Chapter 13

  By the time they reached the town gates, the sun was beginning to rise—soft gold brushing across rooftops and curling mist over the road. None of them had slept much the night before.

  Ren adjusted the strap of his satchel, fingers brushing the bulging pouch of dried herbs he’d collected. Most were half-squashed and still unidentifiable but at least they seemed usable.

  Garon hadn’t said a word since they left the dungeon, his injured hand wrapped tightly and clutched to his chest. He split off at the gate without so much as a glance. Kaela followed, giving Ren a curt nod.

  Tallen lingered.

  “You held your own,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Even if it got messy. That spell—it helped.”

  Ren didn’t know what to say. “I… yeah. Thanks.”

  “You going to the tavern?”

  He shook his head. “I need to see someone first.”

  Tallen gave a small nod. “Good. Don’t let this stop you. Just be careful.”

  And with that, the archer turned, catching up with the others, leaving Ren alone in the town square.

  He stood there for a moment, still caked in dried blood and dirt, watching the early morning stirrings of a place already too busy for his thoughts. Then he turned on his heel and made for Farin’s shop.

  The alchemist’s workshop still smelled like sulfur, ink, and dried mint. The door creaked as Ren pushed it open, the tiny brass bell chiming overhead.

  Farin looked up from a table cluttered with half-dissected mana moths and coils of rune-etched wire.

  “Ren?” The old man’s brow furrowed. “You look like you walked through a battlefield.”

  “I think I did.”

  Ren dropped his pack onto the nearest stool and sank down beside it. He didn’t realize he was shaking until his fingers hit the wood and the vibrations rippled up his arm.

  “Trouble?”

  Ren let out a short, bitter laugh. “The kind with claws.”

  Farin walked around the table, eyeing him carefully. “Talk.”

  So Ren talked.

  He told him everything—from the monsters and the fight to Garon’s fingers and Kaela’s words. He told him about the guilt, the failure, the sheer, helpless panic of realizing he wasn’t built for this kind of danger.

  “And the worst part?” Ren said, staring at the grain of the table. “I thought I could make it worth it. I thought if I just brought something back—some rare herb, some flavor no one’s tasted—I could justify it. That maybe it’d be enough.”

  Farin waited a long moment, then sighed and walked to the kettle in the corner. “You’re not the first fool to go into a dungeon thinking they’ll come out special.”

  Ren bristled.

  “But,” Farin added, “you might be the first one to come out thinking the special part is something you cook.”

  Ren blinked.

  Farin poured two cups of steaming leaf-brew and handed one over. “Drink. Then we’ll look at what you found.”

  Half an hour later, Ren had his pack opened across the table and the odd, slightly buzzing herbs laid out like trophies. Farin squinted at each in turn, plucking a few with tweezers and muttering under his breath.

  “Hmm. This one’s saturated with low-grade fire mana—unstable, but not poisonous. That one’s not a herb. It’s… well, it’s a spore cluster. Don’t eat that unless you want to go blind for a week.”

  Ren stared at it. “Good to know.”

  “This one here—huh.” Farin held up a shriveled purple sprig with fine black veins. “Not native. Might be from the dungeon’s internal ecosystem. Tastes like peppery root sap, if I’m right. Could be useful for cooking if diluted properly.”

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

  Ren’s heart stirred. “So not everything I grabbed was trash?”

  Farin snorted. “Most of it is trash. But not everything. That’s better than most first-timers.”

  He pushed the samples aside and met Ren’s eyes. “Look. You made mistakes. You’ll make more. But if you really want to bring something new to this world—if you’re trying to build something? Then you’ll need more than just good instincts.”

  “I need knowledge,” Ren said, quietly.

  “Exactly. And not just about food. You want to handle mana herbs and magic beasts? Learn what makes them tick. You don’t get to cut corners just because you’re an Outsider.

  Ren nodded slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening, just a little. “Thanks, Farin.”

  The old alchemist raised a brow. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m assigning you reading. Real textbooks. None of that adventurer-folk nonsense. If you want to play scholar-chef, then you’d better get used to homework.”

  “Well, guess I’m going back to school.”

  ____________

  Three days passed.

  The ache in Ren’s limbs had dulled to a familiar hum, and the weight of what happened in the dungeon settled into a quiet corner of his thoughts—ever-present, but no longer overwhelming. He trained, cooked, read, and tried, more than anything, to push forward.

  Level Up!

  You are now Level 7.

  +1 Dexterity, +1 Perception.

  It was almost a routine now. A flicker of blue light behind his eyes, a subtle shift in the way his hands moved, his senses sharpened. His perception had ticked up again—sixteen, now. It wasn’t adventurer-tier, but it was getting there. Good enough to taste the subtle flicker of mana when it rippled through a broth or to see the faint shimmer around freshly cut herbs.

  Each morning, Ren returned to Farin’s shop, where a stack of dry-spined field manuals and aging botanical scrolls waited. Most were printed with outdated regional dialects-which he could somehow read probably due to his outward led status, in fact how did he never question how he could understand them?- and filled with sketchy ink diagrams, but they were better than nothing. Farin had scrawled notes in the margins. “Too bitter to cook—use as salve,” or “Becomes mildly poisonous when dried—do not infuse.”

  Ren devoured it all.

  Afternoons were for experiments. He made wildroot stews, grilled mana-greens laced with faint lightning essence, even tried a kind of infused jerky with a pinch of fire-aligned salt. Most of it came out edible. A few dishes were legitimately good—good enough to draw praise from Maela when she caught him sneaking samples from the tavern kitchen.

  Evenings were quiet, mostly. Time to clean, write down notes, and tally up what little money he’d started to save.

  The town ran on a coin system, the classic Bronze, Silver, Gold and Platinum coins just like most Fantasy Rrpgs he played, 10 bronze turns into one silver, ten silver into one gold etc.

  Ren earned five coppers a day at the tavern for basic work—sometimes seven, when Maela was feeling generous. His infused “daily special” had only grown in popularity during his absence and Maela had to tell them the chef had gone on an adventure to acquire some exotic ingredients in order to satiate them.

  After food and the occasional herb purchase, he’d scraped together five silvers and four coppers. Not much. But enough.

  He could rent a small corner stall at the edge of the market for two silver a week. It wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be his. A fire-safe iron plate for searing, a crate for ingredients, and a canvas canopy to block the sun would take up the rest of his savings.

  But with his growing knowledge and prowess with mana infused ingredients and foods, Farrin’s guidance and of course all the new fans he suddenly found himself with, Ren had a feeling he could make it work.

  The dream was simple: a food stall. A real one. Just enough space to start sharing his craft—to take a step toward building something of his own.

  One evening, under the soft orange lantern-light outside the tavern, he flipped open his notebook and began sketching ideas for a name. Something humble, but catchy. Something honest.

  Tomorrow, he’d visit the market board and register.

  _________

  Maela watched him from the far end of the tavern kitchen, arms crossed over her flour-dusted apron, lips pressed in a tight line.

  Ren moved like someone who’d been born in a kitchen—swift, precise, but not quite right. He stirred clockwise when most locals stirred counter, diced with a grip that none of the town’s knife makers taught, and muttered under his breath in a language that sounded too smooth to be dialect.

  Every time he cooked something new, it was just… off. Not in a bad way, never in a bad way. Customers loved it. Hell, even she loved it. But it was different. Too refined. Too exacting. And when he worked the mana into food—quietly, carefully, like a man tiptoeing across broken glass—he did it without the common tricks, without the rote gestures they drilled into children by age six.

  Maela had trained under three town chefs and one stubborn grandmother. She knew a native when she saw one.

  Ren Saito wasn’t from here.

  He’d denied it once, half-joking, the first time she’d asked. And maybe he wasn’t lying—maybe he thought he wasn’t an outsider. That was the dangerous kind. The ones who didn’t know what they were.

  She wiped her hands and stepped into her office. The door clicked shut behind her.

  On the back shelf sat an old, dust-covered registry: Handbook for Merchant-Class Compliance. She pulled it down, flipped past the tax codes and festival quotas until she found the right section.

  “Outsiders and Aberrant Mana: Identification and Reporting.”

  The Purity Church had been quiet for the last few seasons, their local office barely staffed. But with the dungeon drawing fresh attention—and the town swelling with new faces—she had no doubt they’d return to prominence. And the Church didn’t tolerate outsiders. Not unless they were indentured. Not unless they were tagged, monitored, or sanctified.

  She stared at the page for a long moment, then closed the book.

  She wasn’t a zealot. Gods knew she’d broken enough rules in her youth to damn herself twice. But Ren… he wasn’t safe. Not for the town. Not for her tavern.

  Not for himself.

  Maybe she’d talk to Farin first. The alchemist always had a better read on strange types. Or maybe—just maybe—she’d put in a quiet word at the chapel.

  Just in case.