Chapter 10

  Ren had imagined that foraging would feel like browsing a spice rack in the world’s most exotic pantry. Maybe a bit more dirt under the nails, sure—but a sensory playground nonetheless. He’d fantasized about finding bright red mushrooms that glowed when plucked, herbs that hummed when crushed between the fingers, or vines that shimmered with obvious magical significance.

  Instead, he found green. Endless green.

  Green leaves. Green moss. Green thorns. Green everything.

  And none of it made any damn sense.

  He crouched near a patch of thick-stemmed plants that looked vaguely like burdock, but when he tried to pull one up, it snapped and released a puff of golden spores that made his tongue go numb for ten seconds.

  “What the hell,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his cloak.

  “Found something?” Tallen knelt beside him with casual ease, already chewing on a twig he’d pulled from somewhere behind his ear.

  Ren frowned. “I thought maybe—burdock? Or something like it. But it just… spit at me.”

  Tallen peered at the patch. “Ah. Yeah. That’s probably daggerroot. Nasty if you dry it wrong. The numbing means it’s fresh. Wanna keep some?”

  “Not… particularly.”

  The younger forager chuckled and offered a small, folding knife with an antler handle. “Mark the stem and clip the tops. Avoid the bulbs unless you want your spit to taste like copper for a week.”

  Ren did as instructed, mostly to save face.

  His [Flavor Sense] skill, which had become a near-constant guide in the kitchen, was flickering in and out like a weak signal in a concrete basement. Sometimes he’d get a whisper—“bitter,” “muddied,” “volatile mana concentration”—but more often it just returned [Mana Density of specimen too high.]

  In the kitchen, he could always ask Maela the name of an herb, or even read it off a label, and the skill would piece together what it needed from the context. But out here?

  Everything was either too mundane to register—or so saturated with wild mana that it completely jammed his senses.

  He plucked a fuzzy-looking pod from a vine and gave it a sniff. It smelled like pine and vinegar.

  Analysis failed.

  He sighed and tossed it aside.

  At least his mana control wasn’t slipping. He’d been practicing every day—moving mana in slow, steady flows through his limbs, sometimes into his fingertips, other times into his breath as he cooked or prepped. He still couldn’t cast anything—he wasn’t a mage—but he could feel it now, like water beneath the skin.

  Kaela spotted his scowl and grinned over her shoulder. “Not as easy without shelves and labels, huh?”

  Ren gave her a flat look. “At least in the kitchen, nothing numbed my face.”

  “Yet,” she said, then turned back to the trail.

  The group hiked for another few hours before resting in a shallow alcove ringed with old stonework—some collapsed outpost or waystation, long overtaken by weeds. Garron scouted ahead while Tallen picked through nearby shrubs. Kaela took first watch. Ren unpacked one of the wrapped rations and passed the others around. This one was heat-aspected—salt-cured meat glazed in pepperroot reduction, wrapped in mana-imbued rice paper.

  Garron’s eyes lit up after a single bite. “Tastes like a spell hit me in the stomach. In a good way.”

  Kaela raised a brow. “Did you infuse this with fire mana?”

  “Just a little,” Ren said, “and balanced it with something earthy to keep it from burning your throat.”

  “Smart,” Tallen said, already nibbling at his second strip. “A lot of fire-infused rations burn too hot and make you thirstier.”

  Ren tried to hide his grin, but a bit of warmth bloomed in his chest.

  Maybe the wilderness wasn’t going to bend to his system. Maybe half the plants here didn’t care what level he was or whether he could name them.

  But he still had a kitchen. Still had a palate. Still had a dozen ways to translate flavor into function.

  It was a new kind of challenge—and somewhere in the ache of his shoulders, the hum of mana in the air, and the quiet crunch of satisfied eating, he could already tell:

  This was going to be a hell of a learning curve.

  And he was hungry for it.

  _________

  The scream of the beast came first—a raw, guttural sound that split the silence like a blade.

  Ren froze, a chunk of root halfway to his belt pouch. Kaela’s voice cut in sharp and immediate:

  “Contact! West tree line!”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Garron was already moving. His blade came free with a metallic hiss as he took point, shield up. Tallen yanked Ren back behind a thick tree trunk.

  “What the hell is that?” Ren hissed.

  “Direrat pack. Maybe a scout. Stay behind cover.” Tallen’s voice was flat and focused, his usual easy grin gone. He nocked an arrow and dropped into a low stance.

  The creature burst from the brush—a twisted rodent the size of a large dog, with slick, black-gray fur and glinting yellow eyes. Its jaws gnashed with rows of needle-like teeth. Another followed behind it. Then a third.

  Ren’s heart slammed against his ribs.

  Kaela flanked left, daggers drawn, and with a cry she struck the first one low in the leg. It shrieked and snapped at her, but she rolled aside. Garron met the second with a heavy swing, shield bashing it back before cleaving into its neck with practiced brutality.

  Ren watched from behind the tree, clutching the pouch of herbs to his chest like it might shield him. He’d cooked with fire-aspected pepperroot. He’d sliced through mana-rich gillcaps. He’d served noblemen and drunks alike.

  But he had never seen anything like this.

  “Third one’s circling!” Tallen called out, loosing an arrow. It caught the creature in the flank, but it kept coming—darting low and fast, making for Ren’s cover.

  Instinct flared.

  Ren stumbled back and let loose a [Mana Pulse], It pushed the disgusting rat-like creatures backward and knocked it into another of its brethren.

  Kaela was on it a moment later. One clean cut to the throat.

  Silence fell.

  Ren stood still, heart pounding, hand still raised where he’d thrown the packet.

  Tallen gave a low whistle. “Well, damn. Glad to see you’ve got at least one combat spell.”

  _________

  They made camp deeper in the grove, hidden among a stand of wide, moss-laden trees. Garron cleaned the weapons. Kaela laid out perimeter tripwires. Tallen stripped the direrats for usable hide and glands, muttering about potion bases.

  Ren sat beside the low campfire, watching the flames dance while turning a pot of broth gently over the heat. His hands still trembled slightly.

  Kaela settled across from him, wiping her blades with a cloth.

  “You alright?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

  “Yeah,” Ren said. “No. I don’t know. I’ve seen blood before. But not like that. Not with claws coming at my face.”

  “Welcome to the edge,” Garron grunted, not looking up from his sword.

  “But you held up,” Kaela said. “And that’s worth something.”

  They ate in relative silence for a few minutes. The tension of battle still lingered, but the warmth of the fire and the steady hum of mana in the woods dulled the edges.

  After a while, Tallen leaned back and gestured at a small flowering bush nearby.

  “You see that one there?”

  Ren followed his gaze. The plant had bluish-green leaves and small white flowers with gold centers.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “River’s Balm. Crush the leaves and rub them on bruises—eases inflammation. Flower cores can be brewed into a tea that’ll help you sleep. But don’t eat the roots unless you like vomiting through your ears.”

  Ren blinked. “Through your—”

  “Not literally. Just a lot of vomiting.”

  Tallen scooted closer to the fire, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook. “Look, you’re clearly not hopeless. But if you’re gonna survive out here, you need more than instincts and a spice pouch. I’ll teach you the basics. Forest 101.”

  Ren smiled despite himself. “Appreciate it. Really.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you’ve learned to tell moonmoss from shadowbane without hallucinating for six hours.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Tallen began pointing out nearby plants, giving names, properties, and warnings in a casual, almost lyrical cadence. Ren soaked in every word.

  The fire crackled low. The night deepened. And beneath the canopy of a mana-rich forest, Ren’s next phase of education truly began—not just as a cook, but as a forager, a learner, and someone inching closer to something powerful.

  _________

  The fire had died down to embers.

  The others slept—or pretended to. Garron snored softly. Kaela was curled up with one arm over her eyes, her daggers still within reach. Tallen had mumbled something about “root bloom season” before rolling over and muttering himself into unconsciousness.

  Ren stayed awake.

  He sat near the edge of their small camp, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, staring into the faint, flickering orange of dying coals. The soft hiss of heat against damp wood filled the silence, broken only by distant wind threading through leaves and the low croak of some creature in the dark.

  His fingers still tingled from the mana flare. His ears rang faintly with the memory of screams—of fur and teeth and a blur of motion that could’ve killed him.

  And beneath it all, a strange, bitter homesickness had begun to throb like a wound.

  Tokyo hadn’t always been kind. Late nights. Long prep hours. Cramped kitchens. Rent that made no sense even in good months. But it had been his. That tiny hole-in-the-wall ramen shop. The perfectly oiled rhythm of prep and service. The gleam of fresh noodles. The clatter of dishes. The low hum of jazz through old speakers as he mixed tare.

  He missed the noise.

  He missed the mundanity.

  He missed home.

  Ren closed his eyes and let out a long, quiet breath.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he whispered to no one.

  He thought of his old apartment—half-unpacked boxes, spice tins lined on the counter, the charred corner of the cutting board where he’d gotten distracted during prep. He thought of the last meal he’d made before it all went sideways—an onsen egg over duck broth, scallions, a hint of garlic oil. Balanced. Simple. Solid.

  And then—boom— the sous vide cooker exploding, some divine being’s fault and him getting in the crossfire. It wasn’t even his fault.

  And now? Magic. Monsters. A world full of danger

  He hugged the blanket tighter.

  Ren knew he might never go back. No one had told him that directly, but the silence of the stars and the alien weight of mana in the air said it all.

  But if he couldn’t return…

  Then maybe he could build something here.

  Bit by bit. Plate by plate.

  Not just meals—but memories. Not just dishes—but identity.

  He’d take their mana, their flavors, their strange herbs and dangerous beasts—and he’d cook better. He’d give this world something it didn’t know it needed.

  A taste of home.

  A culinary revolution.

  He wiped his eyes, scoffed at himself quietly, then reached for his notes. A few scrawled flavor tests from that day—bitter bark reduced too far, mana ginseng too sharp on its own, maybe balance it with oilroot?

  He’d sleep soon.

  But for now, he planned.

  And he dreamed.

  Not of waking up in Tokyo.

  But of making this place taste like Tokyo.

  Even if it killed him.