The tavern kitchen was still and quiet in the pre-dawn dark.
The embers in the hearth had died down to a warm glow, casting long, sleepy shadows across cutting boards and copper pans. The scent of last night’s roast still clung to the air—fat, thyme, and smoke—like the ghost of a meal.
Ren stood alone in the silence, apron tied, sleeves rolled up.
This was it.
No audience. No backup. Just him, a handful of ingredients, and the thread of mana humming faintly under his skin.
He laid everything out methodically on the prep table:
- A bundle of thick, gnarled root vegetables—carrot-like but with a marbled purple sheen.
- Two stalks of bitterleaf—the earthy, mana-rich herb from the hill.
- A small cut of low-grade boar meat, cured lightly in salt and dried herbs.
- One bulb of oilfruit, which oozed golden, nutty-tasting oil when pressed.
- Coarse grain from the local market—halfway between couscous and quinoa.
He took a breath.
First, the knife work.
Ren peeled the roots carefully, shaving them with long, practiced strokes. Then he chopped them into uniform batons—julienned, like matchsticks. This would help them cook evenly and fast. He seared them lightly in a cast-iron pan, using pressed oilfruit to bring out their natural sweetness.
Next, he minced the bitterleaf.
The moment he touched it, the system pinged again faintly—not a full notification, but that same subtle echo from before. Earth mana. Still there. Still reactive.
Ren held the chopped herbs in one palm… and breathed.
Not forced. Not pushed. Just guided the mana outward. A thin trickle, barely more than instinct. He let it pass through his hand and into the herbs, and he tasted the shift immediately.
The bitterness rounded out. The aroma deepened, like mushrooms sautéed in browned butter. Still earthy, but now complex.
“Okay,” he whispered, setting them aside.
Then came the meat.
It wasn’t prime, but it had potential. He patted it dry and scored the surface in a shallow crosshatch—this would let the heat penetrate more evenly and help the seasoning seep in. He rubbed it down with salt, a touch of the infused bitterleaf, and fire-spice from the pantry: not too much, just enough to make the earthiness pop.
He set it in the same pan, letting it sizzle low and steady. Not a sear. A gentle render. The kind you use when coaxing out flavor without shocking the meat. Low and slow. Respect the cut.
As it cooked, he boiled the grains in a small iron pot—adding a few drops of bitterleaf-infused oil near the end, stirring gently. The aroma lifted, nutty and herbal.
He plated carefully.
First the grains—fluffy, fragrant, a soft base. Then the root vegetables, slightly crisped and caramelized. Next, the sliced boar, cross-sectioned into even medallions, juices resting along the sear lines. Finally, he scattered the infused herbs over the top like green confetti.
It wasn’t flashy.
But it looked good.
Smelled better.
And it hummed, just slightly, with that something extra.
He picked up a spoon.
Paused.
Then tasted.
The flavor hit in waves.
First, the grounded sweetness of the roots—like roasted yams, but with a forest-floor undertone. Then came the meat, savory and soft, layered with the faint buzz of fire-spice and the mellow pulse of mana. The grains tied it all together—rich, nutty, with that whisper of something ancient from the bitterleaf.
Ren stared down at the bowl.
It was food.
But also magic.
[You have successfully crafted: Rootplate with Infused Boar
[Minor Buff Applied: +2 Stamina Regeneration (30 minutes)]
[EXP Gained: 43 – Culinary Mana Application]
Ren grinned.
It was the best breakfast he’d ever made.
And the beginning of something far, far bigger.
____________
The sky was just beginning to brighten when Ren wrapped the plate in cloth, tucking it carefully into a woven basket. The warmth of the dish still bled through the linen, and the faint scent of herbs and seared meat curled up with the morning mist.
Most of the tavern was still asleep, save for Maela and the early staff clattering faintly below. He slipped out quietly, through the back, taking the alley route toward Farin’s cluttered little apothecary shop.
The streets of Holcroft were already stirring. A few adventurers in mismatched gear loitered near the guild hall, laughing too loud for the hour. Cart-pullers and early bakers moved like ghosts, all ritual and muscle memory. A sharp-eyed merchant was already opening crates, eyes scanning for signs of spoilage or profit.
The town was growing—buzzing around that newly unearthed dungeon like flies to honey.
But Ren only had one destination this morning.
___________
Farin's shop smelled like burnt cinnamon and boiled moss.
Ren knocked twice, then again.
No answer.
He was about to turn away when the door creaked open, revealing the alchemist in a half-fastened robe and a lopsided eye-glass lens.
"You," Farin grunted, blinking blearily. "Too early for explosions."
“No explosions,” Ren said, lifting the basket. “Just food.”
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That got a raise of the eyebrow.
“Infused?”
Ren nodded.
Farin stepped aside, muttering something about people with ‘obsessive streaks and no sleep schedules,’ then waved him toward the bench near a cluttered worktable.
Ren unwrapped the dish slowly, letting the scent drift out into the room.
Farin paused mid-rummage.
“That’s… huh.”
Ren offered a wooden fork. “Earth-infused root dish. Bitterleaf component’s been bonded. Grain cooked in infused oil. Boar’s not top-grade, but I tried to layer the flavor to—”
“You used bitterleaf?” Farin cut in.
Ren blinked. “…Yeah?”
Farin scratched his chin. “Most people think it’s toxic in large amounts.”
“I tested it on myself first.”
“Madman,” Farin muttered. “Respect.”
He dug in.
Chewed slowly.
Then blinked.
“…Stars above. That’s actually balanced.” He took another bite, more focused this time. “You infused this?”
Ren nodded, heart thudding.
“Mana’s subtle, but present. Buff level’s minor. Taste profile’s evolved.” Farin looked at him with a mix of suspicion and something close to admiration. “You’re either a genius or a walking stomach ulcer.”
Ren laughed. “Bit of both, maybe.”
Farin leaned back, eyeing him. “Alright. I was going to give you some notes on channeling and containment today—but screw that. We’ll go advanced. Lets talk world affinities
Farin wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve and leaned forward, suddenly far more awake than he had any right to be at this hour.
“But we already covered this—everyone has at least one, sometimes two. They influence what kind of magic comes easiest.”
“Right,” Farin said, “but what most don’t realize—or care to—is that magic’s not just about purity. It’s about mixture.”
He grabbed a bit of charcoal and cleared space on the nearest worktable with a violent sweep of his arm. A few vials clattered dangerously, but somehow didn’t break.
He sketched quickly—six overlapping circles in a ring, forming a sort of flower.
“These are the primaries: Fire, Water, Earth, Air, Light, and Shadow. Everything starts here. Basic elemental stuff. Most people have one. Rare ones have two. Almost no one has three without serious bloodlines or divine tampering.”
He tapped the space between two circles. “Now these—these are what we call secondaries. Hybrid affinities. You don’t get them as a base, but you can form them. With training, intent, or—” he gestured at Ren’s basket, “—alchemy. Cooking, apparently.”
Ren leaned in. “So, like combining elements?”
“Exactly,” Farin said, warming to the explanation. “You ever seen mist rise from warm earth after rain? That’s steam. Fire and Water. You ever taste aged cheese with a hint of sharpness and rot? That’s Decay. Shadow and Earth. These combinations exist naturally—some more stable than others.”
He started labeling the spaces between:
- Steam (Fire + Water)
- Storm (Air + Water)
- Lava (Fire + Earth)
- Blight (Shadow + Earth)
- Radiance (Light + Fire)
- Void (Shadow + Air)
- Bloom (Earth + Light)
- Frost (Water + Shadow)
“There are more,” he said, “but these are the common hybrids.”
Ren’s brow furrowed. “So food could be affinity-styled? Like… a dish that leans into Lava—fire and earth—would be spicy and grounding, maybe give strength or heat resistance?”
Farin grinned, pointing the charcoal like a wand. “Now you’re thinking like an alchemist.”
“Or a chef,” Ren said.
“Same difference in the end—both try to turn raw stuff into miracles before something explodes.”
Ren studied the chart, ideas already sparking behind his eyes.
“What about… mixing three?”
Farin paused. “Tricky. The more you mix, the more unstable it gets. Most tri-blends need conduits—catalysts. Rare herbs, monster cores, aged reagents. Or they require something alive to stabilize the reaction.”
“Like… a living chef guiding it?”
Farin looked at him long and hard.
“…Possibly. You’ve already pulled something off that’d take most apprentices a year to manage. I wouldn’t rule anything out. But triple blends are risky. Get it wrong, and your dish might just liquefy your stomach.”
“Noted,” Ren said dryly.
Farin stood, brushing off his robe. “Keep playing. Keep tasting. But be careful. Magic isn’t tame, and mana doesn’t like being eaten. It tolerates it—for now.”
Ren absorbed that quietly, gaze drifting back to the diagram.
So many combinations.
So many flavors.
_________________
Three days passed.
The tavern kitchen had become a second skin.
Ren rose before dawn, pulled on his apron with the same reverence he used to give his chef’s coat back in Tokyo, and worked until the last plate was cleaned and the hearth dimmed. He peeled, chopped, sautéed, roasted, stirred—and he watched.
Every reaction, every comment from the waitstaff, every bite left uneaten.
He was learning.
Not just from the people—but from the mana.
Each morning, before the kitchen bustled to life, he carved out ten quiet minutes to practice what Farin had shown him. At first, he could barely hold onto the threads of energy inside him. It was like trying to grasp smoke underwater—slippery, scattered, unintuitive.
But by the third day, something had clicked.
It wasn’t that he’d mastered mana.
More like… it had stopped actively running from him.
Now he could feel it trickle through his fingers when he focused. He couldn’t shape it well, couldn’t force it to take form like true mages could—but it was there. Present.
And that was enough.
In the quiet moments, he infused basic dishes—not every time, not recklessly. A soup laced with a trace of heat. A barley porridge enhanced with a breath of light mana that made the body feel just a little lighter after eating. A baked tuber paired with ashroot and air mana, making it crisp like it had just left the coals.
Simple combinations.
Water and earth on root vegetables—bringing out a cool, grounded depth.
Fire and air on thin-cut meat—light sear, crispy edges, without overcooking.
The feedback was always small.
Subtle.
But good.
[You have gained experience.]
[Skill Proficiency increased: Mana Infusion (Basic)]
[Repetition Bonus: Culinary Mana Application]
[You have reached Level 5.]
[2 Free Stat Points Gained]
[Choose 1 New Skill:]
So it is alternating. Even levels gave him direct stat boosts —+1 to both Dexterity and Perception.
Odd levels gave two free points.
“Nice to know the rules, at least.”
He glanced at his updated stats.
“Now about the skills.”
? Flavor Blending
Your understanding of flavor harmonics allows for more stable infusion of dual-affinity mana into food. Enhances synergy between ingredients and mana types.
? Efficient Mana Channeling
Reduces the mana cost of infusing food or performing sustained channeling. Improves fine control slightly.
? Mana Pulse (Basic Combat Technique)
Release a short-range, directional burst of raw mana from the palm. Force and control scale with Intelligence.
Ren sat cross-legged, staring at the list.
Flavor Blending had obvious appeal. It wasn’t just a “foodie” skill—it was alchemy-adjacent. He’d already tasted how weird things got when affinities clashed. Having an edge in that department would mean faster results and fewer burnt experiments.
Efficient Mana Channeling was a logical choice. Less mana drain meant more attempts per day, less post-cooking fatigue. Plus, he could practice longer.
Then there was… Mana Pulse.
The wild card.
He’d hoped the system might offer something offensive.He wasn’t na?ve—this world wasn’t all stew pots and kind townsfolk. He had seen many a scarred adventurer during even his short time here and he could hear the nightly howls from outside the town walls sometimes.
If he wanted to chase the truth of infused food, he might end up chasing it into places that didn’t have hearths and bread ovens.
And a sudden palm blast could be handy if something tries to eat me before I eat it.
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Three good choices.
No wrong answer.
But only one pick.
Ren’s eyes lingered on the glowing skill list, his fingers twitching with indecision.
Flavor Blending made the most sense, didn’t it?
In every game he’d ever played, specialization was king. Max out a class, commit to the path, and you became a monster in your niche. The strongest builds weren’t spread thin—they were refined. Focused. Efficient.
And cooking was his thing.
He could already feel it—the raw potential of mana-infused cuisine. He was barely scratching the surface, but every time he infused a dish and saw someone react just a little more than usual, he knew there was something deeper. Something real. The right seasoning was just the first step—mana added an entire new layer to flavor.
So yeah—if this was a game, he’d go all in. Pick Flavor Blending, double down on cooking, get ahead of the nonexistent curve.
But…
He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.
This isn’t a game.
There were no save points. No respawns. No inventory screens or fast-travel hubs.
Just… life.
And life didn’t always let you stay in the kitchen.
He remembered the way Maela’s eyes had flicked toward the door every time something loud happened in the street. The tension when travelers mentioned the dungeon to the north. The quiet edge in Farin’s voice when he talked about “risks” and “accidents.”
This world might be shaped like a fantasy game—but the stakes were anything but virtual.
What happens when I’m not safe? When I’m alone? When the thing chasing me doesn’t care how perfectly I plate my damn soup?
His fingers hovered over Mana Pulse.
A simple skill.
A basic, beginner-tier technique.
But still… a weapon.
A line of defense between him and the unknown.
I can always choose the chef stuff later, he thought. If I’m still alive to choose it.
He clenched his fist and made his decision.
[Skill Acquired: Mana Pulse]
A small warmth spread across his palm, like static before a storm and he gained instinctive knowledge of how to cast it and he smiled.
It wasn't a grand lightning spell but it was decent.
And that was enough.