Chapter 21

  Ren woke to darkness, dry-mouthed and groggy, a deep ache blooming across the back of his skull. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, only that he was somewhere cold, and that whatever surface he was lying on smelled of damp stone and iron. He tried to move, but his arms resisted—bound tightly at the wrists behind him, with something rough and scratchy biting into his skin. His ankles were similarly tied.

  There was a faint, persistent hum in the air. Mana, he realized groggily. Concentrated. Suppressed. Whatever place this was, it had barriers—or worse, suppressive wards. His own mana felt like it had been shoved into a corner of his body, unresponsive, sluggish to the call.

  Footsteps echoed, measured and calm. Leather on stone.

  Ren squinted through the darkness. A faint light bloomed from behind a steel-barred door across the room, revealing a tall figure draped in dark, ceremonial robes trimmed with ivory thread. The symbol of the Purity Church glinted on his chest—seven-pointed sun, flared like a brand.

  “Inquisitor,” Ren muttered under his breath.

  The man opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click. His face was calm, unreadable, the kind of expression carved by years of belief and precision.

  “You’re awake,” the inquisitor said, not with satisfaction or cruelty, but as a simple statement of fact. “Good. The questioning will go more smoothly.”

  Ren blinked. “Questioning?”

  The man didn’t answer right away. He moved to a small iron table along the wall and laid out a number of tools—quills, scrolls, mana-reading crystals, and something that looked suspiciously like a branding iron.

  “My name is Inquisitor Halreth. You are under observation for suspected heresy, illegal magic use, and willful contamination of the natural mana stream.” He turned to face Ren, calm as ever. “You are, in plain terms, suspected of being an Outsider.”

  Ren said nothing. His mouth was too dry. His heart, however, was pounding.

  Halreth tilted his head slightly, studying him. “I’ve seen many of your kind. Most break quickly. Others… not at all. But I am not here to torture you. I’m here to confirm. Who are you? What is your origin?”

  Ren licked his lips. “I’m a chef.”

  Halreth’s eyes narrowed, just barely. “You were a chef. You are something else now. And your food—it changes people. Their mana. Their bodies. You lace it with magic, don’t you?”

  Ren didn’t respond.

  “Silence is admissible,” Halreth said mildly. “You’ve been marked, you know. Ever since the festival. Word travels fast when an unranked stall defeats three noble-backed chefs. When you fed an entire town and no one could replicate the result. The Church pays attention to miracles. And you’re no saint.”

  He moved forward, placing one of the crystals beside Ren’s head. It pulsed faintly with reddish light, like an ember reacting to unseen heat.

  “Mana resonance consistent with an altered core,” Halreth murmured. “Yes. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Ren gritted his teeth. His mana was still sluggish, but not entirely absent. He began to breathe steadily, and reached for the familiar spell he had honed under his trainer - [Mana Pulse].

  But whatever wards surrounded the room, they were expertly crafted. Every time he tried to extend even a fraction of control, the mana recoiled.

  Halreth straightened. “We will send your results to the central order for review. If they judge you guilty, your sentence will be soul-searing, followed by purification.” A pause. “You may also be dissected. That is up to the scholars.”

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  Ren’s throat tightened. He fought to keep his expression even.

  Halreth turned to leave, pausing at the door. “You should rest. Tomorrow, the first ritual begins.”

  The door closed. The lock clicked.

  And he was alone, bound and surrounded by silence—his mind racing, his mana a caged beast beneath his skin, and no idea how much time he had left.

  Ren swallowed hard. The void around him remained unmoving. Cold. Distant.

  He gritted his teeth and tried to call up his Status.

  It flickered in front of his eyes, pale blue and unsteady, like the system itself was unsure if it wanted to show him.

  [Status]

  Name : Ren Saito

  Class : Arcane Sommelier [Evolution Tier I ]

  Level : 10

  HP : 110

  Mana 130

  Strength : 8

  Dexterity : 16

  Constitution : 11

  Perception : 17

  Intelligence : 13

  Charisma : 8

  Skills :

  Culinary Knowledge

  Flavor Sense II

  Mana Pulse

  Flavor Control

  Cornerstones:

  Mana Threading

  He stared at it, hollowly. The numbers hadn’t changed. The skills were still there.

  Then why the hell couldn’t he do anything?

  His head lolled to the side. He let it. What else was there to do?

  The numbness wasn’t physical. It was spiritual—an exhaustion buried deep in the soul. The inquisitor hadn’t killed him. Not yet. But whatever suppression spell they’d used… it had severed more than his connection to magic.

  He thought of The Sleazy Snake. Of the regulars who had started calling it “their place.” Of Kaela and Tallen, of Farin’s grumbling and potions and old dusty tomes. Of the market square during the festival, the smell of roasted fruit-glazed meat and infused sugarbark sweets.

  And then he thought of the Church.

  Of that bastard inquisitor, eyes like glass and smile like iron, calling him an aberration.

  The words echoed.

  “You don’t belong.”

  He let out a breath. It shuddered.

  They were right. He didn’t belong.

  Not in their systems. Not in their towns. Not in their churches.

  But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

  His fingers twitched. Good. Nerves were working.

  He stared at his hands. Callused, scarred. Burned and worn from hours at the stove, fingers nimble from slicing, searing, threading mana through recipes no one else had ever tried.

  He’d worked too damn hard.

  He’d bled for every gain.

  And now you’re helpless.

  The thought landed like a weight. He clenched his jaw.

  If this was what it meant to be an outsider, then fine. He’d wear the label.

  But he’d be stronger.

  He would build something so good, so undeniable, that not even the Purity Church could erase it. He would prove, dish by dish, that culinary magic deserved a place in this world. That food wasn’t just sustenance. That flavor mattered.

  He would create a world where people like him didn’t have to hide.

  His mana still wouldn’t stir. But his mind did.

  He shifted, testing his limbs. Still heavy, but not broken.

  The ground beneath him… had texture now. Softer than stone. Packed soil, maybe? Or—

  Something cold wrapped around his ankle.

  Ren froze.

  Then—slowly—he looked down.

  A hand.

  No. Not quite.

  A shape. Long fingers, ink-black skin like liquid shadow, clawed and gripping his leg with chilling strength. Before he could yell, move, anything, the ground beneath him softened into something viscous and wrong.

  “Wait—!”

  He didn’t get the rest out. The floor gave way.

  He fell.

  The world inverted. Pressure screamed through his ears. The faint light of the void above spiraled and vanished as he plunged into something deeper, thicker, darker.

  He tried to struggle. He couldn’t even flail.

  Air rushed out of his lungs.

  And then—

  Nothing.