HFfC: CH 26: One More Brother

Big Sal, now draped in an oversized coat he'd bought off a fellow customer, was still buzzing. One would think he'd be furious, or at least embarrassed, to have been so thoroughly... disrobed... in front of a public café.

But Sal just laughed, a deep, window-rattling sound. "AHAHAHAHA! It was a hundred times better than I even expected!"

Soma, leaning against the counter and finally untying his headband, let a tired, satisfied smile spread across his face. "Glad you liked it."

"It was an honor, Chef," Sal said, his tone becoming serious for a moment. He gestured to his own chest, a silent reference to his exploded charm. "Though, you might want to practice controlling that 'hearth' of yours. It would be a shame to have such masterpieces be so... inaccessible... to the general public."

"I'll try," Soma said with a nod.

"That's my guy!" Sal boomed, pulling him into another massive hug. He then paid his extravagant bill, waved to the entire café, and left with a joyous, triumphant smile on his face, a man who had just had a truly religious experience.

The regulars, still buzzing from the spectacle, began to leave one by one, their day's excitement peaked. The day wound down, and as the last of the sun's rays faded, night fell.

Zero locked the front door, turning the "Open" sign to "Closed."

"Hey," Soma said, already cleaning the warzone of a kitchen. "Put today's earnings in the register."

Zero walked to the cash register. He added Sal's massive payment and the day's other earnings. Only five days after being completely drained by the last Gacha pull, the total points climbed back to a healthy 2250.

"Shame Sal won't be here tomorrow," Zero said, looking at the total. "He'd be a good cash cow to have around."

"Hey," Soma called from the kitchen. "That's my colleague you're talking about."

Zero chuckled. "I'm going up to the loft to practice," he said. "You okay down here alone?"

"Go," Soma replied, not looking up from his scrubbing. "I'm not a child. I don't need supervision."

Zero sat on the floor of the loft, cross-legged, in deep meditation. Time seemed to fly by. He was finally practicing with purpose, not just curiosity. He could feel the glowing strings of the Abyssal Weave, could feel them connected to his very core. And as he focused, he felt a new, loose string, a knot of potential that had just untied itself. He could make a new clone. The one he'd promised to make.

He opened his eyes, a spark of excitement in them.

Downstairs, Soma had just finished cooking, a look of satisfaction on his face. He balanced three plates on his arms—one for him, one for Zero, and one for Legolas. "Dinner's u—"

He was cut off by the sound of Zero rummaging in the loft's small kitchen. He saw Zero take the small paring knife, slice his palm without a second's hesitation, and let the blood pool on the floor. In a familiar, grotesque whirlwind of crimson, the new clone formed.

Legolas, who had been reading on the sofa, put his hands on his hips, a small, amused smirk on his face. "Well, well," he said. "I'm no longer the youngest anymore."

The new clone blinked, looked down at himself, and then at the others. "Can someone give me some clothes?"

Soma sighed, looking at the three plates of food in his hands. "You should have told me," he grumbled at Zero. "I would have made one more portion."

"No need," Legolas said, standing up to set the dinner table. "The newbie cooks for himself."

"What?!" the new clone exclaimed. "This isn't fair!"

Legolas just shrugged, his elven grace completely unbothered. "I don't know what to tell you. Life's not fair."

Zero just chuckled. The new clone, in a fit of mock-mad indignation, stomped down the stairs to the main kitchen to cook his own dinner.

While Zero and his brothers celebrated the new addition, Misela was on the 31st floor of the Hao Pavilion, sorting through a newly acquired pile of parchments and old books about magic. Sebas entered the office silently.

"Is this all?" he asked.

"This is the result of our bugs in the smaller noble houses—Barons and Viscounts," Misela reported. "The bugs assigned to the Earls and the Duke haven't made their move yet. I've instructed them to thread with extreme caution."

Sebas nodded. "And what is that book?" he asked, pointing to a thick, leather-bound volume with no title, sitting apart from the rest.

"That's a special case," Misela said with a sly smile. "One of the nobles was complaining that a low-level mage had swindled him with a completely unreadable, 'ancient' tome. He was furious but too embarrassed to say anything about it publicly. Once we found out, we... acquired it. For a mere fraction of what he paid."

Sebas picked it up. The script on the cover was alien, a series of flowing, complex symbols. Strangely, he couldn't read a single one. "Let me check this," he said.

He went still. In the Animus Hub, his form materialized, and he called for Zero.

Zero, having just finished his late dinner, appeared. "What's up, Sebas?"

"Master," Sebas said, materializing a perfect, spectral copy of the new book. "Can you read this?"

Zero looked at the cover. "Yes," he said, as easily as if it were his native language. "It says, 'Understanding the Cosmos Within Abyssal Weaving.'"

A beat of silence. "Great," Sebas said. "Because I cannot."

"What?" Zero was taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"Just as I said. I cannot read it," Sebas stated.

"But... you're me. Why can I read it and you can't?"

"That is a question we will need to answer," Sebas replied. "I will have the physical book delivered to the café. Have a good night, Master." Sebas's form dissolved, leaving Zero alone and deeply confused.

Zero returned to the loft. He looked at the new clone, then at Soma and Legolas. He picked up his first book, 'The First Principles of Abyssal Weaving.'

He walked over to the new clone. "Can you read this?" he asked, holding it out.

The new clone looked at the cover. "Yes. 'First Principles...' It seems straightforward."

Zero then walked over to Soma and Legolas, who were cleaning up their dinner plates. "Can you two read this?"

Soma glanced at it. "Yeah. Why?"

Legolas nodded. "I can."

Zero's mind began to churn. 'So, all of us can read the first book. But Sebas, who is also me, can't read the second book. But I, the original, can read both. What makes Sebas different? Or is it the book?' He was beginning to wonder if Sebas's unique evolution as a "Dragon Butler" had somehow locked him out of this new path, or if this new book was something only the original could access.

…

The next morning, the new clone—now dubbed "One" as a placeholder until he earned a card—was already hard at work in the loft. He had possession of the first book, cross-referencing it with new notes, already trying to form theories and hypotheses about the nature of Abyssal Weaving. He was the supervisor.

Downstairs, Zero was dutifully wiping down the bar, getting ready for the morning rush, just as he'd promised.

In the loft, Legolas, dressed in simple, practical traveling clothes, opened the window.

"Where are you going?" One asked, not looking up from his parchment.

"Buying material," Legolas replied, securing a pouch to his belt. "It's about time I started to realize my designs."

"Good luck," One said. "Grab me some more parchment and a few blank books on your way back, can you?"

"If I pass the store, sure," Legolas said, giving a non-committal answer. "But no promises."

And with the silent, superhuman grace of an elf, he leaped from the window, disappearing onto the crowded streets.

…

Legolas moved through the morning crowds of Evercrest with an otherworldly grace, his elven form parting the sea of merchants and workers without a single jostle. While he walked, his mind was focused, reviewing the list of requests from his brothers. This was his first real task as the group's artisan, and the list was... eclectic.

First, Erwin's requests. They were the most complex. A double-sided coat, one side designed to insulate against extreme cold, the other to reflect heat. It also needed to be completely waterproof. Legolas's innate knowledge from the Gojo Wakana card was about normal human clothing, but this required materials that didn't exist on his old world. He'd have to rely on the knowledge he'd crammed from Erwin's library. The wild beasts of this world, he mused, might provide the answer. Erwin's second request was simpler, yet more macabre: disposable, thin gloves for handling evidence, as his standard-issue leather ones still left trace marks at a scene.

Second, Zero's request: a binder for their growing collection of unused cards. Simple, practical, and necessary.

Third, Soma's: a new apron, one that could "self-clean." Legolas let out an almost imperceptible sigh at the absurdity of the request, though he knew with the right enchanted fabric, it was theoretically possible.

And finally, Sebas's: a bulk order of simple, durable, dark-colored uniforms for the "kids" in his ranks, suitable for investigation and... other activities. A practical request for a growing shadow organization.

Legolas arrived at the textile district and found the shop he was looking for. It was a sad-looking place, the paint peeling from its sign, a stark contrast to the rich, vibrant fabrics that were tantalizingly displayed in the dusty front window. Hopefully, I can get a discount from this sad vibe, he thought, adjusting his pouch of Sols.

He stepped inside. The shop was a chaotic wonderland of textures and colors. A small bell chimed, and a tiny halfling woman hurried out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.

"C-ca-can I help you, sir?" she stammered, her face immediately turning bright red as she took in the tall, graceful elf standing before her.

Legolas gave her a small, disarming smile. "It would be lovely if you could," he said, his voice smooth and melodic.

The halfling looked like she might faint.

"I am looking for several materials," Legolas began, "starting with the most difficult. Do you have access to fleece-threaded slime fabric?"

The halfling's eyes widened. "Oh, my," she whispered. "That's a rare one." She quickly took out a small notebook and a pencil. "B-but I can get it for you! It might take a week, but I can source it. Can you tell me the specific thread count and denier?"

"Oh," Legolas said, his polite smile not wavering. "A week is quite long. I suppose I will go to the shop next door to check if they have it in stock."

It was a simple pressure tactic, but the halfling's reaction was anything but.

"PLEASE, SIR!" she suddenly yelped, and before Legolas could react, the tiny woman had run around the counter and latched onto his leg with a desperate grip. "Ours would be of the highest quality! I promise! The highest! Just give us a chance!"

Legolas sighed, looking down at the shopkeeper who was now clinging to his calf. "Okay," he said calmly. "I am a customer. Can you please let go of my leg?"

"Oh! Yes! Sorry!" she said, letting go and scrambling to her feet, her face now a deeper shade of crimson. "Please, sir, just give us a chance. Let us get all the things you want. You can check the next door after ours arrive, and you can compare them then! If ours isn't better, you don't have to pay!"

Legolas looked at this small, fiercely desperate merchant. "The fleece-slime fabric wasn't the only thing on my list," he said, a note of resignation in his voice. "It is a... very large order. Can you get all of it in one week?"

The halfling's demeanor snapped. The desperate, flustered shopkeep vanished, replaced by a sharp, professional businesswoman. She straightened her apron, her eyes gleaming with determination.

"Yes, sir," she said, her voice now steady. "One week."

…

Legolas returned, carrying several large bolts of fabric. He'd managed to acquire the materials that were readily available: a sturdy, dark-dyed canvas for Sebas's prototypes, a high-grade, waterproof material for Soma's apron, and some specialized treated leather for Zero's card binder.

The self-cleaning enchantment for Soma, however, was a dead end. The halfling shopkeeper had explained that enchantments of that complexity were the exclusive domain of mages, who guarded their craft jealously and certainly wouldn't sell such a spell to a commoner for a mere apron. Soma would have to wait.

He leaped gracefully from the rooftop, landing silently on the windowsill of the second-floor loft.

One, who was deep in concentration over the Abyssal Weaving book, nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance of the elf. "OH! God, can you not do that?!"

Legolas simply stepped into the room, dumping the heavy materials onto a clear table. He let out a small, frustrated sigh. "Aahhh, I have to wait for Erwin's materials. Who would guess slime thread would be so trendy this fall?"

One looked up from his notes. "Did you get my request? The parchment and books?"

Legolas chuckled. "Sorry, bud. I didn't walk past the stationary store." He tapped his temple. "Why not just use the Hub for scribbling shit like that? You can manifest endless supplies in there."

"Because I need to see the effect of it on the real world," One said, his voice earnest.

Legolas paused, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

One, seeing that Legolas was genuinely interested, grabbed his notebook. "Well, Zero and I have a theory. It's still baseless, since we don't know what it is or how it really works. But you see, there are all these different magical systems, right? Even the Concord mages have their own specializations in their home regions. What if this Abyssal Weaving is the stem for one of them? Or maybe the root of all of them?"

He pointed to a rough drawing of a rune-car. "We've been trying to compare the 'strings' Zero felt to runic magic, since it's the most common and available form of magic in the URA. Even the cars work on it. I need to know if the Weaving can influence the runes."

"Oh," Legolas said, a slow smile spreading across his face as an idea formed. "I think I've got something that can help."

He walked over to his new materials and unrolled a large swath of the plain, dark canvas—the prototype fabric for Sebas's force.

"What's this?" One asked.

"It's for Sebas's spiders," Legolas explained. "But for now, it's your test canvas. Just write your scribbles here. Try it on. You just need to see the effect, right? With this, you can try to weave your runes or whatever it is you're doing, and when you're done, the material can still be used by me to make the prototypes." He grinned. "No waste, baby."

One's face lit up. "Hehe, sure. That would be interesting." He looked downstairs, where the sounds of the bustling lunch rush were in full swing. "I'll need to wait for Zero to be done, though. The deal was no practicing without supervision."

"No worries," Legolas said, picking up the treated leather. "I'll make the binder first anyway. Have fun staring at your blank canvas."

…

Time passed, and night fell over the city. Zero and Soma, chatting about the day's respectable earnings, headed up to the loft. As they climbed the stairs, they were met not with the usual quiet, but with the sound of a heated argument.

They went up to find Legolas and One bickering over a new pile of books and parchments that had been delivered.

"Okay, okay, what's going on?" Zero asked, stepping between them.

"He's accusing me of lying and making up stuff!" One said, pointing an accusatory finger at Legolas.

"I'm just saying," Legolas retorted, his elven grace completely replaced by human frustration, "you don't need to pretend you can read some squiggly, unreadable nonsense just to make yourself look smart."

"From the top, please. What happened?" Zero said, his voice taking on a note of command.

One took a deep breath. "Sebas just dropped off this new batch of books. Unfortunately, they weren't sorted by topic, but by author. Who the hell does that?"

"So I was just trying to help," Legolas cut in. "And this one book, the one with the alien script, was in the pile. Since I can't read it, I was going to put it in the 'other' pile, but he says it's not unreadable."

"It's not!" One insisted.

Zero and Soma both looked at the book in question, the one Sebas had shown in the Hub. In a moment of perfect, conflicting unison, they both spoke.

"It's readable," Zero said. "It's unreadable," Soma said.

Zero and Soma froze, looking at each other. A cold, dawning realization hit Zero. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "It's the book Sebas was talking about."

He walked over to One and grabbed his original book, 'The First Principles of Abyssal Weaving.' He held it up to all three of them. "All of you can read this, right?"

Soma, Legolas, and One all nodded. "Yes," they said in unison.

Zero then took the new book, 'Understanding the Cosmos Within Abyssal Weaving.' He held it out again. "Can you read this?"

"No," Soma and Legolas said, shaking their heads. "Yes," One said, looking confused as to why this was a question.

They all looked at each other, the strange, impossible truth settling in the room.

Zero sighed, a heavy weight pressing down on him. "There are too many proofs leading us to it."

"Leading us to where?" One asked.

"It's a Demon God Inheritance," Zero said, the theory that had been forming in his mind finally spoken aloud.

"Whoa," Soma and Legolas said at the same time. "That's a huge leap."

"That's why it's a theory," Zero said, his mind racing. "But look at the facts. Book 1, 'First Principles': that demon girl in the library, a normal demon, couldn't read it. But all of us, clones of an Archdemon, can. That means it's an Archdemon-locked text." He then held up the new book. "And now this one. A book that only I, the original, and One, the newest clone, can read."

"What are you talking about?" Soma asked, not following. "We're all your clones."

"So is Sebas," Zero countered, the final piece clicking into place. "And he can't read it. But One, who has no card, no other influence, can. It means this is a Pure Archdemon-locked text. Your cards... Soma, Legolas, Sebas... your new natures have locked you out of this advanced knowledge."

"How does it know?" Legolas asked, staring at the book. "To me, it's just a bunch of squiggle lines."

Zero looked at One, then at the two books. "I guess that's what we're going to find out. At the end of this training."

"Just saying all this... it sounds dangerous," Soma said, his voice low and worried.

Zero made a decision. "Soma," he said, his voice firm. "Can you handle the café floor alone?"

Soma's face fell. "Uh oh. I don't like where this is headed. For how long?"

"Until we're done exploring this book," Zero said, gesturing to himself and One.

Soma thought for a long, hard moment, then let out a resigned sigh. "Fine. As long as there are no more 'commotions' happening when customers are here. I can't cover for you. You're a demon, like it or not. Every bit of weirdness, every bright light or shaking building, will be reported straight to the Watchers. Remember Sal's... explosion... yesterday."

"I'll keep that in mind," Zero promised.

…

Three days passed. The loft of the café had transformed into a whirlwind of obsessive research. Zero and One were at it constantly. They cross-referenced the magical parchments from Sebas with the two Abyssal tomes, their notes and diagrams covering every available surface.

There was a palpable sense of ease when they practiced the Abyssal Weaving, a natural, intuitive flow of power. In contrast, trying to follow the complex, rigid formulae of traditional runic magic felt foreign and clunky, like trying to write with the wrong hand.

Soma and Legolas watched the two of them work. Their diligence was inhuman. They seemed to sleep for only an hour at a time, waking up instantly refreshed, and then diving right back into their study—a constant, exhausting cycle of theory, hypothesis, and practice.

"That's a demon body for you," Legolas remarked to Soma as they stood at the bar, watching the two "Zeroes" in the loft. "One hour of sleep, and you're as fresh as a new morning."

"We also have demon bodies, you know," Soma pointed out, wiping down a glass.

"Yeah," Legolas said with a light shrug. "But I love sleep too much to not enjoy it." He took a sip of his morning tea.

"Speaking of which," Soma grumbled, "where is my self-cleaning apron?"

"Your absurd request will not be adhered to until I get the means," Legolas replied, his voice laced with mock-aristocratic boredom. "Lower your expectations, would you? I just got here."

"Just say it if you can't make it, loser," Soma jabbed, a grin on his face.

"Hey!" Legolas shot back, offended.

"Hehehehe!"

…

My name is Marc Auch, a young demon. I live with my grandma; my mother works as a nanny for a wealthy merchant, while my father works at the docks. With them as the pillars of my life, I've worked and studied to be here, at a school—a prestigious one, filled with all the fancy nobles. I got here on a full scholarship, all because a professor was once saved by my father at the docks.

I remember it clearly. When I was a kid, my father came home, awkwardly smiling, with a dwarf whose face was clearly tired, his eyelids swollen from crying, and he seemed so thin. Mother was mad at Father for bringing him home, but I can't really remember what their argument was about. I just went to the dwarf and gave him my blanket, since he seemed to be shivering in the cold of the night.

In the end, he stayed. He sat by our fireplace and told me stories I'd never heard before, stories of distant lands and other continents. By the end, he asked what I wanted to be, and I said I wanted to be like him. He chuckled, a sad, tired sound, and patted me on the head. "You should be better than me," he said.

After that night, I never saw him again. Years passed. When I was of age for work, my father urged me to join him at the docks. "A strong demon is an alive demon," he'd always say. But then, a mail-bird arrived. It was an offer: a full scholarship to the most prestigious academy in all of Evercrest. Without a second thought, I filled in the form and registered myself.

Long story short, it's been three years since I started at this school. One would think I'd have at least three friends by now. But no. It seems that each year, I only make more enemies. And there's no use complaining; talking to the faculty only makes it worse.

One time, one of the clique leaders threw a bag of piss on me right as I arrived at the school gates. Having only one uniform, I couldn't go home to change. I had to take off my blazer and shirt and desperately try to wash them in the bathroom sink. 

But not only was I accused of "indecent exposure" for not wearing a proper uniform on school grounds, but when I tried to tell them what really happened, they just called the clique leader's parents. A baron and a wealthy merchant. They came to the school, pushed my father around, and forced him to prostrate himself on the floor, to beg for their forgiveness for my "slander" against their precious son.

After that, I just kept to myself. There is no use in fighting back when the ones you're fighting never have to step onto the battlefield to begin with.

But one day, a new commotion started. A new, trendy café, run by that master chef from the food competition. I knew I would never be able to go there. Not with them around, always so happy with themselves, always so loud. After school, it always just felt like a race to get home as fast as possible. Go back home, take care of Grandma, who has been forgetting things more and more lately.

Then, a new rumor started to spread: the trendy café was run by a demon. My classmates, the noble and rich ones, stopped going. They called it a "filth-den." But for me it was a chance. One day I walked past Delancey Alley. The trendy café, Café LeBlanc, suddenly didn't seem so out of reach anymore.

For the first time in my life, I saw it. The impossible. I saw a demon, his horns clear as day, standing, talking and laughing easily with an elf and a dwarf customer at one of the tables. He even had a human employee.

The demon saw me. "Hello, kid," he said. His voice was... cheerful. "Never seen you before, but I recognize that uniform." He knew about my classmates.

The human employee, the chef, threw a rag toward the demon. "Stop scaring the kid, just ask him what he wants."

So, the demon owner was just a rumor. The demon was still an underling to the human cook. But then... the demon caught the rag and threw it right back. "I did, you jerk! Go back to your station!"

I flinched. 'Oh no, they're going to beat him now.' But... no. The chef and the demon just... laughed. As if it were a joke all along. Where was I? And since when could a demon laugh with, and not just be laughed at?

The demon turned back to me, his voice kind. "Come on and sit, kid. My name is Zero, and that inconsiderate chef is Soma."

From then on, I started helping Father at the docks on the weekends, just to get paid enough so I could buy my parfait at the start of every week. For the first time, I had something to look forward to after school.

But... one day, my grandma's memories got worse. I remembered she would always cook something, a special kind of stew, and sit by the porch whenever she missed Grandpa, and just eat that meal. I remember the ingredients, I remember the taste... but I don't know how to make it.

Today was the day I was going to ask Chef Soma. He's a good human. He always smiles and treats me like anyone else. I've been saving my money for months, enough to pay him to make it. Surely, with this much money, I could finally ask him for this one request, right?

…

Soma was stationed at the bar, handling the mid-lunch rush by himself. The ding of the bell over the door chimed, and he looked up.

"Marc! It's been a while," Soma called out, a friendly grin on his face. "The usual parfait? Lucky for you, Zero's not here today, so I'll be the one making it."

One of the regulars, a dockworker, laughed from his table. "I'm telling the boss you talk behind his back the moment he gets in!"

"Hehe, go ahead," Soma shot back without missing a beat. "Then I'll just make your portion smaller every day. See how you like that."

The regular gasped in mock-horror, and the café chuckled.

Marc, meanwhile, was standing by the door, wringing his hands. He took a deep breath and, with a burst of courage, said, "Can... can I order a special menu?"

Soma's eyebrows raised. "Owh? Trying something new from my fixed menu, huh? That works. What can I get for you?"

"No," Marc said, his voice trembling slightly. "I... I... uh... um..."

Henry, the keymaker, who was sitting nearby, gave the boy a gentle but firm slap on the back. "Spit it out, kid. The chef's a busy man."

"Ah! Eerm..." Marc said, startled. "Canyoumakespecificdishbasedofmemoriesihad?"

"Huh? What?" Soma said, leaning over the counter.

Marc took another, deeper breath. "Can you make a specific dish... based on a memory I had?"

Soma's playful expression faded, replaced by one of intense, professional interest. "Is this related to what you asked me about last week?" he asked, connecting the dots. "I mean, like I said, I can try. But I need to know the specifics. How specific is it?"

Marc, his voice growing a little stronger, began to describe the taste. The salty, savory broth, the specific tenderness of the meat, the slight bitterness of a root vegetable he couldn't name, the way it made him feel warm.

Soma listened, his hand on his chin. "I've never heard of a dish with that combination," he mused. "But... let's see what I can do."

"Are you gonna close the café again?" a regular called out, half-joking.

Marc immediately panicked. "I... I've got some Sol," he said, pulling a small, heavy pouch from his bag. "I've been saving. I know it's not enough for all your trouble, but this is a compensation—"

Soma held up a hand, cutting him off. He walked over and gently patted Marc's head, pushing the money pouch away. "No need for that, kid," he said softly. "Buy a gift for your parents or your grandma for me. That's the only payment I need."

He went to work. The challenge had lit a fire in him. He moved through the kitchen, not with the flash and spectacle he'd shown Sal, but with a thoughtful, investigative precision, trying to reverse-engineer a flavor from a feeling. In the end, he had three small sample bowls.

"Tadaa," he said, placing them in front of Marc. "Now, try these and tell me which one is closest."

Marc tasted each one. His eyes lit up. "This is... this is really good, Chef Soma! All of them are!" He paused, his expression falling slightly. "But... there's something off. Something... missing."

Soma frowned. "You think?" He looked at the bowls, then at the clock. The day was almost over. "It's too late to try again now. Come back tomorrow. I'll try something else."

"Oh, no, it's okay," Marc said, gathering his things. "I've troubled you enough."

"Nonsense!" Soma said, a competitive glint in his eye. "You brought this challenge to me, and now you want me to back out? No way. You just come back tomorrow. I'll crack this."

"Thank you, Chef!" Marc said, a new hope in his eyes.

…

The next morning, Marc was there the moment the doors opened. Soma, who had clearly been thinking about it all night, was ready. He presented three more samples, each with a different variation of spices and cooking times.

Marc tasted them. He looked up at Soma, his face apologetic. "It's closer... it really is... but it's still not it. I'm sorry."

Soma was genuinely stumped. He'd used the best ingredients, the most advanced techniques. He leaned against the counter, racking his brain. Then, the first, most important question hit him.

"Marc," he asked. "Who cooked this dish for you?"

"My grandma," Marc replied.

"Where does your grandma live?"

"Why do you want to know?" Marc asked, a little confused.

"I need to know where she gets her ingredients!" Soma said, the "Aha!" moment hitting him like a thunderbolt. He realized the problem. He'd been using the best of the best ingredients from the café's magical storage—perfectly butchered meat, flawless, uniform vegetables, purified water. But a dish from memory, a dish from a grandma... that wasn't made with perfection. It was made with local, cheap cuts, with the specific, mineral-heavy water from their district's well, with the slightly-too-bitter roots that grew in the nearby fields.

The problem wasn't his skill. It was his ingredients.

Marc told him the small, outer district where his grandma lived.

Soma's competitive fire was back, burning brighter than ever. "Okay," he said. "Come back in two days. I need to do some... research... tomorrow."