Chapter 8

  The tavern was already half full by the time Ren stepped into the kitchen. He could hear the regulars laughing over morning ale and fresh bread, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of gossip that seemed to rise and fall with the clatter of serving trays.

  Maela was already busy, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions with practiced aggression.

  “You’re late,” she said without looking up.

  “I’m early,” Ren replied, setting his basket of ingredients on the prep table. “Just had a lot to carry.”

  She glanced over, narrowing her eyes at the stormkin squash and the lightning pepper. “More weird vegetables?”

  He shrugged. “Just something new I want to try.”

  She sighed, loud enough for it to carry across the whole kitchen. “Just don’t burn down the pantry again.”

  “That was one time. And technically a smolder.”

  But she didn’t stop him. Didn’t tell him no.

  A few days ago, one of the guards had jokingly asked if Ren was making “that spicy fish thing from last week” again. When he said no, the man looked disappointed.

  Then someone else asked. And another.

  Now Maela—grumbling the whole way—had cleared a corner of the chalkboard menu and scrawled “Daily Special: Ask the Chef” in slightly irritated handwriting.

  It was just enough of a gap for Ren to push a little further.

  Today, he wanted to try something harder.

  Not just an infused dish.

  But a controlled blend.

  He started with a clear bone broth—simple, rich, clean enough to carry delicate flavors. Into it, he added a lightning-infused pepper oil, a cooled infusion of earth-aspected mushrooms, and finally, just a whisper of wind-aspected herb he’d dried near a moving stream for a full day.

  Three affinities. Controlled, minimal concentrations. He didn’t want to create a mana clash—just a layered effect.

  Flavor-wise, it had potential. A rich umami base with a tingle of lightning, grounded by the mushrooms and lifted by the breeze-like herbs.

  But mana-wise?

  That was the part he couldn’t fully predict.

  He sampled it first. Always.

  The result?

  …Interesting.

  [Taste Analysis Triggered]

  Triple-Affinity Detected: Lightning (minor), Earth (moderate), Wind (trace)

  Effect: Mild energizing properties. Focus enhancement. Instability Level: Low-Moderate

  Culinary Synergy: Partial Success – flavor harmony detected, mana flow uneven.

  Risk: Slight stomach discomfort on empty stomachs. Not suitable for children or the elderly.

  He blinked. “We’re getting there.”

  He served four bowls total.

  One guard said it made her tongue buzz but helped her stay alert through her afternoon shift.

  A student from the alchemy guild called it “soup that tastes like a breeze before a thunderstorm” and ordered a second.

  An older man left halfway through his meal and didn’t come back.

  And the baker’s assistant vomited behind the alley but said he “felt great right after.”

  __________

  Ren cleaned up in silence.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Maela leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You poisoned someone?”

  “Not poisoned. Stimulated.”

  She snorted. “Next time, test on someone with a stronger stomach.”

  “…You?”

  “Try again.”

  “Me?”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  ________

  A week passed. The town didn’t exactly change overnight—but if you were paying attention, like Ren was, you could feel it.

  The streets were busier every morning. More boots in the mud. More wagons groaning under crates of supplies. More metal clinking—armor, tools, coin purses. And always, always, more eyes scanning the horizon.

  The dungeon hadn’t opened officially—whatever that even meant in this world—but it was pulsing now, quietly, like a heartbeat in the stone. It had drawn in adventurers first, then merchants, and now settlers looking to make coin on the outer edge of something dangerous.

  And with more mouths to feed came more business.

  Which meant the tavern was thriving.

  Breakfast rush used to mean maybe five people—six if the weather was dry. Now Maela had to prep enough porridge and flatbread to feed twenty before the sun even cleared the rooftops.

  Ren woke earlier now. His body had fallen into the rhythm of prep work, of boiling, chopping, stirring, tasting.

  Some customers were regulars now. Guards who rotated shifts. Scholars who asked too many questions. That one redheaded hunter who claimed the daily special helped her aim better with a bow.

  Every few days, someone new would walk in and say, “You the one with the weird food?”

  It became a kind of ritual.

  The “Daily Special” chalkboard had grown into a dedicated slate, mounted next to the hearth. Customers would crowd around to read what strange mana-infused experiment was on offer.

  Maela still grumbled, of course, but she let Ren use a small locked chest in the pantry to store his more volatile ingredients. She even started making backup batches of standard fare in case his special flopped—which, to be fair, it still did, sometimes.

  Not everything worked.

  One broth sent a drunk to sleep for ten hours straight. Another made someone sweat through their boots. One particularly spicy earth-fire curry had to be hosed out of the alley.

  But most days, it worked just enough.

  Ren hadn’t leveled again—not yet—but he could feel his mana control improving, the way a chef could tell dough was ready by touch. He could coax more precise movements, adjust infusion ratios with more finesse.

  He’d even started adjusting the Taste Analysis function, training himself to hold impressions in his mind and compare them before the system gave its summary.

  It felt like learning to write poetry with your tongue.

  He still wrote in his notebook each night. Ingredients, affinities, infusion attempts, customer reactions.

  It wasn’t a grimoire.

  Not yet.

  But it was becoming something like a culinary spellbook. Each page sharpened the edge of his understanding.

  ________

  One evening, as the tavern finally quieted and the last plate was scrubbed clean, Maela sat across from him with a mug of something strong.

  “You’re not like the rest of them,” she said, not looking at him.

  “The adventurers?”

  She shook her head. “The cooks. You don’t just feed people. You’re trying to… change something.”

  Ren didn’t answer right away.

  Eventually, he said, “I think food’s the only magic anyone ever believed in, even without mana. It brings people together. It changes moods. Heals. Hurts. Lasts.”

  Maela gave him a look, one eyebrow arched. “That’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  ___________

  Ren had never been to the Adventurer’s Guild before.

  He’d passed by it plenty—big stone building near the north end of town, busy at all hours. Swords, spears, and noisy egos came and went through its double-wide doors, leaving behind dusty footprints and the scent of steel oil.

  But this morning, Maela had shoved a tightly wrapped basket into his arms with a grunt and a nod toward the guild. “They ordered some rations. Go deliver. And don’t flirt.”

  Ren blinked. “Why would I flirt—”

  “Because you’re a cook and they’re underfed.”

  “…That’s not how flirting works.”

  “Just go.”

  ___________

  The guild smelled like leather, sweat, and old parchment. Quest boards lined the walls, crowded with notices scrawled in ink and charcoal. A burly receptionist in chainmail armor waved Ren toward a side table, where a few smaller adventuring teams huddled around mismatched gear and half-drunk mugs.

  One trio stood out—not because they were strong, but because they weren’t.

  They looked about his age, maybe younger.

  One wore heavy armor clearly two sizes too big. One had daggers and eyes like she was sizing up escape routes. And the third was crouched over a pile of herbs, muttering to himself as he sorted them by leaf shape and stem density.

  That one noticed the food basket first.

  “Hey, Do you work for the Boar’s Tooth Tavern?” the dagger girl asked, halfway through cleaning a blade.

  Ren nodded. “Kitchen delivery.”

  The armored one perked up. “Daily special guy?”

  “Guilty.”

  “You’re famous,” said the forager without looking up. “You made that soup that let that hunter sleep with her eyes open.”

  “That’s… not exactly what happened.”

  He knelt and started unpacking. Today’s order was simple—infused trail bread with dried root chips, and jerky marinated in lightly fire-aspected herbs to preserve and energize.

  “Figured you might want something that doesn’t taste like shoe leather,” he said.

  The trio hovered closer and each took one to try.

  The armored one took a bite and froze. “Is this… mana jerky?”

  The forager looked up, blinking. “No way.”

  “Way,” said Ren.

  The reaction was instant. Their eyes widened. The girl with the daggers laughed through a full mouth. “Spicy and it doesn’t suck? I thought food like this was only for the elite.

  The forager, eyes gleaming, held up a sprig from his satchel. “You ever tried chimeleaf infusion? It harmonizes with air-aspect, but I think it reacts weirdly with fire. I’ve been drying them wrong.”

  Ren blinked.

  “I have so many questions.”

  They talked for twenty minutes longer than he meant to. About herbs, mana, food preservation, the mess that was dungeon trail logistics.

  The forager—Tallen—was sharp, obsessive, and clearly under-equipped. The big one was named Garron, and was trying to “build muscle memory” by wearing armor heavier than he could handle. The girl with the knives, Kaela, just grinned a lot and asked way too many practical questions about edible monsters.

  They were broke, underskilled, and entirely out of their depth.

  Ren liked them immediately.