The kitchen of the Silver Moon Pavilion was coming back to life, just a little more than the night before. The night Goltz the village chief had entrusted him with the reconstruction, Solvard Verdine had barely slept at all. The image kept circling in his mind—the moment when the villagers buried their faces in the steam, and the old man muttered, "This is better than the Silver Moon Pavilion from two years ago." That feeling. That warmth spreading gently through the center of his chest. It never faded, even as dawn broke. So he was already moving before daybreak. First, ventilation. He opened every window that had been sealed shut. Two years of stagnant air mixed with the morning mist of the Spice Road and flowed outside. Next came the cobwebs on the ceiling. Without proper tools, he wrapped cloth around the end of a long mop as a substitute. Dust fell in clouds, turning Solvard's deep indigo hair completely white. "...This is quite the ordeal," he muttered to himself. No one was there to answer. Next, the floor. The grime caked onto the stone floor wouldn't come off with ordinary strength. Solvard crouched down and carefully began scraping with the spine of the Akurin—a reddish-bronze cooking knife he'd received from a retired adventurer, said to possess the mysterious property of aligning magical attributes in ingredients when cutting them. He felt a bit reluctant using the blade on anything other than food, but one could argue that the kitchen floor was, in a broad sense, part of the cooking environment. He also checked the herb garden out back. Despite two years of neglect, moonlight sage had stubbornly survived. It was dried and shriveled, but the aroma remained. When he crushed a pinch between his fingers, he felt a faint fluctuation of magical power. The senses of a taste mage—a profession he'd developed through self-study, capable of perceiving the minute magical attributes in ingredients through the five senses and drawing out their effects through cooking—responded quietly. (It's usable. Still usable.) If he combined it with the rock salt and smoked herb meat from his supplies, he could make about one bowl for morning. As he calculated this and headed back, he heard the sound of the back door's lock opening from the inside. *Click.* Solvard's hands stopped. The door opened. What emerged was—a woman. Her short bob of purple hair was spectacularly disheveled from sleep. Her silver eyes were half-closed, clearly drowsy. A cross-shaped scar marked her left eye, and her sharp, angular features made her expression difficult to read. She was slightly shorter than Solvard, perhaps around 172 centimeters. With two short swords hanging from both sides of her waist, she let out a large yawn—then noticed Solvard's presence, and her silver eyes narrowed. "...Who are you?" Her voice was low and curt. "I am Solvard Verdine. I have been entrusted by Chief Goltz Heinemann with the reconstruction of the Silver Moon Pavilion." He introduced himself politely. The woman seemed to consider for a moment, then said, "Hmph." "This is my sleeping quarters." "...I have been formally commissioned by the village chief." "I have an arrangement to use this place." "I confirmed with the village chief, but I have heard no such arrangement." The woman's eyebrows twitched slightly. "...I just used it without saying anything, so no one said anything about it." "That is not what one would call an arrangement." It was a quiet but unmistakable point. The woman—Agnes—fell silent for a moment and leaned against the wall. Whether her expression was "displeased" or "indifferent" was difficult to judge. Solvard didn't back down either. A silence stretched between them for about five minutes, neither moving an inch. The morning of the Spice Road seeped in through the window, soft and gradual. Solvard made a decision. This argument wouldn't end here and now. If that was the case, it would be more efficient to act first. The habit drilled into him as a former commander quietly surfaced. He began building a fire. "...What are you doing?" "Preparing breakfast." "I didn't ask for it." "I didn't say I was making it for you." Agnes made a face that said "..." and crossed her arms while leaning against the wall. Solvard continued working in silence. He filled a pot with water and dissolved rock salt into it. When he sliced the smoked herb meat with the Akurin—the moment the blade touched the meat, he felt the magical attributes sleeping within it begin to align. He adjusted the heat accordingly. No incantations. Just the speed of stirring, the timing of salt addition, and the intensity of the flame—he let the magical power seep into the ingredient. Seasoning magic—the technical system of weaving magical power into ingredients—was the foundation. Solvard's self-taught method differed slightly in procedure from those who graduated from the Royal Magical Academy's taste department. But the moment when the steam from the finished dish turned golden was always the same. He believed it was correct. He added the dried moonlight sage last. The aroma changed. White steam slowly filled the kitchen. The cool fragrance of moonlight sage and the rich aroma of smoked meat mingled, dissolving into the cold morning air. Agnes's body, leaning against the wall, tilted ever so slightly toward the source. She was completely unaware of it herself. *Inch by inch, inch by inch.* Solvard noticed but said nothing. He plated it and set it gently on the counter. Only his own portion. Five seconds later. *Scrape.* The sound of a chair being pulled. When he looked, Agnes was already sitting at the counter. No one had seen when she moved. Solvard pretended he hadn't either. "I didn't ask for it." "Please." After a brief exchange, Agnes pulled the bowl toward her. She took a sip. She stopped. She looked at the ceiling. She took another sip. Then seven seconds of silence. "...Well," Agnes said. "It's not inedible." Solvard was internally bewildered: "Is this the highest praise or the bare minimum evaluation?" Which was it? Even with his analytical abilities honed during his time as a commander, he couldn't reach a conclusion. The bowl emptied. Agnes reached for the pot herself and ladled a second serving. Ah. The answer had come. "In reconstructing the Silver Moon Pavilion," Solvard began, "I am looking for someone to handle the alcohol. I need someone who understands the compatibility between food and drink." "I refuse." "You refuse while ladling a second serving for yourself?" Agnes paused slightly. She held the spoon, her expression subtle. "...It depends on the conditions." "You may continue using this place as your sleeping quarters. However—" "I'll do it." Fast. The negotiation ended in seconds. Solvard took out his notebook and handed Agnes the nine-page customer service manual he had carefully written. He'd composed it during his sleepless night. From greetings to taking orders, explaining dishes, and handling complaints—it was a meticulous work written with the precision of a former commander. Agnes received it. She placed it on a shelf. It was never opened again after that. --- "We'll practice customer service," Solvard said after clearing away the soup. "I'll play the customer and come in. Please respond as a bartender." "...That's a hassle." "We need to gather thirty regular customers within a month. Starting a trial opening without preparation would be inefficient." Agnes was silent for a while, but she moved behind the counter. Not a shred of enthusiasm could be felt, but she was moving. Solvard went outside the door and came back in. "Please say 'welcome.'" "What do you want?" Solvard stopped. "...It should be 'welcome.'" "'What do you want?' is faster." "Since this is a tavern, it's understood that the purpose is food and drink. Confirmation is unnecessary." "Isn't it dangerous not to confirm why they came?" "This is not a battlefield." Agnes, responding with complete seriousness, made Solvard lose a bit of his composure as he corrected her. They tried again. This time she did say "welcome," but the phrase "what do you want?" was attached to the end. "The second half is unnecessary." "I can't break the habit of confirming." "Please break it." Solvard made a note in his handbook: "First and second halves are not separating." Next step. He made the request: "Please greet them with a smile." Agnes began moving her facial muscles. Slowly, something took shape. The corners of her mouth rose. Her eyes narrowed. Her facial muscles were trying to reproduce something with all their might. Solvard took a step back. Then another step back. (What... is this?) Analysis ran through his mind. It was a smile. It had the shape of a smile. But something was fundamentally off—it wasn't just that her eyes weren't smiling. There was something like quiet killing intent seeping through, the kind of expression that came right before drawing a blade. Solvard made a note: "Close to the expression before drawing a weapon. Define as 'the smile of someone with mercenary experience.'" "That smile might drive customers away." "What's wrong with it? I'm smiling." "The definition of a smile is fundamentally different." "Then what should I do?" "Just keep a normal face. Actually, a normal face would be safer." Agnes returned her expression to neutral. The blank face was far better. Solvard quietly felt relieved. Next, taking orders. Solvard asked, "What do you recommend?" "Whatever I drank and tasted good." "Be more specific." "It tastes grassy." Solvard paused for a moment. "That is not an explanation; that is an opinion." "The customer has all the information they need." "The name, the characteristics, how it pairs with food—that kind of information is necessary." "Grassy. That's enough." "It's not enough." "It's enough." "It's not enough." Neither budged an inch. The nine-page manual on the shelf quietly basked in the afternoon light, never opened once as the day passed. The practice continued until the sky turned honey-colored in the evening. --- He was exhausted. Solvard was honest about that assessment. He'd been through many ordeals as a commander, but the customer service practice with Agnes brought a different kind of fatigue. The argument kept colliding between "mercenary habits" and "tavern common sense," so discussions never ended. And the other party wouldn't give an inch. The idea to try making dinner came partly as a change of pace. He took out the flame basil and rock salt remaining in his supplies. Flame basil—a herb endemic to the geothermal zone, growing in abundance about twenty-five kilometers south of the Spice Road in the Flame Valley, releasing strong fragrance and fine fire-attribute magical power when roasted—he cut with the Akurin, and a brilliant green aroma burst through the kitchen. He laid rock salt in a frying pan and stir-fried it over high heat all at once. As the heat rose, the flame basil's color changed from vivid emerald to a deeper green. Solvard stopped the heat at that turning point. There. That was it. Miss this moment and the aroma would fly away. The moment he transferred the pan to a plate, steam rose gently. A sound came from behind the counter. *Clink.* When he looked, Agnes was on the other side of the counter. She had a "I'm bored" expression. She hadn't explicitly said "I'm bored," but that's what her face said. She was taking something from the back of the shelf. A bottle of distilled spirits. And—something she'd taken from the dried herb container. An herb. A different kind from flame basil, one with a sweet aroma. Agnes began mixing without a word. She steeped the herb in the distilled spirit. Warmed it slightly. Mixed it with another bottle. No measuring. Moving on instinct alone. Yet her hands carried clear conviction. Solvard obs