Pragmatist and the Scientist

CHAPTER 11

"Can't you just say you want a food that is not either grilled or boiled?" Gen teases Senku, brows wiggling like a worm on a salt. "Or a fish?" Kyo butted in but nobody paid attention. Poor one.

Chrome leaned in excitedly. "So, where's their statue?"

Ryusui waved a hand grandly. "Naturally, Francois can be found where you just dug me and Rika, last I saw. We'll find them." He then shrugged casually. "Their gender? Not important. What matters is that they're the best at what they do."

Senku's signature smirk widened. "Then let's get to work."

As the team began planning the revival, Rika allowed herself a small smile. She had long outgrown the childhood crush she once harbored for Francois, but she couldn't deny their talent. Soon, the Kingdom of Science wouldn't just be thriving, it would be eating properly, too. And if anyone could make that happen, it was Francois.

The rest of the meal passed in a flurry of murmurs and eager whispers, the name "Francois" quickly becoming the new centerpiece of lunchtime speculation. As bowls were emptied and plates scraped clean, the usual monotony was replaced with anticipation. Rika noticed it with a quiet sense of triumph, just the idea of change had sparked something in the air.

After the meal, Rika stepped out of the dining hall, the crisp ocean breeze brushing strands of hair across her face. The Kingdom of Science, nestled against the shoreline like a stubborn outpost of human resilience, was always buzzing with motion, baskets being unloaded, inventions here and there, and people shouting over each other as they collaborated on a dozen projects at once.

Rika found herself at the edge of the stone revival chamber, a hollowed-out sector barricaded with warped metal and faded tarps—just enough to warn, not to protect. Inside, the statues stood like forgotten gods, each one a monument to that final flicker of life before stone claimed them. Turns out, Ryusui had already found them, not even bothering to tell her.

The statues looked peaceful as if surrendering to eternity. Others wore the twisted masks of terror or disbelief, frozen in a moment they never got to understand.

She didn't come here to mourn. She came to evaluate.

Rika was no saint, and certainly no idealist. The world had no time for either. She had long abandoned the pretense of sentiment. Principles were luxuries for people with time and power to waste. She believed in potential—raw, ugly, stubborn potential. These statues weren't relics. They were tools. Assets.

People often disappointed her. Their pettiness, their fear, their greedy little hands clutching at whatever scrap of control they could find. But greed wasn't inherently wrong. It just needed to be rerouted. If someone craved knowledge like a beast craved meat, then let them chase it until their mind either bloomed or broke. If their hunger was for taste, let them learn to cook—really cook—until they cried at the sharpness of their own palette. And if someone dared scream for freedom? Let them sit in a cell long enough to hear their own thoughts echo back at them. Let them earn the value of what they demand.

People are clay. Moldable. Breakable. Useful.