The progress was undeniable. In his makeshift lab, Darren observed the Alatus in its sturdy cage. The creature's broken leg, treated daily with his antiseptic salve, was mending cleanly. Its appetite was healthy, and it no longer thrashed in panic when he approached. It was a successful domestication, a living asset. In the garden, the wheat and corn grew in disciplined rows, taller and greener than any crops in the village, a testament to proper fertilization and planning. Even the matron's health had seen a remarkable turnaround; the nutrient-rich tonics and hidden doses of penicillin had fought back the chronic, underlying infection that was dragging her down. She now spent a few hours each day in the main room, her presence a quiet miracle.
Darren's own health was also improving. The frailness of Kael's body was a stubborn anchor, but with the targeted remedies he created for himself, he felt a new strength in his limbs. The constant fatigue was receding, and his mind felt sharper. Yet, a significant problem remained, one that no amount of medicine could fix. It was the food.
The meals Sister Agnes prepared were an exercise in culinary misery. The morning porridge was a gray, watery gruel, boiled without a hint of salt or sweetness. The midday soup was a thin, murky broth with a few sad vegetables boiled into tasteless submission. Dinner was often a repeat of the same. It wasn't just bland; it was nutritionally bankrupt. The constant boiling destroyed whatever vitamins the vegetables might have had, and the lack of fat and protein left the children perpetually hungry and weak. Darren knew that if he and the others continued to eat this way, their health would never truly improve. This daily dose of culinary poison was undermining all his other efforts. He had to take matters into his own hands.
His plan required resources. He took a portion of his earnings from the slingshot sales and the bakery partnership and went to the village butcher, a rare visit for anyone from the orphanage. He bought a sizable piece of mutton, a luxury that cost him a heavy handful of coins. He also purchased a small but precious bag of salt from a trader. Back at the orphanage, he went to the communal garden and carefully selected the best of the vegetables: plump onions, firm carrots, and a few ripe tomatoes from a vine he had been nurturing. He also grabbed a loaf of the plain bread they were served daily.
He carried his ingredients not to the indoor kitchen, but to the large fire pit outside that served as the primary cooking area. He began to arrange his supplies on a clean, flat stone he used as a makeshift countertop.
Sister Agnes emerged from the main building, her face immediately tightening when she saw him. "What are you doing, Kael? Dinner is not for another two hours."
"I'm going to cook tonight," Darren said, his voice even.
The question stopped her short. "You are going to cook? Why?" The question was sharp, laced with suspicion.
"I thought the children might enjoy a change," he said carefully.
Her eyes narrowed. It was a direct challenge to her authority and her role. In her mind, she was the one who kept these children fed, who stretched their meagre resources to fill twenty bellies day after day. For this strange boy to imply her efforts weren't good enough was a profound insult.
"A change?" she repeated, her voice laced with ice. "The food I provide has kept you all alive. It is nourishing. You should be grateful you have anything to eat at all, not complaining about the taste." Her voice rose slightly. "You are an ungrateful child."
Darren didn't flinch. "I am grateful, Sister Agnes. But better food will make the children stronger and healthier."
Her face was a mask of rigid offense. She wanted to forbid it, to send him away and put him in his place. But a different thought took hold. All the other children were watching. She could see them peering from the doorway and windows. She imagined him failing, burning the precious meat, creating an inedible mess. The public humiliation would be a powerful lesson. A grim smile touched her lips.
"Fine," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "You wish to cook? Then cook. I want to see what marvels you create with your grand ideas." She crossed her arms, settling in to watch him fail. "But you will use your own ingredients. Do not touch the orphanage's supplies."
"I already have," Darren said, gesturing to the meat and vegetables.
He ignored her stare and got to work. His movements were precise and efficient. He took a knife he had sharpened himself and began to chop the onions and carrots into small, uniform pieces. He diced the tomatoes and set them aside. Then, he cut the mutton into bite-sized cubes, trimming away the excess fat and setting it aside. The other orphans, drawn by the novelty of the scene, began to gather at a safe distance, watching in silence.
He placed a large iron pot over the fire. Once it was hot, he threw in the pieces of mutton fat. They sizzled and popped, rendering down into a pool of clear, fragrant liquid. He removed the crispy remnants and then added the cubes of mutton to the hot fat. The smell of searing meat, rich and savory, filled the air. It was a scent almost entirely foreign to the orphanage grounds. The children leaned forward, their eyes wide.
Once the meat was browned on all sides, he added the chopped onions and carrots, stirring them until they softened. He then added the tomatoes, the bread torn into small pieces to act as a thickener, and enough clean, boiled water to cover everything. As the pot began to simmer, he reached into his own pouch and produced a small, tightly-sealed clay jar. Inside was his own blend of dried and ground herbs—a secret combination of wild thyme, dried garlic, and other flavorful plants he had identified with the AI's help. He sprinkled a generous amount into the stew.
The effect was instantaneous. A powerful, intoxicating aroma billowed from the pot. It was a complex and delicious smell, a world away from the bland scent of boiled vegetables. It was the smell of a real meal.
The aroma was a summons. Sister Marta came out, a look of surprise on her face. "What is that incredible smell?" she asked, before she saw Darren by the fire, calmly stirring the large pot. She looked toward Sister Agnes, who still stood with her arms crossed, her expression stony. "Agnes? What is happening?"
"The boy wanted to cook," Sister Agnes said flatly. "He said he wanted a change. Let him have his experiment."
Sister Marta looked from her colleague's rigid posture to Darren's focused work, and then to the circle of orphans whose faces were filled with a hopeful, hungry anticipation she had never seen before. She said nothing, and simply waited.
When the stew was thick and the meat was tender, Darren declared it was ready. The children lined up with their wooden bowls, their usual dinnertime reluctance replaced with an eager excitement. They watched as he ladled a generous portion for each of them. There were large chunks of meat and vegetables in a thick, savory gravy.
Sister Marta led the evening prayer. "Blessed Gods above," she began, her voice filled with a new note of wonder, "we thank you for this unexpected bounty, for the hands that prepared it, and for the nourishment it will provide. By your grace, we live."
"By your grace, we live," the children echoed, their eyes fixed on their bowls.
The first spoonful was a revelation. A wave of silence fell over the group, followed by murmurs of pure delight. The flavor was overwhelming. The salt, the savory meat, the sweetness of the carrots and onions, the complex notes of the herbs—it was a sensory explosion for palates accustomed to nothing but blandness.
Soon, a few of the younger children began to cry. Not loud wails, but quiet, hiccupping sobs, tears rolling down their cheeks as they continued to eat. More followed. Darren looked up, startled. He thought it was overkill, a bizarrely dramatic reaction. But then he looked at their faces and understood. This wasn't just about a tasty meal. For them, it was proof that food could be something other than a chore, something other than a tasteless necessity for survival. It could be a source of joy. The meat was a delicacy most of them had never tasted, a symbol of a life of plenty they couldn't imagine.
He watched them eat, their initial excitement settling into a deep, contented satisfaction. Even Sister Agnes, who had accepted a small bowl with reluctance, ate in a stiff, unbroken silence, her expression unreadable. Sister Marta ate with a slow, deliberate appreciation, her eyes occasionally flicking toward Darren with an expression of profound amazement.
When the meal was over, every bowl was empty, wiped clean with bread. The children were full and happy. Their usual post-dinner listlessness was replaced by a quiet energy.
Darren looked at the scene, the contented children and the empty pot, and felt a deep sense of accomplishment. This was another piece of the puzzle. Healthy bodies needed more than just medicine; they needed fuel. This one meal wouldn't change their lives, but it had planted a seed of possibility. It showed them all what could be. He hoped that one day, meals like this would be a regular occurrence, not a rare celebration. This success didn't make him complacent; it made him more determined than ever to keep working, to keep building, to turn this one good day into a better future for them all.