The common room of the Ox and Ember buzzed with late-night noise. Laughter, mugs clinking, someone arguing about losing a dice game, the usual. But in the far corner, tucked away from the chaos, sat five people who looked as if they had just survived a holy revelation.

  Because they had.

  Five large mugs of ale thudded onto the table at the same time. Foam spilled over the edges. James, Mira, Vhara, Gerrard, and Marty all lifted their drinks like a ritual. The first swallow hit them with warm, malty fire.

  Gerrard sighed with the bliss of a man whose soul had re-entered his body.

  “Ladies,” he said, turning toward Mira and Vhara with surprising grace, “forgive our rather uncivilized behavior earlier. It has… been quite a while since we tasted James’s cooking. When the opportunity appeared again, we lost ourselves for a moment.”

  Mira smiled shyly. Vhara simply nodded as if accepting a formal apology from a rival clan.

  Marty reached for the small plate James had carried out earlier.

  “Hey, uh… this was with the dinner, right? The green thing?”

  Mira leaned in. “The cucumber salad. It smells a little different now.”

  Vhara dipped a fingertip into it, sniffed, and her eyes narrowed in approval.

  “This has the scent of a pre-battle ritual.”

  James shrugged. “It’s meant to be eaten with ale.”

  Gerrard blinked. “Ale? With… salad?”

  Marty scooped a piece, took a bite, then drank.

  He froze.

  Then leaned back like he had been struck by enlightenment.

  “…holy gods… this slaps.”

  Gerrard grabbed a slice, tried it with his ale, and made a delighted noise.

  “This… this cools you down and heats you up. How is that even possible?!”

  Vhara nodded, dead serious. “Warrior refreshment.”

  James grinned. “Exactly. It cuts the heaviness of food, balances the spice, and pairs with alcohol.”

  Mira stared at her spoon. “So this salad… was made for drinking?”

  James lifted his mug. “Some dishes heal the stomach. Others heal the soul. This one does both.”

  All five immediately reached for the plate again.

  Marty leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So, how did you two even meet him? James didn’t say anything. You just showed up with him, and now I’m curious.”

  Mira chuckled lightly. “We met in No Man’s Land.”

  Gerrard choked on his ale. “You what?”

  Marty stared. “You went back there? On purpose?”

  James raised his mug. “My path led me there after I left Villen. Long story.”

  Gerrard frowned. “And Villen didn’t return with you?”

  James stared into his ale for a moment. How do I explain dragons without explaining dragons?

  “He had things he needed to take care of,” he said carefully. “Important things.”

  That seemed to satisfy them, even though their curiosity still simmered like chili oil.

  Marty cleared his throat. “So… what’s the plan now? You’re in Min City. You got… whatever that was… going for you.” He waved a vague hand, referring to the dumpling miracle.

  James leaned back. “First, I need to find Gisabelle. After that, earn some coin. I joined the Adventurer Guild today.”

  Gerrard grinned. “Not surprised. With your knife work, you’ll clear half the quests alone.”

  James gave him a tired look. “That’s not the goal. I just need money.”

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  Marty raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

  James took a moment, then spoke with a quiet spark of excitement.

  “If I can earn enough, I want to order a wagon. Then travel. Town to town. City to city.”

  Gerrard brightened. “You’re becoming a merchant? Then you’ll need to apply to the Merchant Guild.”

  “No,” James said, shaking his head. “Not a merchant. A… food truck.”

  Both men blinked.

  “A what?” Marty asked.

  James grinned. “A moving kitchen. A cooking wagon. I travel and feed people everywhere.”

  For a heartbeat, James pictured it: an open wagon trundling down dusty roads, a small stove built into the side, sizzling pans sending out trails of fragrant smoke. Travelers stopping. Children chasing after it. People drawn by scent the way they had been drawn tonight. A kitchen with wheels… freedom with wheels.

  Before they could react, Vhara sat up straighter. “The idea was mine,” she announced proudly. “But not the truck part.”

  James snorted. “Yes, yes. The size-efficient-mobile-kitchen part was yours.”

  Mira looked between them. “Food… wagon?”

  James lifted his mug. “Food wagon works too.”

  Gerrard and Marty exchanged a slow, impressed glance.

  “Interesting,” Gerrard murmured.

  “Ambitious,” Marty added.

  “Kind of insane,” Gerrard corrected.

  “But I like it,” Marty finished.

  They raised their mugs slightly as if giving a toast to the madness.

  Gerrard leaned forward. “So… you plan to do this alone?”

  Before James could speak, Vhara answered immediately.

  “No. I am going with him.”

  James blinked. “You are?”

  Vhara nodded once. “Your cooking has changed me. Also, I have no clan to return to.”

  Before James could process that, Mira raised her hand timidly.

  “I… um… I will go too.”

  James stared at her. “What? Why?”

  Mira flushed pink. “We registered together today. We are a party now. We should travel together.”

  Vhara crossed her arms. “Also, I refuse to return to normal food.”

  James stared at them both.

  Is this my life now? A traveling food cult?

  “So… I have no say in this?”

  “No,” both women said in perfect unison.

  Gerrard snorted ale through his nose.

  James wiped a hand down his face, then… smiled.

  “In that case… we need a name.”

  The moment James said “we need a name,” both women straightened in their seats like students who had waited their entire lives for the teacher to finally ask the right question.

  Vhara spoke first.

  “Blood Iron Battalion.”

  Everyone at the table froze.

  Marty blinked. “That sounds like a mercenary army.”

  Gerrard nodded. “Or a very violent knitting club.”

  Marty whispered, “With matching uniforms.”

  James smiled politely. “We are… cooking. Not invading a fortress.”

  Vhara frowned. “Invading a kitchen is still invasion.”

  “Right,” James said. “Next idea.”

  A cautious throat-clearing came from beside the table.

  The innkeeper stood there, rubbing his hands together like a man preparing to confess a crime.

  “Ah… excuse me,” he said softly. “I, um… noticed there was a little of your food left in the kitchen… and the smell is still… everywhere. I was wondering if… perhaps… I might be allowed to try a bite?”

  Marty whispered, “He sounds like he’s asking permission to touch a holy relic.”

  Gerrard nodded gravely. “Understandable.”

  James folded his arms. “Sure. But on one condition.”

  The innkeeper straightened instantly. “I’m not giving you a discount.”

  James smirked. “Relax. I don’t want money off. Just clean the kitchen. Properly.”

  The innkeeper blinked. “…that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He gave the deepest nod a man could give without breaking his spine.

  “Done!”

  Then he practically sprinted back toward the kitchen.

  Vhara watched him go. “Food inspires obedience.”

  Marty nodded. “Fear, devotion, same thing.”

  Mira cleared her throat shyly. “What about… Golden Petals?”

  James stared.

  Gerrard stared harder.

  Marty mouthed the words silently as if unsure how to process them.

  James coughed. “Mira… we are not… a flower shop.”

  Mira blushed so bright it rivaled chili oil. “I was trying to sound poetic.”

  “I appreciate the effort,” James said gently. “But no.”

  Vhara crossed her arms. “Then you choose.”

  James leaned back, swirling the ale in his mug as he stared into the foam. His mind wandered.

  Ever since I came to this world… nothing has gone according to plan. Everything has been chaotic. Sudden. Unpredictable. But somehow… every moment pushed us forward. Every moment mattered.

  He exhaled.

  “Carpe Diem.”

  Silence.

  Five faces stared blankly at him.

  Mira tilted her head. “Carpa… what?”

  “Carpe Diem,” James repeated. “It means ‘seize the moment’. Live in the present. It fits us. Everything we do happens on the spot. No planning. No warning. Just… the moment.”

  Ever since he’d fallen into this world, the future had been a blur; impossible to grasp. But the present? The present was the only thing he could control. Carpe Diem wasn’t just a phrase. It was survival.

  Gerrard’s eyes widened. “That is… actually brilliant.”

  Marty nodded fiercely. “Perfect.”

  He pointed at James. “Carpe Diem Food Wagon. That is going to be legendary.”

  James blinked. “Wait, what?”

  Marty gestured passionately. “If you are going to travel from town to town, you need a banner. A name. A brand. And Carpe Diem is perfect.”

  Gerrard slapped the table. “Carpe Diem Merchants and Carpe Diem Food Wagon working together. That has a ring to it.”

  James stared between them. “Since when are you two involved in my travel plans?”

  He had expected to travel alone. Maybe even preferred it. Ever since he arrived in this world, nothing had been predictable; not one plan had survived the first hour. People kept slipping into his life like ingredients tossed into a pot he never meant to cook. But… somehow… it didn’t feel bad.

  Gerrard raised a brow. “Since you accepted the girls but not us. That would make you look… suspiciously biased.”

  Marty nodded as if this was absolute truth. “Extremely biased. Also I agree with Vhara. After eating your cooking, I am not sure I can return to normal food. Ever. My taste buds have unionized.”

  James opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  Then laughed.

  A full, warm, genuine laugh.

  Across from him, four people lifted their mugs.

  Gerrard grinned.

  Marty smirked.

  Mira beamed.

  Vhara nodded solemnly.

  “Looking forward to your dishes from now on,” they said, not rehearsed, not planned, just perfectly united.

  James raised his mug.

  “Then welcome,” he said, smiling softly, “to Carpe Diem.”

  Author’s Note