Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Inigo’s newly leased restaurant as he knelt by the dusty tiles, a pencil between his teeth and a rough sketchpad in hand. Lyra leaned over the counter behind him, watching with a curious expression as he traced out yet another square on the paper.
"That makes four different versions of a stove you’ve drawn so far," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You designing a war machine or a kitchen?"
Inigo chuckled without looking up. "Trust , the battlefield and the kitchen aren’t so different. Both need good layout and precise tools. One mistake in positioning and soone loses a limb—taphorically."
Lyra shook her head with a grin and stepped around to peer at the paper. "So that’s the deep fryer?"
"Yep," he said, pointing. "This rectangle here. We’ll need a special iron cauldron for frying, adjustable heat channels underneath—kind of like a forge, but tuned for oil instead of fla. We’ll mount it right next to the prep table, and beside that, we’ll have the bun oven. Then the wash station goes in the corner."
"And this?" she asked, pointing to the counter layout.
"Custor-facing service area. Just like the food joints back ho. Simple nu board above, one person takes orders, another preps and serves. Clean, fast, efficient."
Lyra gave a low whistle. "You really thought this through."
"Had a lot of ti to observe during lunch breaks back in my hotown," Inigo said with a shrug. "It’s muscle mory at this point."
"Okay, genius," she said. "Let’s talk permits."
They made their way to the Guild’s civilian bureau that afternoon—a wing of the massive stone complex that handled everything from construction approvals to guild-sponsored education grants. After navigating a surprisingly short queue, they were ushered into a modest office where a sleepy clerk, thin and balding, greeted them with a bored expression.
"Business permit for food sale?" he asked after glancing at their application.
"Yes," Inigo replied, handing over their docunts. "Restaurant-grade, limited seating, operating under the na The Mcronald."
The clerk blinked. "The... Mcronald?"
"It’s a family na," Inigo lied smoothly. "Traditional food."
"Hm. That’ll be three silver for registration, two for the fire inspection, and one for the health inspection. If you’re planning to hire anyone, you’ll also need to file an employer’s registry."
"We’ll start as two," Lyra said. "Just us for now."
The clerk pulled out a thick scroll and scribbled their nas onto several lines with a sharp, squeaky quill. "You’ll be scheduled for inspections tomorrow and the day after. Once you pass those, the license will be posted publicly outside your shop."
"Understood," Inigo nodded and paid the fee using a handful of coins.
The next few days passed in a blur of preparation.
Inigo spent the mornings drawing up designs and sourcing basic materials from the blacksmith’s district: thick cast-iron pots, grates for the stove, and heat-safe ceramic-lined trays for the fryer. He customized a dual-purpose firebox that could operate with steady coal heat and vent properly through a chimney.
The local carpenter, a burly man nad Redlan, arrived with two apprentices to help refurbish the kitchen counters and strengthen the support beams. They reworked the service window, added a sliding hatch for plates, and polished the wood for custor seating.
anwhile, Lyra handled the bureaucratic end. She dealt with the health inspector—a stern woman who practically sniffed for germs—and ensured that all food storage, ventilation, and prep surfaces passed scrutiny. She negotiated a special permit allowing Inigo to cook with imported spices from the eastern docks.
Their biggest hurdle ca with the supply chain.
"Fresh beef, cut to burger shape?" the butcher asked with confusion when Inigo visited his shop. "You want it ground and then... flattened into discs?"
"That’s right," Inigo nodded. "Thin patties. Uniform shape."
"Never had that request before. Most folks just roast slabs or stew chunks. I’ll have to assign one of my apprentices to learn the process."
"I’ll pay extra for consistency," Inigo said, handing over a small note with his desired at-fat ratio.
Potatoes were easier. The produce vendor, a cheerful woman with six kids, sold sacks of them at a discount in exchange for a promise that Inigo’s fries would bear her stall’s na on the nu. The partnership pleased her imnsely.
"What about buns?" Lyra asked one evening as they cleaned the floors. "You planning to make those yourself?"
"No ti," Inigo replied. "But I found a baker who’ll use my recipe—sweet, fluffy, slight butter glaze on top. He’s skeptical, but I’ll give him a test batch formula tomorrow."
That night, they worked by lanternlight inside the shop. The prep station was finally built—three wide slabs for chopping, assembling, and wrapping. The oven glead with fresh polish. The fryer, a modified iron cauldron mounted over stone-lined coals, had its own wooden shield to prevent oil splashes.
Lyra stood at the newly sanded counter, wiping it down. "It’s actually happening," she murmured.
Inigo looked up from where he was sorting spice jars and smiled. "It’s starting to look like the real thing."
She turned and leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You’ve been dreaming of this for a while, haven’t you?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Back in my old world, I never got the chance to build sothing like this. I was stuck in routines, always working under soone. Here... I get to create sothing. Share a piece of where I ca from."
Lyra softened. "You’re not alone in it anymore."
They shared a quiet smile. The kind of look that needed no words.
The next morning, a sign was hung above the freshly cleaned glass windows: The Mcronald – Coming Soon. Painted in bold red and yellow letters, just as Inigo rembered from his youth.
They stood together on the cobbled street, gazing up at it like it was a monunt.
"I give it two weeks," Lyra said. "We clean, test recipes, do taste trials... and then we open."
"Soft launch," Inigo agreed. "Friends, guildmates, a few regulars. If they like it, word of mouth will do the rest."
He turned to her. "You think we’re ready?"
"I should be the one asking that, but I think so, we are ready."
Together, they stepped back inside their restaurant, rolling up their sleeves.
There was still much to do—signboards to paint, uniforms to stitch, trial batches to cook. But the hardest part was over.
This is his wet dream in the fantasy world, not only introducing freedoms but also what defined that freedom, which is a fast food restaurant. He’ll introduce this world to the culture where he belonged and it’s going to be a hit.
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