By noon, Charles arrived at his destination for brunch—Tre Sorelle, the famed alchemical restaurant of Duranth.
Tre Sorelle did not sit in the merchant plaza. It reigned.
Like a crowned queen cast from midnight wood and starlight, the two-story structure rose from a circular garden of mana-fed roses, its shadow-touched timber woven with climbing moonvine and crystal-glass windowpanes enchanted to reflect the dominant aura of those who gazed into them. At that moment, they gleamed with a cool violet luster—an echo of Charles's masked presence.
The scent of rare herbs and elemental spices drifted from its terrace—basilisk tongue, frozen pepperroot, phoenix-leaf tea. An ambient field of qi buzzed faintly across the paving stones like a heartbeat. The wooden sign, carved with flowing script, shimmered with three interlocking swords beneath a trio of stars.
Tre Sorelle. The Three Sisters. Its name was whispered in noble parlors, toasted in merchant halls, and burned onto the tongues of chefs from three kingdoms over. Not because it fed the rich, but because it fed the powerful.
Alchemical cuisine.
Meals that didn't just nourish, but enhance. Dishes steeped in mana, plated with spiritual metals, cooked with beast cores and flame-attuned stones. Warriors left with sharper reflexes. Mages walked out with clearer minds. Some claimed the food induced dreams that unlocked bloodline secrets or elemental visions.
Charles stepped through the outer arch, hood drawn low. A steel-armored doorman appraised him—masked, cloaked, graceful but unreadable.
The man didn't question. He simply bowed.
"Welcome, honored guest."
Charles entered.
Silence embraced him. Not the silence of absence, but of respect. Mana-silk drapes fluttered in a breeze that didn't touch the air. Flame orbs floated above, trapped in glass domes shaped like falling starlight. The walls were lined with preserved magical beasts—not dead but encased in temporal stasis: a wyvern frozen mid-roar, a shadow cat poised to leap, a silver vulture with feathers like blades.
Each table was a crescent booth layered in obsidian lacquer and rune-inscribed wood, separated by thin curtains of translucent silk. Privacy magic hummed from the walls. No word here left the table it was spoken at.
From between two screens stepped a young woman. She moved like poured ink—flawless, composed, measured.
She wore black and gold. Tailored robes with Tre Sorelle's crest embroidered over her chest. Her aura was calm, but sharp—like a blade sheathed in velvet.
Charles scanned her unconsciously.
[Target Analysis: Name: Micah. Profession: Tre Sorelle Attendant. Cultivation: Foundations Realm, Rank 6. Affinity: Wind.]
"Welcome to Tre Sorelle," she said with a practiced bow. "Would you prefer a private table, or a window booth?"
"A booth. Western windows."
She tilted her head in acknowledgment. "Right this way, sir."
Charles followed her past a corridor of softly humming glyphs. Micah walked with the discipline of someone who could break a bone with her elbow and quote classical poetry with the same breath. A noble's training, repurposed.
In his past life, she'd have closed million-gold contracts with a handshake and ruined three rival companies by sundown.
Here, she escorted masked strangers with quiet dignity.
Tre Sorelle doesn't hire servants, Charles thought. They cultivate assets.
His seat faced a tall window veiled in mistglass. The sun filtered through, throwing iridescent fractals across the table. The menu appeared in glowing script as soon as he sat, cycling options based on his ambient qi and constitution stats.
It was time to eat like a king.
It was time to think like a conqueror.
Micah handed him a menu—lacquered black, edged with silver filigree, and humming with a faint trace of enchantment. As Charles opened it, the script rearranged itself according to his qi signature.
"Would you like recommendations, sir?" Micah asked, her tone smooth but touched with a flicker of amusement, as if she already knew the answer.
Charles tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting beneath the mask. "Naturally. I didn't come all this way to eat something ordinary."
She smiled—not the polite kind, but the barely-there curve of someone enjoying their job a little too much. "Then allow me to tempt you with our Warrior's Set. It's our most requested course for traveling swordsmen, hungry duelists, and the occasional brooding noble in disguise."
"Oh? Sounds dangerously perfect. What's in it?" he asked, leaning back with theatrical interest.
She didn't miss a beat. "Glad you asked. Prepare yourself for an edible adventure."
She raised a hand and began listing, each item delivered with the flair of a bard spinning a tale over wine and firelight:
"First up—Seared Lava Drake Flank, glazed in chasm salt and moon cider. Straight from a beast with more fire issues than your average dragon-slaying poem. It'll toughen your insides, heat your blood, and probably make your heart beat like a war drum."
"Spicy," Charles muttered approvingly.
"Then we have Sylvan Nettleleaf Tagliatelle—pasta so elegant it practically floats. Drenched in spirit-butter and kissed by brambleberry oil. Foraged from fae groves, perfect for sharpening the senses and calming the breath. Side effects may include spontaneous enlightenment or accidental poetry."
Charles chuckled. "I'll keep my inner bard in check."
"Next, the Medu of the Siren Depths Soup—don't worry, it won't sing you to your doom. Distilled from a Moonlit Reef leviathan, it clears the mind, smooths the nerves, and unknots the soul like an underwater massage."
"I could use a soul massage," he admitted.
"And finally," she said with a mock-dramatic flourish, "the grand finale: Stardrop Custard Bloom. Cream from dream-fruit, laid on a crust spun from faerie petals. Sweet enough to make grown generals cry and wise enough to whisper secrets in your sleep."
Charles let out a low whistle. "That sounds like dessert therapy with a touch of espionage."
"Exactly," she said with a wink.
"And the drink?"
She leaned in, lowering her voice like she was about to share a state secret. "Eclipse thorn Reserve. Wine made from grapes grown only when both moons align. Cosmic timing, celestial vibes, all that fancy stuff. Drink it under moonlight, and your qi starts humming like a love song to the stars. Essence refinement skyrockets. Pairs well with brooding on balconies."
Charles set the menu down with a smirk. "You had me at 'brooding noble in disguise.' I'll take the full set. And the wine."
Micah bowed gracefully, the corners of her lips twitching with amusement. "One Warrior's Banquet with a side of existential clarity, coming right up."
He exhaled and leaned back.
This place doesn't just serve food. It serves transformation.
The food didn't arrive. It made an entrance.
First came a procession of soft-footed servers dressed in shadow-silk and gold-threaded sashes, moving with the synchronicity of a high-level formation squad. They didn't carry plates—they presented artifacts. Each course floated an inch above rune-etched platters, suspended by ambient qi and the quiet hum of stabilization magic.
Charles arched an eyebrow. "Subtle."
"They're showing off," SIGMA said. "And you love it."
The first dish—Seared Lava Drake Flank—descended like a sacred relic, steam curling off its scorched surface in lazy spirals. The meat shimmered amber-red, its glaze thick with dark chasm salt and caramelized moon cider. Charles took one bite.
Boom.
His mouth exploded with fire, smoke, and a punch of primal rage that somehow whispered balance. It wasn't just heat—it was awakening. His blood surged as if a bell had been struck inside his chest. His skin warmed. Muscles tightened. Even his spleen, that famously underappreciated organ, felt respected for once.
He exhaled.
"That's not food," he murmured. "That's a war chant served medium-rare."
"Your organs are clapping," SIGMA added.
"Tell them to save the encore."
Before his body could decide whether to growl or meditate, the second course glided in—Sylvan Nettleleaf Tagliatelle. A bouquet of green-gold pasta danced beneath a drizzle of brambleberry oil. The aroma was crisp and herbaceous, tinged with the slight wildness of woods at dawn.
The first bite?
Cool, earthy, alive. Like the wind was practicing footwork drills on his tongue. With every chew, his breathing naturally slowed. His shoulders lowered by a fraction. His spine lengthened. He became still without becoming stagnant.
The world… made sense.
"It's like my lungs are meditating," Charles muttered.
"And your thoughts just filed themselves alphabetically," SIGMA replied.
The Medu of the Siren Depths Soup arrived in a crystal bowl so delicate it looked like it might sing if tapped. It didn't. Instead, it shimmered in soft gradients of ocean blue and starlight silver. A silver spoon dipped into the gelatinous broth, catching medu slices that pulsed faintly, as though they still remembered the tides.
He sipped. Gently.
The taste was impossible to describe without sounding poetic.
Salted clarity. Liquified calm. It was the flavor of silence after chaos. Of moonlight on waves.
With each spoonful, Charles felt as if invisible weights were being lifted from his bones. His spine cracked—softly, appreciatively. His jaw relaxed. The vague tension that had been dragging behind his eyes since the Ziglar estate simply… unraveled.
"By the Abyss," he whispered. "I think I just forgave my enemies."
"Wait until dessert," SIGMA warned. "You might start blessing them."
Which led, inevitably, to the final act: Stardrop Custard Bloom.
A translucent plate of faerie-petal crust cradled a scoop of glowing custard—violet and blue, humming with soft magic like a lullaby. It shimmered under the dining light, utterly unthreatening, deceptively delicate.
He took one spoonful.
And smiled like he hadn't in weeks.
Joy.
Actual joy.
Not the manic kind that came from victory or revenge, but the quiet, gentle hum of something… okay deep in his chest. A sweetness that reminded him what happiness had once tasted like. Like clear skies, or his old favorite jazz vinyl, or coffee after a night of corporate bloodletting.
It softened everything. His mood. His heartbeat. Even the cold edges of his thoughts.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Buff Acquired: Lunar Qi Alignment
+12% Qi absorption rate during night cultivation
Duration: 24 hours
Buff Acquired: Enhanced Vital Recovery
+20% muscle and core regeneration
Duration: 12 hours
Buff Acquired: Reflex Heightening
+7% agility and dodging efficiency
Duration: 6 hours
Buff Acquired: Emotional Stability
Mood locked: Centered
Duration: Indefinite (while within 3 hours of stardrop intake)
Charles leaned back, fingers steepled, staring out the veil-wrapped window at the drifting gondolas and sun-dappled canal.
This wasn't a meal.
This was preparation.
Tre Sorelle didn't just feed warriors. It upgraded them.
He sipped the Eclipsethorn Reserve, and it slid down his throat like liquid moonlight. Smooth, complex, a note of twilight on the tail end.
"Delightful," Charles murmured.
"According to legend," SIGMA added, "consuming this wine under moonlight while surrounded by musical cultivators boosts your insight rate by 19.2%."
He leaned back, and for once, he was still.
"This is it," he murmured. "This is a foodgasm of the highest order."
SIGMA replied, "Congratulations. You have achieved culinary enlightenment. Next level unlocked: Gastronomic Ascension."
Charles chuckled.
It wasn't just indulgence. It was strategy.
Each dish—refined. Each ingredient—alchemized. Each effect—measured.
This restaurant is a fortress disguised as a feast hall, he thought. No wonder nobles come here to negotiate. The food does half the persuasion for you.
He sipped the Eclipsethorn Reserve last.
And it was… otherworldly.
"SIGMA," he said softly.
"Yes?"
"When we build our empire… remind me to start with a restaurant."
"A wise choice," SIGMA replied. "After all, power begins at the table."
And Charles raised his glass with a grin.
"To conquest," he whispered. "One course at a time."