Chapter 2

  The dirt path leading to the town was well-worn, rutted from years of cart wheels and hooves. As Ren approached the palisade walls, he slowed his pace, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and surreal disbelief.

  People passed him without more than a glance—farmers in coarse linen tunics, a teenage boy with a bundle of firewood, a woman balancing a sloshing pail of water on her hip. The world smelled of woodsmoke, river mist, and the faint tang of manure.

  Very medieval. Very not Tokyo.

  As he reached the gate, two guards stepped into view, flanking the entrance. They wore leather brigandines studded with dull iron, swords at their hips, and a look of practiced boredom.

  Until they saw him.

  Their posture shifted instantly. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow, raised a hand and stepped forward.

  “Halt there, stranger. Name and business?”

  Ren stopped. Blinked. “Uh… Ren Saito. I’m, uh, passing through?”

  The guards exchanged a glance.

  The other one, younger and more wiry, narrowed his eyes. “You’re not local. Clothes look foreign. No guild crest, no merchant tag, no trade papers. You a vagrant?”

  Ren raised his hands slightly, palms out. “No, not a vagrant. Just… lost, I guess?”

  The scarred one folded his arms. “You from the Eastern Borderlands? You sound it.”

  “I’m… from pretty far east, yeah,” Ren said. Like a couple of dimensions east.

  That only partially satisfied them. The wiry guard still looked suspicious, but the older one’s face softened a little.

  “You armed?” he asked.

  Ren patted himself down. “Just herbs.”

  The wiry one raised an eyebrow. “You seem like one of those hedge witches, are you?”

  “I’m a chef,” Ren said automatically.

  The guards stared at him.

  Then, unexpectedly, the scarred one barked a short laugh. “A cook, huh? Haven’t seen one of your lot wander in solo before. You looking for guild work?”

  “Maybe,” Ren said, unsure what that even meant. “I’m just trying to find food, a roof, and maybe someone who can explain what the hell is going on.”

  The younger guard squinted. “What’s with the satchel?”

  “Ingredients,” Ren said, opening it slightly to reveal the leaves and berries within. “I, uh… forage.”

  Scar Guy gave him a long look, then finally stepped aside. “Alright, cook. You’ve got the look of someone half-mad, and that’s usually harmless. Go on in. Just don’t cause trouble, and if you need work or a place to sleep, check the tavern board or the local guild.”

  Ren nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”

  “Oh—and don’t sell raw herbs in the market. That’s licensed apothecary trade. People get twitchy about mana poisoning.”

  Mana poisoning? Ren made a mental note.

  ________

  As Ren stepped past the gate, the town opened before him like a stage play. Stone streets wove between squat buildings with steep slate roofs. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of baking bread hit him like a freight train.

  His stomach growled.

  He hadn’t eaten since before the explosion. How long had it been? Hours? A day? Time was a blur.

  He wandered through the winding streets, half-lost, half-awestruck. There were market stalls with baskets of weird-looking produce—glowing mushrooms, spiny orange roots, eggs the size of melons. A woman was selling skewers of grilled meat that gave off a faint green shimmer.

  Everywhere he looked, there were signs of subtle mana use. Enchanted lanterns. Floating stones. A kid running past him with a wooden toy bird that flapped on its own.

  But cooking with mana? Nothing obvious. Most of the food looked basic. Rustic. He’d seen more creativity in a food truck in Shinjuku.

  They don’t know what they have, he thought. Or they don’t know how to use it.

  His fingers itched. He wanted a pan. A flame. Something to work with.

  But first—he needed to find that tavern.

  _________

  The tavern was called The Boar’s Tooth, according to the cracked wooden sign hanging over the door. It looked like most of the other buildings in town—sturdy stone walls, timber frame, smoke pouring from the chimney like a dragon’s breath.

  Ren stepped inside and was immediately hit by a a barrage of smell and sight: spiced meat, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and cheap ale. A hearth crackled in the corner. Long communal tables filled the space, half of them occupied by laborers, farmers, and a few cloaked travelers nursing mugs or tearing into greasy plates of food.

  He scanned the room until his eyes landed on the bar. Behind it stood a woman with forearms like rolling pins and a scowl that looked permanent. She was wiping down a clay mug with a rag that was only slightly cleaner than the mug itself.

  Ren approached.

  “Hey,” he said, trying his most neutral, non-threatening tone. “I’m new in town. Got any work? I can cook. Clean. Wash dishes. Whatever you need.”

  The woman looked up, unimpressed. “You a guild boy?”

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  Ren shook his head. “Just passing through.”

  She snorted. “So a stray.”

  He opened his satchel and pulled out a few stalks of the Loamleaf herb, laying them on the counter like a gambler showing his hand. “I forage. And I cook. If you’ve got a kitchen, I’ll prove it.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. She didn’t touch the herbs—just gave them a once-over, her expression tightening slightly.

  “You pick this yourself?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Grew wild upriver. Earthy. Bitter. Lots of energy in it. Mana-rich, I think.”

  That got her attention.

  “You’ve got taste-sense?” she asked, suddenly more interested.

  Ren shrugged. “Maybe. I just know it’s got potential.”

  She was quiet for a second, then jerked her head toward the back. “Kitchen’s through there. You so much as break a plate or start a fire, I’m throwing you in the pig pen.”

  Ren grinned. “Fair enough.”

  _______

  The tavern kitchen was hot, smoky, and under-equipped by Ren’s standards, but it had the essentials: a large hearth for fire-cooking, a chopping block, some battered pots, and a spit roast turning lazily over red coals.

  A teenage boy was elbow-deep in peeling some kind of lumpy root vegetable. He looked up in surprise as Ren entered.

  “New guy?” he asked.

  Ren nodded. “Just helping out.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and immediately got to work—cleaning surfaces, organizing the sparse pantry, and asking quick, pointed questions about what ingredients they had on hand. Most of it was basic: dried grains, salted meat, tough root veg, and a barrel of some sour-smelling brine.

  Not inspiring. But workable.

  And more importantly, the moment his fingers touched the raw ingredients, that strange sense flickered to life again—whispers of flavor impressions, subtle hints of mana currents, like the ingredients were humming in a language only he could hear.

  He glanced at the spit roast. It was some kind of game meat, unevenly cooked, half-dry on one side and raw on the other. The seasoning was a crime.

  He didn’t ask permission. He just acted.

  Ren moved like a storm—adjusting the spit height, adding a few stalks of some kind of air-mana rich coriander like plant, then threw a quick paste of ground root, brine, and one of the weird glowing berries for acidity. The boy just stared as Ren worked with sharp, efficient movements, hands steady, eyes narrowed.

  In twenty minutes, the scent of the kitchen had changed. The bitterness of the Loamleaf smoke blended with sweet fat, the paste caramelized into a tangy crust, and the mana running through it reacted. He couldn’t explain how he knew,—it just did.

  By the time the tavern matron returned, the roast was resting and Ren was plating it with thick-cut root mash and a drizzle of berry reduction.

  She stared at the food. Then at him.

  “You did this?”

  Ren nodded.

  She took a bite without a word.

  Her eyes widened. Only slightly. But it was there.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  “Ren,” he said. “Ren Saito.”

  “You work the kitchen tonight. You cook like this again, I’ll let you sleep in the pantry and eat what you make.”

  Ren grinned.

  He didn’t get to respond.

  Because at that exact moment, a flicker of blue light flashed in the corner of his vision.

  [System Notification]

  [You have successfully crafted: Smoked Riverboar with Airy Loamleaf Glaze.]

  Rarity: Uncommon

  Effects (When Consumed): Temporary +2 Earth Resistance, Minor Health Regeneration (10 min)

  Flavor Profile: Savory, Smoky, Earthy-Bright

  Technique Bonus: Mana-Infused Smoking (+5% Flavor Intensity)

  Experience Gained: 85 XP

  [LEVEL UP!]

  Culinary Class: [Novice Mana Chef] (Lv. 1 → Lv. 2)

  +1 Perception, +1 Dexterity

  Ren blinked.

  He stared at the translucent system window floating in front of him, blue-gold and slightly transparent, like a video game HUD. The letters shimmered with mana energy. He could even feel them, like static electricity buzzing in the air around him.

  “…Okay. Not a dream. Really, really not a dream.”

  The tavern boy still standing beside him was gawking at the plate, eyes wide. “Did… did you use Loamleaf in the fire?”

  “Yeah,” Ren said, distracted as he tapped the air, dismissing the system screen. “Figured the smoke might carry the mana better that way.” At least he assumed based on how smoking worked on Earth.

  “That’s alchemist talk,” the boy said, awed. “You sure you’re not a potion brewer?”

  Ren smirked. “I told you. I’m a chef.”

  ________

  Word spread fast. By evening, half the tavern’s regulars were ordering “the new roast”, and Ren had to improvise two more Loamleaf-infused dishes just to keep up. He didn’t mind. He was sweating, tired, his hands were stained and blistered—but for the first time in what felt like forever, he was alive.

  Every ingredient was a mystery. Every bite he tested was like discovering a new spice. And every time someone took a bite and looked surprised or satisfied or just different, the system pinged again.

  Tiny bursts of XP. Minor level-ups. Feedback from the world itself.

  You’ve discovered: Cragroot (Mana Root, Earth + Neutral)

  Flavor: Pungent, Starchy, Slightly Sweet

  Culinary Use: Starch base, fermentation possible

  XP Gained: 12

  You’ve created a new flavor pairing: Loamleaf + Stoneberry

  Synergy Effect: Boosts Earth Mana conductivity

  XP Gained: 23

  It was like being in one of those old cooking sim games, except this one was real and had actual stakes.And magic.

  By the time the kitchen finally cooled down and the last plate was served, Ren collapsed onto a sack of flour in the pantry-turned-bedroom, utterly spent.

  He grinned to himself, already half-asleep.

  “Not bad for day one…”

  His thoughts were just starting to drift when the air shimmered in front of his face—and a soft blue light flared to life in the corner of the room.

  [System Initialization: Complete]

  [Tutorial Interface Unlocked – Status & Skills]

  A smooth, neutral voice echoed inside his head—calm, precise, and oddly comforting. It wasn’t robotic, nor overly dramatic. Just… present.

  “Greetings, [Ren Saito]. You have survived your first day as an Outsider. In accordance with universal stabilization protocols, your interface is now active.”

  Ren sat up slowly. “Outsider?”

  The voice continued without pause.

  “You are not native to this world. Entities who arrive from beyond—intentionally or by accident—are classified as Outsiders. Survival past the first cycle triggers system attunement and grants you access to your personal status interface. Would you like to begin the tutorial?”

  Ren rubbed his eyes. “Sure. Why not? Hit me.”

  [Tutorial Begin – Status Overview]

  A blue window unfolded in front of him, glowing softly in the darkness.

  [Ren Saito – Mana Chef]

  Level: 2

  Class: Novice Mana Chef (Outsider Variant)

  Health: 120 / 120

  Mana: 90 / 90

  Attributes:

  ? Strength: 6

  ? Dexterity: 9

  ? Endurance: 7

  ? Intelligence: 9

  ? Perception: 12

  ? Charisma: 8

  ? Luck: 10

  Baseline Comparison:

  Average Adult Human: 7.48

  Average factoring Age, Gender and Ethnicity: 8.869

  Ren blinked.

  “So I’m… above average?”

  “Correct. Your Dexterity and Perception exceed expected values. Strength and Endurance are slightly below regional norms.”

  He made a face. “Yeah, I guess a desk job and kitchen shifts don’t exactly build biceps.”

  “As an Outsider, your baseline compatibility may vary. Your unique affinity appears to resonate with culinary magic and mana interaction through food preparation.”

  The window shifted again.

  Skills:

  ? [Basic Cooking Techniques I] – Passive – Improves preparation speed and consistency

  ? [Flavor Sense I] – Passive – Detects flavor profile and mana type in nearby ingredients

  ? [Improvised Cuisine] – Passive – Boosts effectiveness when crafting meals without full kitchen access

  ? [???] – Locked – Requires Class Advancement

  “Since you levelled up, Attributes were enhanced based on performance. Cooking skill usage has unlocked specialized traits within the Culinary Class path.”

  Ren stared at the stat sheet, trying to wrap his head around it all. Stats, skills, titles—it felt like something ripped straight from an RPG. But the numbers weren’t inflated or cartoonish. They felt… grounded. Real.

  He tapped on Perception, curious.

  Perception: Governs awareness, sensory detail, and subtle environmental cues. Affects reaction time, flavor detection, and ingredient evaluation.

  Then Dexterity.

  Dexterity: Governs fine motor control, precision, and reflexes. Affects knife work, plating, and rapid food preparation.

  He laughed softly. “So being a chef actually counts here. I’m literally statting into my job.”

  The voice chimed again, this time sounding almost amused—if that were possible.

  “Most do not pursue the Culinary path. Few recognize the potential of mana-infused cuisine. Proceed with creativity. The world is… under-seasoned.”

  Ren blinked. “Did you just make a food pun?”

  “…Tutorial complete.”

  The window faded gently, leaving the pantry in soft darkness again.

  Ren laid back onto the flour sack and let out a slow breath.

  He wasn’t dreaming.

  There were systems, stats, mana, and a whole world of untapped culinary potential out there.

  And he might just be the only one who could see what it was truly capable of.