He was expelled from the hero party because his food was too delicious. 　Arnt Reid walked along the stone-paved road, ruminating on this fact for what felt like the hundredth time. His deep green eyes gazed vaguely ahead. His black hair was short and somewhat unkempt. The brown traveler's clothes were already dulled by dust and dirt. His sturdy build and height of 178 centimeters were respectable for an adventurer. The well-worn pot and frying pan on his back clattered with each step. The longsword at his waist was unmaintained, and it was questionable whether it would even cut if drawn. The faint burn scars on his left hand quietly spoke of long years as a cook. 　Wildgrass grew in clusters along the roadside. 　Reid stopped. He crouched down and plucked a leaf. （That's mustard greens. They're growing nicely.） 　He brought it to his nose, and a sharp, peppery aroma spread. If he paired it with vinegar... no, wait. Tempura would bring out the flavor better. With a thin batter, eaten with just salt—— 　Reid gently returned the mustard greens to the roadside. 　He had no ingredients. Not now. 　The southern foothills of the Sturm Mountain Range. Its ridge floated black against the eastern sky. The mountain range that divided the continent east and west, separating the southern human kingdoms from the Demon Lord Volgrave's northern domain—a natural border. What lay beyond those mountains? He almost remembered the time he'd gone to subjugate it, but Reid deliberately looked away. --- 　Several months earlier. Brenhardt, the Pillar Alliance Hall. 　The capital of the Fregel Kingdom. A stone building near the south gate of a city with a population of one hundred twenty thousand—that was the assembly hall of the Pillar Alliance Council and the headquarters of the hero party. Thirty representatives from nobility, the military, and commerce sat in a chamber that could only be described as solemn. 　The chairman read from a document. His voice echoed through the silent assembly. "Reason for application—Due to the cooking activities of Arnt Reid, the party's cook, all members became unable to think of anything but food, and during combat with the demon lord's forces, they set down their swords and began discussing meals. Based on Pillar Alliance Regulation Article Fourteen, we request his removal." 　Silence. Complete silence. "...About the food," one representative ventured hesitantly. "During combat?" another asked. 　The party leader nodded solemnly. "Yes. Three members passed through the demon lord's front lines while saying they should have had another bowl of last night's stew." 　Another silence. This one was heavier. "...The application of Regulation Article Fourteen is..." 　A different representative sighed. "The third case in four hundred eighty years. That the reason is food is... unprecedented in history." "An expulsion for cooking being too delicious has no precedent..." "None," said Representative B. "None at all," agreed Representative C. 　The two representatives exchanged confirmations quietly but with unmistakable despair. In these four hundred eighty years, only forty-seven heroes had been officially recognized by the Pillar Alliance. Not only did they need to possess spiritual power twenty times that of ordinary people, but they required unanimous approval from the council—such a rare title. And that system was about to move—for food. 　The vote was called. Unanimous approval. 　Standing in the center of the assembly, Reid spoke only one sentence. "Is it... my fault...?" 　No one answered. Or rather, no one could answer. --- 　Reid sat on a stone beside the road and drank from his water flask. "How is delicious food a crime?" he muttered to the empty road. Wind from the direction of Hexenwald Forest rustled the grass in response. "Don't use a regulation that's only been invoked three times in four hundred eighty years for food," he continued. 　Those with spiritual power at combat level made up 1.5 percent of the population. Only those among them who exceeded twenty times ordinary human capacity were certified as heroes. And that system was moving for that reason—— （Well... that stew really was my masterpiece, though.） 　A strange laugh bubbled up. Looking toward the Sturm Mountains, Reid stood. 　He had no destination yet. --- 　In the afternoon, after passing through a mountain valley, Reid stopped. 　A village lay before him. 　Wiesenthal Village. About one hundred thirty kilometers east of Brenhardt, a three-day journey by carriage. A mountain village with about twenty houses scattered through a valley where a tributary of the Brühl River flowed thinly. Once it had thrived as a trading post relaying resources from the northern Hexenwald Forest—or so it seemed. Evidence remained now in the form of rotting signboards scattered about. 　Weeds grew knee-high through the gaps in the main street's cobblestones. （To grow this much... it's been abandoned for thirty years at least.） 　Reid's gaze turned to the roadside weeds. （Wait, is that purslane? It's delicious when stir-fried.） 　No. This wasn't the time for that. 　Not a single shop was open. The villagers were sparse, and an old woman he passed on the road looked at him with such sharp eyes that he could tell she was trying to drive him away. When he gave a friendly bow, she quickly averted her gaze. 　At the central plaza, Reid's feet stopped. 　A wooden two-story building. Part of the roof had caved in. The entrance door hung askew on hinges that were nearly off. The first-floor windows were broken, their frames stained brown with old water marks. The sign's letters were barely legible, but Reid squinted at the faint carved characters and read them. （Grünhaide... Tavern. "Green Wilderness" in the old tongue.） 　A ruin. By any measure, a ruin. No one had entered in over twenty years. 　Yet Reid's feet turned toward it. 　He pushed the door. It creaked and barely opened. The smell of dust. Old wood and moldy cloth mixed in the air. But——Reid's nose sensed something else. The dry, hot memory of stone and earth. The smell of a hearth. 　He headed for the kitchen. 　The hearth remained. Despite twenty years of abandonment, its construction was solid. Built carefully by a local stonemason, it had no cracks. Reid placed his hand on it. Cold, but firm. No warping. （It's alive.） 　The moment he thought that, something deep in his chest moved slowly. Something he'd been holding down. --- 　The village elder lived in a single-story house on the west side of the plaza. 　He was well past seventy. An old man bearing deep wrinkles carved across his face and equally deep exhaustion. White-haired, gnarled hands. He was sitting on the veranda with a tea cup when Reid spoke to him. "Would you sell me the Grünhaide Tavern?" Reid asked. 　The elder sprayed out his tea. "For one hundred twenty regna," Reid continued. "One hundred twenty regna!?" the elder exclaimed. 　The elder stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Three wrinkles appeared between his brows. "For that wreck!? The roof's got holes in it, the second-floor boards are rotting, and mice live in the chimney!" "I know," Reid replied immediately. "You know and you're buying it?" the elder asked. "I know and I'm buying it," Reid confirmed. 　The elder stared at Reid's face for a while. His deep green eyes were serious, not joking. The elder's frown deepened. "...Can I ask why?" the elder said. 　Reid paused for a moment. "The hearth in the kitchen is alive," Reid said. "..." the elder replied. "That's enough," Reid said. 　The elder sighed. A long, deep, weary sigh. Then he looked at Reid's face again, looked again, turned his gaze toward the ruin, and looked back—— "...Somehow, I think I understand," the elder muttered to himself. "You're strange, but you're not a bad person," he said. 　A handshake was exchanged. No contract, no seal, no paper—just the gnarled, aged hand of an old man and the hand of a man with burn scars on his left palm, gripping firmly together. That alone sealed the deal. 　One hundred twenty regna. About three months' income for a commoner. Reid's entire fortune. --- 　Thirty minutes after the contract was finalized, Reid was in the kitchen. 　He lit the hearth. Wood still remained. It was dry and caught fire quickly. The sound of crackling wood spread through the quiet kitchen. 　From his travel pack, he took out what he had—rice, salt, dried plum. That was all. （I can only make rice balls.） 　He began. His hands moved. He rinsed the rice. He checked the water level. He adjusted the hearth's fire. His senses, dulled by long travel, slowly loosened through the movement of his hands. The burn scars on his left hand ached slightly in the hearth's heat. 　The rice cooked. 　Reid took the cooked rice in his hands and began shaping it. He worked in the salt, wrapped the plum inside. He formed it in his palms——and in that moment, something was happening without his notice. 　Spiritual power—the life energy born from the core of one's spirit. Warriors wrapped it around their swords for combat. The skilled could radiate it outward, even enabling long-range attacks. Reid himself possessed spiritual power exceeding twenty times that of ordinary people—though "possessed" was past tense now, fitting for who he was. 　That spiritual power. 　Flowed from his hands shaping the rice ball into the food itself, unconsciously, slowly. 　The moment the rice ball was complete, it glowed faintly white in the kitchen. 　Reid tilted his head. 　He looked up at the window in the ceiling for light. The setting sun slanted through from the west. （This window faces west, so... maybe the angle of the sunset makes it glow like this.） 　Thinking that, he continued working. He shaped three more rice balls from the remaining rice. All of them glowed the same faint light, but Reid looked in the same direction four times and reached the same conclusion each time. 　The sunset. Yes, the sunset. Definitely the sunset. --- 　He brought the rice balls on a plate to the elder. "If you'd like," Reid said. 　The elder accepted them with trembling hands. He took a bite of the still-warm rice ball. 　He stopped moving. 　The elder completely froze. His hands, his mouth, his breathing—time itself seemed to stop. 　The next moment, tears spilled from the old man's eyes. "...What... what is this...?" the elder whispered. 　The elder wept. Tears traced down his wrinkled cheeks. "I've never eaten anything this delicious in my whole life...," he said. "Huh?" Reid looked confused. "Was it really that good?" Reid asked. "It's delicious! But that's not all!" the elder cried. 　He took a second bite and wept again. "Something... power is welling up from deep inside... my leg and back pain... it's gone...?" the elder said. "No, it's just a rice ball," Reid said. "I know!" the elder shouted. "With just salt and plum," Reid continued. "That's what's strange about it!" the elder cried, sobbing and arguing at once. 　Reid pointed at the kitchen's ceiling window. "The light made it look like it was glowing earlier. It was just the angle of the sunset," Reid explained. "I'm not asking about the rice ball glowing right now——!" the elder protested. 　He took a third bite. He wept again. "Are you okay as a cook...?" the elder asked through his tears. "I think I'm normal," Reid replied after a moment. "You're not normal!!" the elder cried. --- 　The aroma of the rice balls began drifting through the alleys around that time. 　A small shadow appeared at the entrance to the ruin, nose twitching. One, then two, then three. Before long, nearly ten children had gathered in front of the Grünhaide Tavern. 　Reid distributed the remaining rice balls. 　Everyone took a bite. "Whoa!!" one child exclaimed. "It's so good!!" another shouted. "It's all warm inside!!" a third cried. "Give us more!!" all the children demanded at once. 　They all shouted simult