and a half had passed since she sat down.

No sounds from the kitchen. No sizzling. No clatter of pots. Nothing.

This was way too slow. Was she preparing a feast? But it was just the two of them—no need for extravagance. And Milly couldn’t imagine Stacy going all out for her. Just having food was a luxury.

She sighed, forcing herself to wait.

“Little Milly, if you’re bored, you can go explore the castle.”

A message echoed in her mind.

What?

Stacy was letting her leave her sight?

Without hesitation, Milly hopped off the chair and tiptoed to the kitchen doorway, peeking inside.

She couldn’t see much, but Stacy’s expression was focused—serious, even.

Maybe… the food would be safe to eat.

She turned back toward the dining hall.

But something felt off.

She looked down.

Only one foot wore the white silk stocking.

The other was bare.

The other sock—tossed away by Stacy.

No shoes. No slippers. Just cold marble beneath her bare soles.

That pervert had the nerve to throw her panties, but couldn’t bother giving her a pair of shoes?

Following her memory, Milly returned to the bedroom. The missing sock hung from the bedpost.

Not that she wanted to wear it. It was just… colder without it.

She carefully pulled the silk back on, handling it gently—afraid to tear the delicate fabric.

Once both feet were covered, her toes absently tapped the icy marble floor.

The pure white socks looked like clouds soaked in morning light, faintly revealing the soft pink of her joints. The lace trim trembled with each movement—like snow butterflies resting on her ankles.

Her gaze drifted to the mirror.

The white-haired girl inside let out a quiet sigh.

This face. This waist. These silk-clad feet.

All of it—exactly her type.

But why… was she the one wearing it?

She touched her cheek, as if confirming it was real.

The girl in the mirror mimicked her.

At first, she just observed.

But slowly… her movements grew bolder.

She struck a pose—something suggestive, something shameful.

Then, as if shocked by her own actions, she suddenly crouched down, burying her burning face into her knees.

“Mmm… it’s hot.”

Did she really do that on purpose?

She stared at her reflection, dazed.

The blush on her ears—was it from the dim light, or from real, instinctive shame?

It felt like the last piece of her old self had just… vanished.

Cold marble seeped into her palms.

She pressed her chilled hands against her feverish cheeks.

No matter what she became… she’d live in the moment.

Even if she lost herself, even if she fully accepted this body—as long as the soul inside was still hers, she’d endure.

Alright.

Enough wallowing.

Time to explore.

Stacy was being awfully careless, letting her roam freely.

Perfect.

While she was out, she’d map escape routes.

When the time came, she’d flee—forever.

And then, Stacy, you pervert… you’ll be the one crying.

The reflection in the mirror smirked—as if freedom were already within reach.

Her silk-heeled foot tapped the floor, a quiet rhythm against fate’s metronome.

Unnoticed, a tiny embroidered rose on the back of her sock pulsed faintly—synchronized with her heartbeat.

The castle was larger—and more labyrinthine—than Milly expected.

Just as she began piecing together a potential escape path, a mental command echoed:

Return.

A shame.

But no matter.

She hadn’t expected to find a route in one go.

There’d be other chances.

She’d take it slow.

Back at the dining table, Stacy was absent—but the summons meant she must be done cooking.

Finally.

Her stomach growled.

Time to eat.

Half a minute later, Stacy arrived, carrying a silver tray covered with a domed lid—radiating mystery.

This would be her first meal in this world.

Please… live up to the hype.

Milly watched silently as Stacy placed the tray before her.

Just as Stacy reached for the lid, she suddenly stopped—pressing a hand over Milly’s.

“Do you remember what you’re supposed to say before eating?”

Swallowing her shame, Milly used the phrase she’d learned today.

“Thank you… Master.”

“Good girl.”

Stacy patted her head gently.

At that moment, Milly’s stomach growled loudly—proof of her starvation.

Smiling, Stacy gazed at the obedient girl, eyes fixed on the tray with desperate hope.

Her smile deepened.

This meal had taken effort.

She was certain Milly would be delighted.

She could already picture it—lid lifted, Milly diving in with ravenous joy.

Then, during dinner, she’d teach her a few more words—dining etiquette, perhaps.

Slowly, she lifted the edge of the silver cover.

A strange, violet glow seeped out.

Milly’s hopeful expression twisted into horror.

But she told herself—don’t judge until you see it all.

Then—

The lid came off.

And Milly felt the abyss wave at her.

On the plate sat… things.

If they could even be called food.

A gelatinous mass bubbled with purple foam, tap-dancing in place.

Beside it, a charred tuber pulsed, its surface forming grotesque, screaming faces.

A large slab of meat, covered in writhing tentacles, twitched like a living thing.

Beneath it, rainbow-colored sauce glistened with unnatural sheen.

And the soup—

Floating eyeball-shaped mushrooms waved their fungal tendrils in erratic patterns, as if sending distress signals to the universe.

“This…” Milly stammered, mind blank.

She could only compare it to the “Surf and Turf” of hell.

No—Surf and Turf didn’t deserve this level of blasphemy.

She’d rather starve than eat this.

“Thank you… Master… goodnight… goodbye…”

She leaned back—tactically retreating—and prepared to jump.

But tentacles sprouted from the chairback, pinning her in place.

Stacy poked the twitching meat with a fork.

Her expression darkened.

Her voice dropped—cold, edged with frost.

“What, little Milly…

You’re not satisfied with the feast your Master prepared just for you?”