Twice a year, a ceremonial tradition was held by the religion the orphanage served under, an event directly sponsored by the kingdom itself. Once a child reached the age of seven, they would receive a mandate from the church, a moment that quietly marked a shift in their place in the world, whether they understood it or not.
Such practice was a very crucial ceremony, especially for commoners, as it officially allowed them to enter the workforce. It was not simply a formality, but something that slowly stripped away the comfort of being just a child.
A week after the ceremony, the orphans who received the mandate became very busy around the orphanage, their movements carrying a subtle urgency. During this period, Mother Lilith always organized educational programs that taught the children practical skills such as handicraft, cooking, and similar lessons. So if the children wished to leave the orphanage afterward, they would at least gain ideas and experience that could support their needs and help establish them as part of society, even if only at the most basic level.
The lessons were not exclusive to the mandated children. Others who wished to join were also welcome, giving everyone a chance to gain better experience or simply take part in something meaningful. As everyone busied themselves in the kitchen, the children who wanted to learn cooking had practically locked themselves inside, working for days now to master at least the basics of cookery, even if their results rarely matched their effort.
Hanabi sat at the table along with a few others whom Mother Lilith had ordered to participate. Their job was to judge the aspiring chefs and evaluate their work. Hanabi only participated because he could not refuse, not because he had any particular interest in the role.
Listening to the noises coming from inside, he felt bad for the equipment the children were using. Plates were breaking, and even those made of wood produced loud, unpleasant sounds when they fell. Other utensils were not spared either, as he could hear constant smashing from within, one after another, as if nothing inside was handled with care. The place was far noisier than it used to be. With so many children inside, the kitchen sounded chaotic, almost overwhelming.
Despite all of that, Hanabi found this moment of the day particularly pleasing.
Those who did not participate in the kitchen were busy with handicrafts elsewhere, so he usually only saw everyone together during meals, and even then only briefly. Seeing most of them gathered in one place for a longer time, even in such disorder, gave him a quiet sense of comfort he did not expect.
"IT'S DONE!"
The kitchen door slammed open rather violently as the aspiring chef marched toward the table, carrying their creation. When Hanabi saw their messy appearance, he felt a bad omen upon seeing the barely recognizable food they had prepared. His body instinctively reacted, just in case something went wrong. He unconsciously sharpened his senses, except for his sense of taste, which had already dulled from the moment he smelled the food while they were cooking, as if his body had already prepared itself for disappointment.
Meat by itself often tasted plain, no matter how it was cooked. That was why people usually wrapped it in certain plant leaves that enhanced the flavor and preserved it for days before cooking. There were other methods as well, such as boiling the meat with plants or leaves, though the taste was less appealing compared to the wrapping method. However, for immediate preparation, boiling was efficient, even if it lacked depth.
Because of that, judgment mostly relied on specific categories. If the meat was wrapped before cooking, its flavor depended on how long it had been preserved, the type of leaf used, and how the food was cooked. For boiling methods, the deciding factor mainly depended on the type of leaf used and the way the meat was boiled.
"How is it?" the aspiring chef nervously asked as Hanabi began tasting, their voice carrying a quiet fear of being judged.
"You used the common leaf for this meat. Even though it's edible enough, it's pale in comparison to what we eat daily," Hanabi answered, trying to remain as gentle and honest as possible, choosing his words carefully.
"You think so? I think the taste is good enough," said his fellow judge beside him, speaking casually without much thought.
The aspiring chef could not say they were happy with the evaluation. Though they understood what he meant, they did not react much and simply returned to the kitchen as if they had lost a war, their earlier confidence noticeably fading.
"You see, taste always matters when it comes to food," Hanabi said to the child beside him. "You might like the taste, but others might hate it, so you have to make it better."
"No wonder they always call you weird," the boy replied.
The remark was rather insulting, leaving Hanabi silent, though he chose not to react or defend himself.
The aspiring chefs stopped cooking for the moment and began planning instead, discussing which leaves they should use next time or other possible methods they knew. Their voices were no longer as loud, now replaced by quieter, more thoughtful exchanges. Hanabi, now left with nothing to do, left the table and watched the others as he passed through the rooms.
Some children, mostly boys, were outside playing sword fights. Some of them dreamed of joining the military, while others hoped to join guilds like the adventurers. They could not yet do so, since the minimum age requirement For both was thirteen. Still, knowing what they wanted to become was not a bad thing at all, even if their current abilities were far from enough.
As Hanabi passed a room, he noticed a girl sitting at the corner of a desk, reading a book. Her name was Misa, six years old. She loved reading and flowers. It was rare for Hanabi to see her, which made him slightly curious.
"A book about making potions. Are you interested in it?"
Startled and displeased by his sudden approach, Misa glared at him.
"Leave!"
Hanabi knew he had messed up, so he walked away without saying anything, not bothering to explain himself.
"Hanabi." A girl's voice called from behind him.
"Who might you be?" Hanabi asked, thinking he was seeing a stranger.
"I'm Gluy! Do I really have such a forgettable face?" the girl asked, sounding both self-aware and slightly concerned.
"I think so," Hanabi replied bluntly.
She fell silent for a moment before letting out a forced chuckle, trying to ease the awkwardness.
"Joke aside, I don't remember talking to you. But if we did, consider yourself forgettable," Hanabi added sarcastically.
"No… I don't remember us ever talking," she said in a soft tone, the kind people use when quietly denying something they do not want to admit.
"Do you need something?" he asked.
"Ah, yes! Mother Lilith asked if you could help with the cooking. Everyone is running out of ideas on how to make their food better."
Realizing the obligation placed upon him, Hanabi paused for a moment, troubled as he thought of possible ways to help, even if he did not show it clearly.
"I will think about it."
Gluy smiled, clearly hoping he would help, her expression softening.
"However, I'm always willing to help regardless. You don't need to lie and use Mother Lilith's name for it," he said as he continued walking as if he did not care.
There was one specific room in the orphanage that was not open to everyone. The nuns used the place for important work. As Hanabi passed by, he noticed the door was open, which was rare enough to tempt him to look inside.
Inside, the nuns were knitting clothing similar to their own uniforms, but smaller and mostly white, while their own robes were mostly black. There was only one reason for this.
The church had discovered talented orphans who might someday become nuns.
Hanabi wondered how many children they had found, though the thought did not stay long.
Soon he saw Mother Lilith walking toward him. He suddenly remembered that she often helped the nuns with knitting, which explained where she was going. Feeling slightly uneasy for reasons he did not fully understand, he continued walking toward her.
"Is the cooking going fine?" Mother Lilith gently asked.
"No one can cook well in just one day," Hanabi replied.
Mother Lilith giggled softly, as if she had expected that answer from him.
"Can you help them with the cooking?" she asked gently.
Hanabi fell silent, remembering what Gluy had asked earlier, before finally nodding in agreement.
Mother Lilith continued on her way, ending their conversation.
But Hanabi suddenly remembered something. "Mother Lilith!" he called.
She turned around.
"How many expired lamps do you still have?"