The most common reason for a hero's title to be revoked throughout history was "abandonment of duty." Second came "defection to the Demon Lord," followed by "rebellion against the crown." Luke Selva, in his twenty-two years of life, never imagined he would add an unprecedented entry to that list: "cooking too delicious." The memory was from just days ago. In a room at an inn in the Kingdom of Granverte. With the sunset streaming through the window, Garve, the party leader, thrust a document toward Luke. "Luke, you're fired." His voice was low and heavy. Luke's hand, holding the pot, stopped mid-motion. He'd been in the middle of preparing dinner. "...May I ask the reason?" "Because of your cooking, no one could hold a sword for three days." The party members lined up behind Garve all looked away. Korna, the mage, cast her gaze to a distant wall. Mirea, the scout, stared at her toes. Jude, the healer, looked up at the ceiling. Not a single person opened their mouth. Luke had no words to argue back. (The soup was... perhaps a bit too strong.) Three days prior, Luke had made nothing more than a root vegetable soup. "Nothing more," and yet—three hours spent slowly drawing stock from bones, eight varieties of winter vegetables harvested from Miera's Cradle, a touch of eastern spices. He hadn't made it for anyone else. He'd made it because he wanted to eat it. The next morning, the entire party didn't leave their beds until past noon. Jude confessed that instead of sword practice, they'd spent the day vaguely reminiscing about the soup's flavor. The same happened the next day. And the day after that. This was with only two weeks left until the Demon Lord's defeat. Luke accepted the document, bowed deeply, and left the room. It was the last task of the Fourteenth Hero. ─── Aulberic, the capital of the Kingdom of Granverte. Luke set foot in that city—whose ancient name meant "the perch of owls"—just past noon. The eastern gate was larger than he'd expected. As he passed through the outermost of the triple walls, where travelers and merchants came and went, Luke pulled the document from his pocket. The royal seal was already broken. He'd read it over and over. "Losing a hero's commission in a year because of cooking... what even is that?" It was meant to be muttered to himself. But a guard yawning by the gate glanced his way. "Those who talk to themselves a lot should head to the south gate inn. A cheap bed runs eight copper coins a night." "Thank you." The guard had already lost interest, his gaze moving to the next traveler. Luke carefully folded the document and tucked it into his inner pocket. The title was gone. The annual stipend of five hundred gold coins was gone. Priority lodging rights, access to the castle—all of it vanished. What remained was a single knife at his hip, an absurdly high level of cooking skill, and seven copper coins. Luke set off down the main street that continued from the eastern gate. He was average height, with short black hair and deep brown eyes. His white shirt and black slacks were dreadfully plain for a former hero. His lean, trained frame suggested an adventurer, but without the thin burn scars on his left arm, he might have looked like an ordinary young craftsman. In fact, none of the travelers passing through the eastern gate spared Luke a glance. When he lost the hero's title, something that drew people's eyes seemed to have vanished along with the name. The main street overflowed with people and carts. Luke drifted with the flow for a while, but then he stopped. A smell was drifting from deep within an alley. Iron and lime. Dried grass. And then—faintly, the lingering scent of roasted spices. Someone was probably cleaning up after lunch. It was nothing, and yet his stomach made a pathetic sound. (Now that I think about it, I haven't eaten anything today.) Seven copper coins in his wallet. A set meal at a food stall cost three to five copper coins. A night at an inn cost eight copper coins. The math didn't work. If he had to choose, he should give up the inn, but collapsing from hunger on the street would accomplish nothing. Luke's gaze was drawn to something lying in the corner of the alley. Someone had discarded it—a few wild plants lay at the edge of the stone pavement. Succulent leaves resembling purslane. And a little further ahead, under a cart, a scrap of dried meat. Fallen from a wagon, no doubt. No one paid it any mind. (If I don't eat, I can't move. If I can't move, I can't find an inn.) Luke told himself this as he began walking toward the craftsmen's district, into the back alleys where fewer people passed. ─── The alley was quiet. The craftsmen's district, sprawling in the southwest of the middle ring, was a town of artisans—blacksmiths and leather workers with scattered workshops. By early afternoon, they retreated into their work spaces, leaving the stone paths empty of people. Luke turned a corner, then another, and crouched against a wall near a dead end. From the bottom of his bag, he pulled out a small travel pot and a collapsible camp stove. He'd left his sword behind when he left the hero party. For some reason, he'd brought only the pot. Luke now looked at himself with exasperation. (Well, at least it's useful now.) He rinsed the wild plants carefully with water and shaved the dried meat thin. From his bag, he took out a small bottle of salt and several varieties of dried herbs he habitually carried. He'd meant to stop. Just boiling the greens and eating them with the meat would be enough. But his hands moved on their own. He drew the black iron knife. The blade, darker than ordinary iron, had never chipped despite years of use. It could only be described as "a knife I've always used," but he wouldn't hand this one to anyone. As he sliced the plant stems thin, the cross-sections lined up neatly. As he minced the dried meat, the fibers split uniformly. He lit the fire. Water in the pot, meat, herbs. The first steam rose. In that instant. A black cat slipped around the corner of the alley. Luke paid it no mind. Cats often appeared in alleys. The cat came to the wall's edge, twitched its nose, and sat down. (Ah, it smells good. Sorry, I can't give you any.) By the time Luke added the greens to the pot, another had arrived. A calico. Then another—a short-haired brown one. Before he knew it, three cats sat in a row before the pot, watching his work with serious eyes. Are you judges or something? "Don't come here. Stay back." When he waved his hand, the three cats stepped back. But the moment another scent leaked from the pot, they stepped forward again. Net zero. While Luke was fending off the cats, footsteps came from beyond the alley. Stray dogs. One appeared around the corner, twitching its nose. Then another. Then three more. A total of five stray dogs lined up before the pot as if by agreement. The cats and dogs glanced at each other, then returned their gaze to the pot. The territorial dispute was apparently on ceasefire for today. "Why are you coming here? Get back!" The moment Luke crouched to shoo them away, one of the cats hopped onto the pot's lid. The lid shifted. Steam billowed out dramatically. The smell tripled. Footsteps came from beyond the alley. A man walking on the stone pavement twitched his nose, turned the corner without understanding what had drawn him, and found Luke, the cats, and the dogs. He and the woman behind him—carrying a market basket—paused for just a moment, then looked at the pot. More footsteps. Another person. Another. Before long, six people were crammed into the alley. "I'll pay gold coins! Give me a bowl!" The bearded man at the front shouted. His eyes were serious. "No, I arrived first!" The woman with the basket quickly cut in. The bearded man said, "I got here first!" The woman said, "My footsteps came first!" and a voice from the back of the line asked, "What line is this?" Luke stood up and raised both hands. "Um, please listen. In the royal capital Aulberic, unlicensed roadside cooking without a taste permit—a food service license—carries a fine of five silver coins or three days detention..." No one was listening. The bearded man was already pulling out his wallet. The woman was peering into the pot asking, "How much is there?" From the back of the line came, "Is that soup? Is soup being sold here?" Meanwhile, three cats were winding around his legs, and five dogs were wagging their tails with their front paws raised. (Why is this happening?) In that moment, a voice came from deep in the alley. "Report of unlicensed roadside cooking! Guards are coming!" Luke reflexively grabbed the pot. He ran. "Wait!" came the voice behind him. The cats and dogs trailed after him. From an outside perspective, it was unclear whether he was fleeing or leading them—the procession bolted down the alley at full speed. He turned a corner once. The cats didn't decrease. Neither did the dogs. If anything, another cat waiting under a clothesline joined the group as they turned. "Stop following me!" "Wait! Leave the food behind!" Real footsteps came from behind. Of all people, the bearded man was chasing him in earnest. He seemed faster than the monsters that pursued the hero party. Perhaps hunger's determination was sharper than any blade. He turned a second corner. The stone pavement was wet and slightly slippery. At the third corner, a wall appeared before him. A dead end. Luke pressed his back against the wall, cradling the pot to his chest as he caught his breath. His lungs burned. The footsteps were fading. He must have gotten lost somewhere—the mass of cats apparently functioned as a living wall blocking the alley. Only one dog had followed him, and now it sat at his feet, tongue out. It was quiet. The back alleys of the craftsmen's district truly saw no visitors. In the narrow space surrounded by stone walls, there was only his breathing, the dog's panting, and the faint steam from the pot. (I swore I wouldn't cook for anyone again.) The words echoed quietly in Luke's chest. When he left the party, he'd thought that. His cooking had held his comrades back. Every time he wielded his skill for someone else, something went wrong. So he'd be alone. Eat alone, live alone. That's what he'd decided. And yet, faced with wild plants and dried meat scraps picked up in an alley, his hands had moved on their own. Not for anyone else. Just because he was hungry. Why did this happen? (What even is my cooking?) Was it technique? Magic? Or something else entirely? There was something in him, something that changed people's actions with a single taste. Whether it was a strength or a curse, Luke still didn't know. Only one thing was clear—his hand holding the pot wasn't shaking. He wasn't afraid. Just... at a loss. The dog whimpered softly. Luke looked up. Beyond the dead-end wall stood a building. A two-story stone structure. Cracks ran across the outer walls. The window glass was clouded. The sign was half-fallen, and only three characters remained legible. Getsukai-tei. "A food stall...?" His muttered words were quietly absorbed by the stone walls. Luke paused for a moment. A food stall meant a kitchen. A kitchen meant fire. Fire meant he could cook. Better to eat somewhere with a roof than pay a fine for unlicensed roadside cooking. But. (With this level of decay... is it even open?) The cracks in the outer wall weren't just one or two—there were too many to count. The sign was more than half-fallen, more like two-thirds, and the remaining characters creaked in the wind. The windows looked questionable whether they'd even open. Still, when he put his hand on the door, it wasn't locked. He pushed. The hinges groaned. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior. About twelve customer seats lay dusty. The cloths piled on the tables were dry and cracked. Stains marked the walls. One floorboard was warped. Overall, it s