Zero’s Reign: Reincarnated with a Gacha Clone System

The morning rain drizzled down, filling Pinecrest with the soft patter of droplets against stone and glass.

Inside Café Leblanc, the warm scent of brewed coffee and fresh bread filled the air, creating a cozy escape from the dreary weather.

The café was packed.

Regular customers gathered around, some chatting, some reading newspapers, others simply enjoying the tranquil atmosphere.

Just then, Gojo stepped in, holding bags of fabric and sewing materials. He made his way upstairs, barely acknowledging the crowd.

Immediately, a few regulars took notice. One of them, a half-elf merchant, nudged Soma. "Hey, who was that?"

Soma, casually stirring a pot of soup, answered without hesitation— "Oh, him? That's my twin brother."

A moment of silence followed. The regulars exchanged glances. "You have a twin?" one of them asked, suspiciously.

Soma, still stirring, forced a confident grin. "Yup. We're not identical. And… uh, he's really shy, so he doesn't talk much."

The customers nodded slowly, clearly not convinced but choosing to accept it. Meanwhile, inside the Mind Hall…

Zero, Gojo, and Erwin stared at Soma in disbelief.

"What the hell was that?" Zero muttered.

Gojo folded his arms.

"Twin brother? That was your best excuse?"

Even Erwin, usually busy with his case files, chimed in—

"Yeah, that was a terrible improv, chef."

Soma threw up his hands in frustration.

"Oh, shut up! You guys put me in these situations all the time! I'm a chef, not a goddamn improv comedian!"

Zero smirked. "Well, you're definitely not a comedian, that's for sure."

Gojo chuckled, and Erwin shook his head in amusement.

Back in the real world, Soma tried to maintain a straight face, but Zero—still laughing through the Mind Hall—almost lost it at the counter.

To distract the crowd, Soma quickly pivoted, holding up the breakfast voting paper. "Alright! Today's breakfast vote is open! Cast your votes for the permanent breakfast menu!"

The same elf merchant perked up. "Oh, I already voted yesterday. But can I vote again?"

Zero, recovering from his laughter, raised an eyebrow. "Hey, no repeat voting. That's election fraud."

The elf grinned. "Come on, boss! It's a new day, new vote!"

Zero sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. It's not like I'm running a country."

"YEAAAHH!" the elf cheered, grabbing another paper.

Crisis averted.

The café doors opened, letting in two men in soaked trench coats—

Sergeant Wolfe and a new face.

Zero smiled, wiping his hands on a towel. "Oh, Sergeant Wolfe! And who's this?"

Wolfe gestured to the tired-looking detective beside him. "This is Detective Sergeant Lomare."

Zero nodded, noticing Lomare's exhausted expression. "Well, Sergeant Lomare, welcome to Café Leblanc. What brings you here?"

Lomare let out a long, tired sigh. Wolfe chuckled, patting his colleague on the back. "Oh, you know—just another 'evidence cleaner' kind of morning."

Zero raised an eyebrow. "Evidence cleaner?"

Lomare groaned, rubbing his temple. "Rain washes away crime scenes, erases leads, and destroys evidence."

Wolfe smirked. "And guess who gets all the cases dumped on their desk?"

Lomare shot him a glare. "Are you bringing me here to mock me, Wolfe?"

"Of course not, buddy! I'm here to cheer you up." Wolfe grinned.

Zero, amused, leaned on the counter. "Well, then, I've got the perfect meal for you two rain-soaked detectives."

Wolfe perked up. "Oh? Do tell."

Zero gestured toward Soma, who smirked. "Because of today's rainy weather, our breakfast special is…"

"French Onion Soup."

Wolfe blinked "French… who?"

Zero froze for a second, then quickly sent a message through Mind Hall.

Zero: Soma, how the hell do I explain this?

Soma: Just say it's a brand-new cooking style from my family.

Zero: That's bullshit—

Soma: It's the best we got!

Zero sighed and turned back to Wolfe. "It's a special cooking style from Soma's family."

Soma, playing along, nodded confidently. "Yup. Secret family recipe. Of course, you've never heard of it."

Wolfe shrugged. "Well, I'm glad we met, then. Two orders, please."

Soma smiled. "Two French Onion Soups, coming right up!"

"And two coffees, please," Wolfe added.

"Got it." Zero began making the coffee while Soma worked his magic in the kitchen.

As the warm, golden-brown bowls of French Onion Soup were served, Wolfe and Lomare immediately caught the rich aroma of caramelized onions, butter, and melted cheese.

Wolfe took the first spoonful. The deep, savory broth mixed with the sweetness of slow-cooked onions, the rich melted cheese, and the perfect crunch of toasted bread. His eyes widened.

Lomare, who had been grumbling the whole time, took a hesitant bite. Then—his expression softened. The rain outside didn't seem as cold anymore. The cases on his desk didn't feel as overwhelming. For just a moment, it was like a warm hug in a bowl.

Lomare let out a deep sigh of relief. "Damn… This is good."

Zero smirked. "Told you."

Wolfe leaned back, closing his eyes. "Alright, I gotta admit—this is the kind of meal that makes rainy days tolerable."

Lomare nodded. "It's like the food equivalent of a dry pair of socks."

Zero chuckled. "That's a weird comparison, but I'll take it as a compliment."

Soma crossed his arms proudly. "Food should always bring comfort. That's the whole point."

As the two detectives continued eating, the rain outside continued to fall. But inside Café Leblanc—The world felt a little warmer.

…

Gojo sat cross-legged on the floor of the living quarters, completely surrounded by fabric, sewing tools, and design sketches.

It was absolute chaos.

Swatches of griffin-feather woven silk, mana-infused cotton, and even beast-hide leather were scattered everywhere.

His design sketches were in a messy pile, with some pages crumpled up, some half-finished, and others covered in random doodles.

Sebas stood nearby, watching the disaster unfold with mild concern.

After a moment, he sighed. "Young Master Gojo, perhaps if you organize your workspace a bit, it might help you focus on choosing a design."

Gojo barely looked up from his latest sketch, which was dangerously close to being smudged by an overturned inkwell. "Maybe…" he mumbled, not convinced.

Sebas, noticing Gojo's lack of enthusiasm, added— "Or not. It is merely a suggestion."

Gojo grinned at the butler. "Nice save."

Sebas gave a slight bow. "I do my best, young master. Do you require assistance?"

Gojo's eyes lit up as he immediately shoved a bundle of fabrics and sketches into Sebas' arms. "Yes! That would be amazing. Okay, so let me explain—"

Excitedly, Gojo launched into a fast-paced explanation about every fabric, thread, and material he had gathered.

"So this store had a ton of crazy stuff—like, did you know they have griffin-feather woven fabric?"

Sebas nodded. "Indeed. It is known for its lightweight durability. A fine choice."

Gojo kept rambling, his energy uncontainable. "And there's this mana-infused silk that changes color depending on the wearer's emotions!"

Sebas nodded again. "A rather expensive material, but excellent for formalwear."

"And this beast-hide leather? It's resistant to fire and magic damage! Imagine battle-ready fashion!"

Sebas smiled patiently. "Your enthusiasm is commendable, young master."

Gojo beamed. "Thanks to you, I was able to buy all this stuff!"

Sebas, still sorting through the fabric, replied smoothly—"Well, that money is better used to build your business, young master."

Gojo paused, then narrowed his eyes at Sebas. "Where did you even get all this money?"

Sebas smiled. "From an acquaintance."

Inside the Mind Hall…

Erwin, busy sorting case files, looked up and smirked. "Acquaintance? Didn't you loot that from the Silver Serpent's base last week?"

Sebas calmly replied, "Let Young Master Gojo enjoy his moment, Young Master Erwin."

Erwin chuckled. "Fair enough."

…

Across town, in a small apartment, Monet stood in her kitchen, focused on her task. Today was a big day. Her parents were coming to visit from another territory, and she wanted to welcome them with a homemade meal.

Specifically—

Pancakes.

She still remembered the first time she had tasted one at Café Leblanc. It was soft, fluffy, slightly sweet, and warm. A simple dish, yet somehow… magical.

How?

How did she live for over 20 years and never taste this thing called 'pancake'?

She never even heard of it before that day. And she had only discovered Café Leblanc because of Captain Elara. If Elara hadn't become captain of Pinecrest Police, Monet never would have found the café, never would have met Soma, and never would have learned about pancakes.

For that—

She was grateful. But gratitude didn't help her cook. A strong smell filled the kitchen.

The scent of—

Burning.

Monet's eyes widened in horror. She quickly turned to the stove. Her pancakes were blackened crisps. "Shit!" She grabbed a spatula, trying to save them, but it was too late. She sighed. "Why is this so hard for me?"

She looked at the pancake recipe Soma had given her. Her hand tightened around the paper. "If Soma was here, he'd fix this in two seconds…"

She exhaled sharply. "No. I can't give up." She looked at the recipe again. "Soma gave this to me. I need to do it justice."

Taking a deep breath—

She grabbed fresh ingredients and started over.

This time—

She would get it right.

…

The afternoon rain had settled into a soft drizzle by the time Monet finished cooking. She stood in her small apartment, staring at the fresh stack of golden pancakes on the table.

They weren't perfect, but—

They were miles better than her first burnt attempt. "Not bad…" she muttered to herself, crossing her arms. She glanced at the clock. Her parents would be here any minute.

Taking a deep breath, she set the table, arranging plates, butter, and syrup as neatly as she could. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to nitpick the presentation.

Just as she finished, there was a knock at the door. She wiped her hands on her apron, straightened her posture, and opened it. There they were.

Madeline Montallet and Gregor Montallet —her mother and father.

Her mother, dressed in a modest yet elegant navy-blue dress, scanned Monet up and down with sharp eyes before stepping inside.

Her father, wearing a military officer's coat, gave a small, warm smile and ruffled her hair.

"Still keeping your place small and simple, huh?" he said, glancing around the modest apartment.

Monet rolled her eyes, fixing her hair. "You're the ones who told me to live within my means."

Her mother was already examining the kitchen. "I expected more from a newly P2, honestly."

Monet sighed. "It's home. That's what matters."

Her father chuckled. "That's the spirit."

Her mother, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on the pancakes. Her eyebrows raised. "You… cooked?"

Monet crossed her arms.

"Yeah."

"By yourself?"

"Yes, Mother. I can cook."

Madeline hummed, skeptical. Gregor, trying to keep the peace, sat down at the table. "Well, it looks good! Let's dig in."

Monet served them, watching as they cut into the pancakes. Her father took the first bite.

Then—

He froze. 

Monet's heart skipped a beat. "Dad?" 

Her mother took a bite next. She, too, stopped moving. 

Monet started to panic. "Did I mess it up? Did I put too much sugar? Not enough butter? Is it too dense? Is it—"

Her father suddenly dropped his fork and grabbed her shoulders. "Where did you learn to make this?"

Monet blinked. "Huh?"

Her mother set her fork down, lacing her fingers together. "This is the best thing you've ever made."

Monet stared. "W-What?"

Her father nodded enthusiastically. "Monet, this is incredible. Where did you learn this?"

Monet exhaled, a little embarrassed. "I… got the recipe from a café."

Her mother narrowed her eyes. "What café?"

Monet hesitated.

Then—

With a small, proud smile, she said—"Café Leblanc."

Gregor sighed in content, leaning back in his chair. "I need to visit this place."

Monet chuckled. "You should. It's great. The chef there, Soma, gave me the recipe."

Madeline, however, was still studying Monet. Her sharp gaze softened just a little. "You never cared about cooking before. What changed?"

Monet shrugged. "I don't know… I just… wanted to try."

Her mother stared at her for a long moment.

Then—

A rare smile formed on her face. "Well, I approve."

Monet almost fell out of her chair. "Wait. Did you just—"

"Don't push it."

Her father laughed, finishing his plate. "I'll definitely be visiting this Leblanc place. You said the chef's name is Soma? I'll have to thank him personally."

Monet grinned. "I think he'd like that."