Lucy gave another warble of delight, then carefully lowered herself to the floor, forming a soft wobble-puddle beside Mokko's feet. A gentle shimmer passed through her—this time a pale golden hue, laced with faint motes of green.
Marron's eyebrows shot up. "Was that... mint? Lucy, are you projecting taste now?"
The slime burbled and rotated in place like a very proud omelet.
Mokko leaned closer, spoon hovering midair. "I think she's trying to communicate the flavor. Like a scent memory. That's merrymint and rosemary, right?"
"I didn't even know she could do that," Marron said.
Lucy jiggled approvingly and extended a tiny tentacle, delicately tapping the edge of her now-empty bowl. A subtle spark of mana flared for just a second where she touched it—like a thank-you.
[Emotional Tag Detected: Trust]
[Diner Response Recorded. Species Class: Slime / Low Mana Affinity / Emotional Feedback: Stabilizing]
The system's quiet text faded from view, but it left Marron with a tingly warmth in her fingers. It wasn't from magic, but from the reaction to her food.
"Guess I'm not just feeding stomachs," she murmured.
Marron laughed, warm and a little startled. She sat down with her own bowl—and as she took her first bite, something shifted.
There was flavor, yes. But layered in with the squash and spiced beans, the rosemary and merrymint, there was something more.
A flicker.
A warmth that wasn't just from the heat of the dish.
Ding!
[New Skill Unlocked: Flavor Pulse II – Echo Reading]
You now perceive emotional echoes left within ingredients. Trace the source, harmonize with the memory, and enhance dish impact.
Bonus: Emotional Echo detected – "Lingering Hearthlight."
Source: Farmer's homegrown coalcrisp apples, cultivated during a frostbound season of grief and hope.
Effect: +15% XP and increased diner comfort response.
Marron set her spoon down slowly. "Oh wow."
"What is it now?" Mokko asked, licking his spoon clean. "Did the butter start singing?"
"No," she murmured, "I think I just leveled up again."
He raised a brow. "Seriously?"
She nodded.
"It didn't give me any XP from winning the cooking contest in Whetvale, but...I guess I earn them now."
Mokko sniffed as he tried to drink water without spilling any on his fur. "Like the system looked at Whetvale as a tutorial?"
Marron laughed. "I didn't know you played video games, Mokko."
"You have no idea how many weird chefs took over before you did, Marron."
She glanced at him sheepishly.
"Good point...but, y'know, I can feel something... new. Like the ingredients are whispering back."
Lucy burbled approvingly and stretched out her pudding-like form into a vaguely heart shape.
After breakfast was cleared, Mokko dozed off again and Lucy tucked herself into a warm puddle of blanket and hearthglow. Marron stayed up, unable to shake the feeling from earlier.
She retrieved a single coalcrisp apple from the cold box, rolling it in her hands.
"Lingering Hearthlight," she whispered, repeating the name the system gave the emotional echo.
She placed the apple on her chopping board, closed her eyes, and gently tapped it with the back of her knife.
Just enough pressure.
Thrum.
It was faint, but unmistakable—a thread of longing, like the last warmth from a snuffed-out hearth. The apple's skin gave off a subtle resistance, not physical but emotional.
She opened her eyes. "You were grown by someone who missed someone," she whispered. "Someone who hoped this would help them feel close again."
There was no response. But there didn't need to be.
She diced it slowly, letting the rhythm of the knife help her remember why she was here: not to show off. Not to chase fame.
To make warmth for others.To give what she'd once needed.
By the time the apple was cut, her system pinged again.
[Ingredient Echo Understood. XP Modifier Enhanced: +5% (Manual Trace)]
Marron smiled and slipped the pieces into a storage tin.
"Let's share you with the morning crowd."
+
The market square buzzed with rising voices and magical hisses as Marron locked her cart back into place. The early morning crowd thickened. Banners flapped. Elemental steam curled from sizzling pans nearby.
She had barely set her prep board down when the line began to form.
Marron ladled the first Frostfall Warming Bowl, watching the steam curl up just like it had that morning. Simple. Controlled. Just 200g and she'd have her pantry refresh.
"This smells incredible," the first customer said, digging in eagerly. "But do you have anything that'll boost my stamina? I'm hitting the Frostmaw Caverns today."
Marron blinked. "Oh, um... this should be pretty hearty—"
"What about those duck-fat fries from yesterday?" another voice called out. "And that memory soda!"
The line was growing. Everyone wanted something different. Something she didn't have ready.
"I need something that tastes like courage!"
"Do you have anything for dungeon nerves?"
"My party's waiting—can you make it faster?"
Her hands started shaking as she tried to remember the fry recipe while simultaneously ladling bowls. The peaceful morning felt like a lifetime ago.
But the echoes came with every dish.
Homesickness. Hope. Grief. Gratitude. Desperation.
With each plate, Marron felt more drained. Her Flavor Pulse stuttered, sending mixed signals. The warming bowls in front of her suddenly tasted wrong—too salty from her panicked sweat, underseasoned because she'd forgotten the merrymint. Nothing like the perfect breakfast Lucy had blushed over.
"Please," a young warrior said, armor still dented from recent battle. "The others all have stat-boost bread, healing broths. I've got nothing but coin and hope."
Marron's stomach dropped. "I... I don't make combat food."
"Then what good are you?" The warrior's face crumpled. "The dungeon opens tomorrow. My party's already suspicious I'm deadweight."
A shadow fell across her cart. Marron looked up to see a man in pristine robes sitting astride what looked like a living clay horse, its hooves barely touching the ground. Bottles clinked softly from saddlebags that probably cost more than her entire setup.
"Quaint," the alchemist said, voice dripping condescension. "Emotional cooking. How... rustic." His homunculus snorted through ceramic nostrils.
"When adventurers need real enhancement, they come to me. Precision. Measurable effects. Not whatever this sentimental theater is."
He dropped a silver coin on her counter. "Make me something that doesn't embarrass the square."
Then came the hooded figure.
Their voice was quiet. "Can you make something that tastes like missing someone?"
Marron's breath caught. Her hands trembled.
For a second, she was back on Earth. A cramped apartment. A flickering stove. A ghost of her mother humming over a pot. But it wasn't just her mother—it was every goodbye she'd never said properly, every friend who'd stopped calling, her father's funeral, empty chairs and silence.
Do I even have the right to recreate someone else's grief? Whose pain is this—theirs or mine?
Her hands shook as she reached for ingredients. The request triggered a cascade of her own losses, her Flavor Pulse stuttering and sending mixed signals. Too much salt. Not enough. Sweet when it should be savory.
She stared at the growing mess in her pan. Was she cooking their pain or just feeding them her own?
"I don't..." she started, then stopped. The customer waited. The line behind them grew longer. Other vendors were watching now, probably wondering why the new girl was having a breakdown over soup.
Was any of this real? Or was she just projecting her own memories onto everyone else's food?