The Frontier Feast: A Kitchen That Enchants Monsters and Adventurers Alike - Abandoned House, Kitchen Knife, and Three Stray Dogs — Merieur Shion's Diner, Opening Today (Planned)

My face hurt. That was the first sensation. Merieur Shion regained consciousness with his face pressed against the wooden floor. A dusty smell. The feel of rotting wood. The sound of mice scurrying somewhere in the distance. (…Did I die?) Memories from his previous life flooded in like a murky current. A high-end restaurant in Tokyo. A white chef's coat. The faces of staff members saying, "Chef, we're fully booked again today." And then, death. He'd been waiting at a crosswalk. It was raining. He had an umbrella. The next moment, his vision went dark—and when he came to, he was here. Age thirty-two. Seiichi Tanaka. Former head chef at a prestigious restaurant. Cause of death: unknown. Reincarnation destination: the floor of an unfamiliar abandoned house in an unfamiliar other world. "…This is the worst way to wake up," Shion muttered. Saying it out loud made him laugh a little. Not that he felt like laughing. He pushed himself up. His entire body was covered in dust. When he looked toward the window, a gray sky stretched beyond the wooden frame. A small village of mixed stone and wooden buildings. Sheep herds visible in the distance. A few people here and there, but no one smiling. The landscape was completely devoid of vitality. (So this is…an isekai.) The air had a subtle sweetness to it. A slightly different quality than Earth's atmosphere from his previous life—though he wouldn't learn this until later, it was because of mana particles called aether drifting through the air. These particles, thinly spread across the continent, granted some creatures supernatural powers. Or so he'd eventually hear. For now, his only impression was that "the air tastes a bit too sweet." He surveyed the abandoned house. Water dripped steadily from a corner of the ceiling. A large crack ran down one wall, and a mouse poked its face out through it, looking at Shion. Their eyes met. The mouse didn't seem bothered and withdrew without fuss. (So the actual resident here is the mouse, not me.) He checked what was in his hands. One kitchen knife. That was all. "No sword. No magic. No money," Shion muttered. He gripped the knife tightly. As a starting item for a reincarnated person, this had to be one of the most unimpressive things possible. But—when he held the blade up to the light, it was stunningly beautiful. The steel displayed a unique pattern. He'd used countless knives in his previous life, but he'd never seen material like this. A master sharpener would either faint or fall in love with it. The sheath bore markings that looked like ancient script, but he couldn't read them. (Well, I have a knife. I can cook. I'll manage somehow.) With baseless optimism in his chest, Shion stood up. That's when he heard it—a distant howl. Low, long, and somehow hoarse. Coming from beyond the village—no, further, from deep within the forest. The hair on his back stood on end. That wasn't a dog. It was far too ominous for a dog. (Is that…a monster?) Shion couldn't move for a while. The howl eventually stopped, but its echo lingered in his body. It was a sound that taught him in his bones that this world wasn't just some "fantasy-like, nice place." 　　＊　　＊　　＊ He decided to look for an inn. Leaving the abandoned house, he headed toward the village center. Stone-paved streets. The villagers he passed averted their eyes the moment they saw him. Clearly the gaze of someone looking at a stranger. (I'm being watched warily…well, I suppose that's unavoidable.) He'd learn later that Mirva Village had been struck by a "mana anomaly" ten years ago, after which about thirty percent of the population had scattered. Since then, the village had become insular. The current population was around two hundred twenty—fewer than before. That's why abandoned houses were so common. In the center of the main street, there was what appeared to be the village's only shop. A hand-painted sign above the door read "Mutts General Store." The paint was peeling, making it barely legible. He went in. The shopkeeper was a man in his fifties named Mutts. He had an unfriendly face and was flipping through a ledger behind the counter. He didn't look up when Shion entered. "I'm looking for an inn," Shion said. "Don't have one," Mutts replied. Just one word. "What? There's no inn in this village—" Shion started. "Don't have one. No rooms for outsiders," Mutts said. Two words this time. Whether that counted as progress was debatable. Shion gave up and turned his attention to the shelves. He examined the merchandise. Salt. Wheat flour. Dried meat. A jar containing animal fat. That was it. (…That's all?) He searched for spice shelves, but found only salt. No olive oil, no vegetable oil. No vinegar. No sugar. "Um, do you have any oil for stir-frying—" Shion began. Mutts finally looked up. He frowned at Shion. "Stir-frying? What language is that?" Mutts asked. The words were understood, but the meaning wasn't. "It's a cooking technique. You heat oil and cook the ingredients—" Shion explained. "Cooking is either grilling or boiling," Mutts said flatly. He closed the ledger with a sharp sound. "Why would anyone bother with something so complicated?" Mutts asked. Shion froze for a moment. (Grilling or boiling…that's it?) His mind raced to process the information. Deep frying? Steaming? Smoking? Stir-frying, simmering, steaming, deep frying, smoking—there were dozens of cooking techniques, yet this world only had two options: grilling or boiling? (…This world's cooking is fundamentally broken.) Something burned quietly inside him. Every cell in his body, accumulated from over a decade of life as a chef, seemed to sound an alarm simultaneously. (A revolution is necessary. Absolutely.) He made that decision silently. 　　＊　　＊　　＊ He returned to the abandoned house. This time, he observed it carefully. Stone walls. Wooden roof. Out back, there was an old well and stacked firewood. The remains of a hearth. (…Could I turn this into a food stall?) The moment the idea struck him, his body moved. He'd build shelves. Fix the leak. Restore the hearth. There was so much to do. Almost no ingredients, no money, barely any tools—but he had to do what he could. That was his nature, even from his previous life. First, the shelves. He tried to build shelves using boards he found in the abandoned house and nails he'd gathered. The nails bent. When he tried to straighten them, the board shifted. When he pressed the board against the wall to fix it, a fist-sized hole opened in the wall. "…Why?" Shion stared at the wall. The hole stared back at him. He could see through to the outside. He tried again, this time with the roof leak. He climbed onto a beam to repair it. The beam came crashing down with a loud thud. A massive hole opened in the floor. The beam drove itself into the ground. "…Why?!" Shion shouted. Next, the hearth. He tried to build one by stacking stones. The stones collapsed. One hit the top of his foot directly. "It hurts!! Why does everything turn out like this!!" Shion cried out. His voice echoed uselessly through the abandoned house. Somewhere, a mouse scurried away in fright. An hour later, Shion sat slumped in the center of the abandoned house. The wall holes had multiplied. The floor holes had multiplied. The hearth stones were scattered everywhere. The abandoned house, now clearly worse than before renovation, was bathed in the evening sun. Covered in mud. Covered in cuts. (I had zero skills besides cooking…completely zero…) He held his head and sat still for a while. Then memories from his previous life surfaced. A white chef's coat. A fully booked restaurant. The smiling faces of customers. The voice saying, "Chef, you were amazing tonight." He'd loved those days. But then another face appeared. A man in a suit—not the owner, but the "investor" standing behind him. Sitting across the desk, smiling thinly, he'd said: "Your culinary philosophy doesn't make money." Cut the ingredient costs in half. Switch to cheaper ingredients. Simplify the menu to increase turnover. Customers don't actually want truly delicious food—they only care about appearance and price. "Don't do anything to anger the investor." The day he was forced out of the kitchen was still vivid in his memory. He'd taken off his white chef's coat and left through the back door with his knife case. It was raining. After that, he couldn't work for a while. The thought that the same thing might happen again made him afraid to stand in a kitchen. (Will the same thing happen again…?) Anxiety settled heavily in his stomach. But. Shion looked up. He stared at the broken wall of the abandoned house. Beyond the hole, the evening sky stretched out. There was no investor here. No owner. No powerful figure to trample his culinary philosophy. What existed was an abandoned house, holes, mice, scattered stones—and one kitchen knife. "This time," Shion said. His voice came out straighter than expected. "I'll create a place where my cooking is needed. Not for people with power, but for someone with an empty belly." He spoke the words toward the broken wall, and they may not have reached anyone. But they reached him. That was enough. 　　＊　　＊　　＊ After dark, Shion returned to Mutts' shop. He had no wallet, but he'd found an old jar in a corner of the abandoned house with a few copper coins inside. Whether they were left by the previous resident or intentionally placed there, he didn't know. In any case, he used them to buy the cheapest vegetable scraps available: onion skins and half-dried root vegetables, plus a small piece of dried meat. Mutts packed them without saying anything. Back at the abandoned house, Shion lit a fire in the hearth. The stones he'd knocked down earlier, when restacked, somehow managed to function. He washed an old pot he found in the house and used that. First, he chopped the onion. He added a small amount of animal fat to the pot and heated it. Once the oil was warm, he added the onion. A sizzle. Just that sound changed everything. The onion, heated, released its sweetness. This world had no concept of "stir-frying," so no one would know the aroma born from this process of heating onions. He added the root vegetables, crumbled in some dried meat, and added water to simmer. The aroma spread through the night air. Into the village streets. To the forest's edge. He didn't know how far it reached. But standing before the pot, Shion found the smell deeply nostalgic. The scent of his previous life's kitchen. It felt like he'd returned to those days. The sound came shortly after. Patter patter—footsteps. Not just one, but multiple. Coming from the direction of the abandoned house's front. Shion went around from the back and opened the door. Three dogs sat before it. Mixed-breed medium-sized dogs with shabby fur and gaunt frames. Strays. All three had their noses twitching as they looked up at Shion. What dwelt in their eyes was expectation. Pure expectation of food. They stared at each other for a while. (…I have customers. Dogs, but still.) He laughed despite himself. Whether it was a bitter laugh or genuine, it was hard to say. He went back and divided the soup into three wooden bowls. The bowls were chipped ones he'd found in the house. He placed them before the dogs. The three paused to sniff and confirm, then began lapping eagerly. The sound echoed softly through the quiet village night. The patter of dogs licking liquid. All three emptied their bowls in no time and then looked at Shion's face. As if asking if there was more. "There isn't. That's all for today," Shion said. The three stared at him for a moment, then disappeared together into the darkness. "Well…I suppose that's a decent first step," Shion said to himself. He took a sip of the soup himself. The sweetness of the onion spread across his tongue. Simple, but not bad. Actually, good. Genuinely deli

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Name: The Frontier Feast: A Kitchen That Enchants Monsters and Adventurers Alike
Author: Novelia

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