The Price of The Feast
The Storm Riders descended like falling stars.
Wind screamed.
Steel shrieked.
The earth buckled under impacts meant to shatter morale in seconds.
The Storm Riders moved as doctrine made flesh.
Updraft harnesses flared.
Wind pressure compressed beneath their boots.
They struck from above—
not flying, but falling with intent.
Each landing cracked stone.
This was why they were feared.
This was why kingdoms folded.
And this was why Dael stepped forward.
Albion’s line held—
because Dael stood before it.
The Albion soldiers stood in a rough circle, weapons chipped, armor cracked, breath ragged.
They knew.
Dael saw it in their eyes.
They were already past the point of retreat.
“Chef,” one of them said, voice hoarse but steady.
“Our bodies won’t last another charge.”
Dael folded his arms.
“No,” he said honestly.
“They won’t.”
The soldiers exchanged glances — then laughed.
“Good,” another said.
“We’d rather burn bright than die crawling.”
Dael stared at them.
For the first time since the war began, he hesitated.
“…This is not a normal feast,” he warned.
“It feeds on what you have left.
The less you have… the stronger it burns.”
A pause.
“How long?” someone asked.
Dael answered quietly.
“Five minutes.”
Not one of them stepped back.
Dael closed his eyes.
“…Very well.”
He planted his foot.
The air changed.
Warmth rolled outward — not heat, but comfort.
The scent of bread, broth, smoke, and memory filled the plaza.
Stone darkened like seasoned iron.
Lantern light bent inward.
“Divine Authority — Gourmet World.”
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Reality folded.
The battlefield became a vast, unseen kitchen — counters of light, air thick with simmering potential.
Dael raised his hand.
“Circle of Feast — Last Fire.”
The ground beneath the soldiers glowed.
A faint ember spread through their veins.
Not pain.
Resolve.
Their wounds closed just enough to move.
Their muscles burned with borrowed strength.
Their fear evaporated.
They charged.
Eight Minutes of Defiance
The Storm Riders hit them like thunder.
Updrafts slammed bodies into the air.
Steel rang.
Blood scattered.
And still — Albion held.
Every strike that should have killed instead fueled them.
The weaker they became, the harder they fought.
Minutes passed.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
At the eighth minute, their bodies began to fail. Their resolve were very strong to last this long.
One by one, they slowed, then perished.
Smiled and satisfied.
Casualties from both side were great.
Dael watched them perish with clenched fists.
“…Now rest,” he whispered.
“You have won the battle.”
The Gourmet World trembled.
The wind beyond it tightened.
Someone stepped forward.
Droskar, Right Hand of the Storm
Droskar raised one hand.
Behind him, the Storm Riders halted mid-air, wind screaming beneath their boots.
He removed his helmet.
Then his pauldrons.
Heavy armor struck stone with final thuds.
When he straightened, only a thin battle layer remained — muscle wrapped in discipline, wind coiled tight against his skin.
He bowed.
“Divine Chef,” he said.
“I have seen men fight for kings.
For gold.
For fear.”
His eyes flicked toward the fallen Albion soldiers.
“I have never seen men fight because they were fed.”
Dael knelt, closed one soldier’s eyes, and stood.
“You should not have come forward,” Dael said calmly.
“You know how this ends.”
Droskar exhaled.
“Yes.”
“But it is my duty to walk into storms.”
The wind around him condensed.
Pressure layered his limbs, spine, breath.
“The Eight Strikes of the Storm Coast,” he said quietly.
“Elbows. Knees. Fists. Shins.
Eight paths. One breath.”
Dael reached behind him.
The Grand Spoon slid into his right hand.
The Grand Fork into his left.
“Good,” Dael said.
They moved.
Cooking the Wind
Droskar struck first.
A low kick accelerated by compressed air.
The Grand Spoon dropped.
CLANG.
Shockwaves rippled.
Dael slid half a step back.
“Well timed.”
The fork's thrust targeted — throat, heart, liver.
Droskar raised a knee, sparks bursting as pressure screamed.
A front kick slammed Dael backward.
He crossed spoon and fork, skidding but upright.
“You’re holding back,” Droskar said.
“So are you,” Dael replied.
Suddenly a giant Elbow Wind Blades sent to Dael.
Dael planted the Grand Pot.
The attacks struck his Grand Fork and dissolved into steam.
Dael closed his eyes.
Felt the wind’s rhythm.
Its fatigue.
Its hunger.
“Oh.”
The Gourmet World answered.
The wind slowed.
Elongated.
Softened.
Golden ribbons unfurled in the air.
Droskar froze.
“…Pasta?”
Dael smiled.
“Carbonara, place the sauce and let's taste it.”
Dael smiled.
The wind started to tremble.
Stripped from Droskar’s body, unraveling into steaming coils.
Pressure vanished.
Droskar dropped to one knee.
The Dragon Kitchen Blade
Dael drew the Dragon Kitchen Blade.
Its edge hummed — patient, final.
Droskar looked up, breathing hard.
“…You can feel the wind’s life,” he said.
Dael nodded once.
“All ingredients live.”
He stepped forward, blade tip resting against stone.
Dael's relentless attack overwhelmed Droskar's defence. Nobody has ever cornered him like this since he fought Serath seriously long time ago.
"This is the level of Divine Authority Holders, such a heavy pressure, my wind won't even obey me." Droskar muttered inside his head.
“I lost... hah... hah...,” Droskar said simply.
“Chef.”
Dael exhaled.
The Gourmet World softened.
Lantern light returned.
The storm beyond howled — unfinished.
Dael turned toward the horizon.
“Send your riders back,” he said.
“This kitchen is closed.”
Droskar bowed deeply.
Behind him, the Storm Riders withdrew.
Dael looked once more at the fallen Albion soldiers.
Then upward — where thunder gathered.
Somewhere beyond the plaza, another battle raged.
And the storm was not finished.
"...." Dael suddenly remembered something.
"My students... I hope they hold on."
End of Chapter 16
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