The Floating Markets of Jora were a sensory overload of architectural defiance. Imagine ten thousand sampans, dhows, and barges lashed together with thick hemp ropes and gravity-crystals, forming a drifting city that spanned three miles of the Nutmeg Current. The air here didn't just smell of spices; it felt heavy with the scent of commerce, woodsmoke, and the ozone of a thousand competing Prana-signatures.
"Welcome to the middle of everywhere," Elara said, guiding the Saffron-Stirrer into a narrow slip between a floating bakery and a barge selling live Sky-Squid. "In Jora, everything has a price—including your life. The ICCL doesn't run matches on iron piers here. They run them in the Vault of Flavors."
As Konja stepped onto the creaking cedar-plank docks, he felt the shift in energy. Unlike the raw, industrial heat of Port Saffron, Jora was refined and cutthroat. Men in silk robes haggled over single peppercorns as if they were diamonds.
"Keep your hands on your purses and your eyes on the shadows," Renzo cautioned, his Leaf-Blight clicking its scythes under its breath.
The Vault of Flavors
The group navigated the labyrinthine walkways to the center of the markets, where a massive, hollowed-out ancient turtle shell served as the Vault of Flavors. This was the premier auction house of the Spice Sea, and today, it was the site of the Mid-Water Trials.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Tiered seating rose up the inner walls of the shell, filled with wealthy merchants, spice-lords, and shrouded figures who could only be Black-Salt informants.
At the center of the arena stood a podium manned by a man with skin like parchment and a voice like a rusted hinge. "Item forty-two: A single ounce of Sun-Crystallized Saffron, harvested from the peaks of the Dragon's Spine. Opening bid: Five thousand Sea-Credits or a Rank-500 challenge!"
"That's it," Konja whispered. "The ingredient for the next rank."
"Konja, wait," Mina said, her ribbons twitching. "The Prana coming from that saffron... it's wrong. It's too bright, almost artificial."
The Trap is Set
Before Konja could respond, a voice boomed from the upper tiers. "Six thousand credits! And I offer a challenger to the boy with the fox!"
The crowd parted as a man in charcoal-gray silk descended the stairs. He was lean, with a jagged scar running across his throat and eyes that held the cold, flat light of the Obsidian Salt. Behind him walked two massive bodyguards carrying a iron-bound crate.
"I am Vane-Captain Draken," the man said, his voice a low hiss. "The Black-Salt Pirates have heard of your 'innovations,' Konja Munka. We offer you a deal. Win this auction-match, and the Saffron is yours. Lose... and the Saffron-Stirrer and the girl Elara come with us."
"We don't make deals with pirates," Tali growled, stepping forward.
"The ICCL rules are clear in Jora," the Auctioneer interjected. "A bid can be challenged by a Culinary Duel. If the challenger wins, they take the item and the loser's stakes."
Konja looked at Elara, who was pale, her hand gripping the piece of Obsidian Salt in her pocket. Then he looked at Zale. The fox was calm, his indigo eyes fixed on the iron crate the pirates had brought.
"I accept," Konja said.
The Duel of the Gilded Dish
The auction stage was transformed into a dual kitchen. Draken's station was a marvel of cold, black iron. He didn't use fire; he used a Void-Chamber, a device that sucked the air out of a vessel to "cold-boil" ingredients.
The theme: The Golden Saffron Risotto.
The Saffron was placed between them. As Konja reached for his portion, he felt it—a needle-prick of cold energy. The Saffron had been "seeded" with Obsidian Micro-Crystals. If he cooked it with normal fire, the crystals would expand, turning the dish into a spiritual poison that would backfire into his own meridians.
"He's rigged the ingredient," Konja realized, his heart hammering.
"Void-Style: The Empty Feast!" Draken shouted. He began to process his rice in the vacuum chamber, the grains turning a pale, ghostly white as they were stripped of their natural Prana. He then injected the Saffron essence, creating a dish that looked beautiful but felt like a hole in the air.
Konja stood before his station. He couldn't use the Fourth Gate; the heat would activate the trap. He couldn't use the Fifth; the balance would be shattered by the Obsidian seed.
"Zale... we need the Seventh Pillar."
"Konja, you haven't mastered that yet!" Mina shouted from the sidelines.
"The Seventh Pillar isn't about heat or balance," Konja whispered, his voice steady. "It's about Refining the Unrefined."
The Seventh Pillar: The Hearth of the Stars
Konja took the Heavens-Seared Cleaver-Blade and, instead of cutting the rice, he began to tap the spine of the blade against the side of his copper pot. Ting. Ting. Ting.
He was using Harmonic Vibration. He channeled his Prana through the blade, not as heat, but as a frequency designed to shatter the Obsidian crystals without harming the Saffron.
As he worked, the Saffron began to glow, not with its artificial pirate-light, but with a deep, earthy amber. The "seeds" of darkness were shaken loose, rising from the pot like black dust, which Zale promptly incinerated with a localized spark.
"Now, the flavor," Konja said.
He didn't use the luxury oils of the market. He used a splash of the Ginger-Gale Broth he had saved from the storm. The sharp, survivalist heat of the broth met the delicate, floral notes of the Saffron, creating a "Harmony of the Storm and the Sun."
The Verdict and the Escape
The Auctioneer and two master-tasters from the Spice-Lords approached. They tasted Draken's dish first. They nodded, their faces turning pale as the Void-essence briefly numbed their senses. "Technically perfect. A mastery of the vacuum."
Then they tasted Konja's.
The effect was like a sunburst in the middle of the dark Vault. The tasters didn't just feel full; they felt awake. The combination of the Saffron's warmth and the Ginger's bite cleared the "Market-Fog" from their minds.
"The winner... by unanimous decision... the Oakhaven Munka!"
Draken's face contorted into a mask of rage. "You think a bowl of rice saves you? Kill them! Take the girl!"
The iron-bound crate the bodyguards were carrying shattered, and out stepped a Void-Construct—a creature made of solidified Obsidian Salt and rusted ship-parts.
"Renzo, Tali! Clearance!" Konja yelled.
The Vault erupted into chaos. Tali launched herself at the bodyguards, her tonfas glowing like meteors. Renzo's Leaf-Blight spun into a whirlwind of green blades, holding back the pirate reinforcements.
Konja grabbed the Sun-Crystallized Saffron and Elara's hand. "To the ship! Now!"
They sprinted through the crowded walkways of Jora, the Void-Construct crashing through the floating stalls behind them like a juggernaut. They reached the Saffron-Stirrer just as Sully fired up the main boilers.
"Cast off!" Elara screamed, leaping to the helm.
As the ship tore away from the floating docks, leaving a wake of shattered sampans and angry pirates, Konja looked back at the Vault. Draken stood on the pier, his hand raised in a silent threat.
Konja looked at his Challenger's Token. The rank had shifted. 500.
"We got the ingredient, and we got the rank," Konja said, breathing hard. He looked at the Saffron in his hand. It was pure now, glowing with a soft, honest light. "But we just declared war on the entire Black-Salt fleet."
"Good," Tali said, wiping a splash of pirate-blood from her cheek. "I was starting to think this sea was too quiet."
The Saffron-Stirrer turned south, heading deeper into the heart of the Sea of Spices. The trap had failed, but the hunt had truly begun.