The end of the world might smell like this. 　A campsite before dawn breaks. In that hour when the sky still wanders between deep blue and ink, Solvard Verdine stirred a pot. 　Inside the pot was mist mushroom soup. From the Emerald Mist Forest—far from Spice Road Village, but mist mushrooms grew in the magical fog groves scattered along this expedition route. He'd simmered them with rock salt and moonlight sage. To this, he added just a touch of his own magical power. 　Seasoning Sorcery—the technical system of weaving magic into ingredients—was fundamentally basic, but Solvard had mastered it through self-study. The scholars who'd spent five years at the Royal Magical Academy's Taste Department might laugh at him. But he didn't mind being laughed at. The moment it finished, the steam's color shifted faintly golden. Every time he saw that, he knew it was right. 　No incantations. Just the speed of the stirring hand, fine adjustments to the heat, the timing of adding salt—that alone le