The University had transformed overnight.
Gone was the sterile, militaristic grey of the academic blocks. The Central Plaza was now a riot of holographic neon and chaotic sound. Banners floated in the air, advertising everything from "Magitech Weapon Polishing" to "Dragon-Scale Skincare".
The air no longer carried a heavy wall of ozone; it was a dense, physical cocktail of sugar, roasted meat, and burning mana.
"It smells like... victory," Borg (Gluttony) drooled, his eyes wide as he stared at a stall selling roasted Void-Squid on a stick.
"It smells like burning credits," Lack Flameheart sighed, adjusting the hand-painted sign on their humble booth.
They had pooled their meagre stipends—1,500 Devarakhan Credits (DC). The sum possessed mathematical weight, but in the inflated economy of the God Domain, it was barely enough to buy the raw ingredients. They were competing against nobles who spent that much on napkins.
[Booth Name: THE ILLOGICAL GRILL] [Menu: Meat. Just Meat.] [Chefs: The Survivors]
"We need to participate to keep our Club status," Lack reminded his team. Their absolute focus was anchored to the massive, gold-plated booth of the Student Council across the plaza. "But we might as well make a profit. Torin, you're on the register. Mina, you're on dishes—your tear-jets are high pressure and saline, perfect for grease removal."
"I... I'll try not to cry into the soup," Mina sniffled, already tearing up at the sight of the dirty plates.
"The rest of you," Lack turned to the prep team. "Remember: We don't use magic to cheat. We use it to optimise."
He pointed to Serra (Friction). "The grill is old and rusty. If the meat sticks, we lose. You know what to do."
Serra adjusted her glasses, her hand hovering over the blackened iron plate. "Friction Reduction: 90%." The surface instantly became slicker than a frozen lake. Nothing would stick to this grill.
"Olan," Lack pointed to the meat supply. It was Iron-Hide Boar—cheap, tough meat that usually tasted like shoe leather. "The muscle fibres are too tense. We need them relaxed."
Olan yawned, leaning against the counter. He waved a lazy hand at the pile of raw steaks. "Ability: Deep Sleep." The meat... slumped. The tension in the dead muscle fibres vanished, turning the tough connective tissue incredibly tender.
"And Borg," Lack warned, pointing a spatula at the glutton. "Do not eat the inventory. You are the Taste Tester. Small bites."
"Small," Borg promised, eyeing a steak the size of a shield.
? ? ?
[System Record: The Grand Cooking Competition] Challenger: The Hydro-Club (Led by Jareth) vs. The Old Earth History Club Objective: Culinary Dominance
The central stage was packed. This wasn't just about food; it was a proxy war.
Jareth stood at the opposing station, wearing a pristine, white silk chef's uniform. His team was preparing a "Hydro-Infused Blue-fin Tuna". They didn't use knives; Jareth used high-pressure water whips to slice the fish at the molecular level.
"Look at them," Jareth sneered into his microphone, his voice amplified across the plaza. "Using rusty knives and charcoal fire. Peasants cooking peasant food."
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Lack stood at his station, wearing a grease-stained apron over his uniform. His target locked onto the Iron-Hide Boar meat.
"Ready?" the Judge—a rotund Saurian Professor with a palate for carnage—roared. "COOK!"
Jareth moved with fluid grace. Swish. Swish. His water blades filleted the tuna into translucent ribbons. It was elegant. It was logical.
Lack didn't pick up a knife. He placed his hand on the massive slab of meat.
[Illogical Logic: Tenderisation Frequency]
Snap. Vibration.
He didn't just vibrate the surface. He sent high-frequency shockwaves through the connective tissue of the meat. He targeted the collagen lattice. Hummmmmm. The tough gristle shattered. The fibres separated. In seconds, the "shoe leather" tenderised, its lattice restructuring into the exact equivalent of high-grade Wagyu beef.
"Fire!" Lack commanded.
Torin (Wind) blew a precise, compressed stream of air into the charcoal pit beneath the grill. WHOOSH. The heat spiked to 1,000 degrees instantly.
Lack threw the meat onto Serra’s frictionless grill. SIZZLE.
The sound was like a gunshot. The smell hit the crowd like a physical blow—a primal, savoury scent of caramelised fat and smoky magic.
"Now, the sauce!" Lack shouted.
Borg stepped up. He held a bowl of Magma Chilies—peppers so hot they were illegal in three sectors. A normal human would die eating one. Borg grabbed a handful. Crunch. He chewed them. His face turned red. Steam shot out of his ears.
"Gluttony Art: Flavour Refinement."
Borg’s stomach acted as a bio-reactor, isolating the capsaicin toxins and leaving only the pure flavour profile. He leaned over the mixing bowl and... spat a stream of perfect, glowing red chili paste onto the meat.
"Gross!" the crowd gasped.
"Wait," a Beastman student in the front row sniffed the air. his nose twitching. "That smells... incredible."
? ? ?
[System Record: The Verdict] Judge: Professor Gorath (Saurian)
The Saurian Professor took a bite of Jareth's Hydro-Tuna. "Elegant," Gorath grunted. "Clean texture. A bit... watery." Score: 8/10.
He walked over to Lack's plate. The steak was ugly. It was charred. It had been spat on by a glutton. Gorath took a bite.
The Saurian’s eyes rolled back in his head. The meat dissolved on his tongue. The spice kicked him in the throat, then soothed him with savoury richness. It triggered a primal dopamine response in his reptilian brain.
"ROAR!" Gorath bellowed, ripping his shirt open in sheer ecstasy. "MEAT GOOD!"
Score: 10/10.
[Winner: Old Earth History Club]
The crowd erupted. Borg raised his hands in victory (and then ate the rest of the steak in one bite, plate included).
Jareth stood there, his face turning a violent shade of purple. He had lost a combat duel, and now he had lost a cooking contest to the same "cripple."
"Enjoy it, Flameheart," Jareth hissed as he packed his hydro-knives. "This was just a game. The Tournament is in two months. And I've found a new team member. Someone who specialises in... exterminating pests."
The celebration instantly died. A sharp, violent prickle of Karmic Instinct spiked at the base of his skull. "Who?" Lack asked, his voice dropping.
Jareth smirked, a cruel, knowing twist of his lips. "Let's just say he's from the Shadow Faculty. And he doesn't play by the rules."
? ? ?
[System Record: Post-Event Celebration] Location: Club Room 404 (The Sanctuary) Time: Midnight
The team was celebrating. They had made 5,000 DC (5 AC) in sales—enough to buy better equipment for the room and maybe a real mattress for Olan. Borg was sleeping in a food coma in the corner.
The pile of credits sat entirely untouched on the desk. The Ancient Map of Sector 88 dominated the surface, demanding absolute focus.
"Shadow Faculty," Lack muttered.
The Shadow God, the Light Devil whispered in his mind. High-tier stealth. Assassination. If Jareth hired a shadow from that faculty, he isn't planning to beat you in a match. He's planning to kill you in the arena. Accidents happen in tournaments, kid.
"We need to be ready," Lack said.
He checked his stats. The cooking competition—using his vibration for a non-combat task—had triggered a small growth.
[System Alert: Stat Increase]
- Imagination: 527 -> 528 (Creative Application of Physics)
"Two months," Lack whispered. "We have two months to turn this circus into a kill-squad."
He looked at the map again. Sector 88 – The Silent Isle. The Neutral Zone.
"Torin," Lack called out.
Torin woke up from a nap on a pile of money, wiping drool. "Yeah? We rich?"
"Pack your bags," Lack said, folding the map. "We aren't training here anymore. We're going on a field trip."
"Field trip?" Torin asked nervously. "Where? A resort?"
Lack pointed to the jagged island on the holographic map.
"The Neutral Zone. If we're going to fight a Shadow Assassin... we need to learn how to see in the dark."
? ? ?
[System Record: Character Progression] Name: Lack Flameheart Current Goal:
- Expedition to Sector 88 (The Silent Isle).
Inventory Update:
- Festival Prize: 5,000 DC
Golden Spatula (Trophy - Useless but shiny).