The next morning came too quickly.
Will stood in the quiet kitchen, staring at the empty bowl from last night's dinner. Einsfel had already left at dawn — the academy carriage had arrived before sunrise. She had given him one last hug at the door, her silver-gray hair brushing against his cheek, and whispered, "Don't take too long."
Now the house felt unbearably empty.
He picked up the Mother's Worn Pot and began washing it mechanically. The Simple Apron still hung on its hook, stained with yesterday's spices. The Inherited Kitchen Knife lay on the counter, its blade catching the morning light.
"No magic," Will muttered to himself. "No sword skills. Just… this."
He looked at his hands — calloused from years of chopping, stirring, and washing. Hands that could dice an onion faster than most mages could cast a basic spell, but completely useless in the eyes of the Royal Magic Academy.
The entrance exam was in three days. The practical test required candidates to demonstrate combat ability using magic against summoned magical beasts. Those without magic were usually rejected outright unless they had exceptional martial talent.
Will had neither.
He dried the pot and set it back on the stove. Then, almost on instinct, he began to cook. Not for anyone else this time — just for himself. He needed to think.
Chili peppers. Garlic. A few wild herbs he had gathered yesterday. He moved with focused intensity, the Inherited Kitchen Knife flashing as he minced ingredients. The Mother's Worn Pot heated up, releasing a familiar spicy aroma that slowly filled the small kitchen.
As the broth simmered, Will's mind raced.
What if I just… show up with food?
The thought was ridiculous. He laughed at himself, a short, bitter sound.
But the more he thought about it, the less ridiculous it seemed. During the test, the examiners would release low-level magical beasts. The other candidates would blast them with fireballs and ice lances. What if… what if the beasts could be affected by something else?
Something like flavor.
He tasted the soup. It was strong — perhaps too strong. The heat spread down his throat like liquid fire. For a brief moment, he felt something stir inside him. A tiny spark. Not magic, but something warmer, deeper. Like the memory of his mother's voice guiding his hands.
The spark faded almost immediately.
Will sighed and poured the soup into a bowl. He took a spoonful.
The moment the broth touched his tongue, the spark returned — brighter this time. His body felt lighter. His senses sharpened. The knife on the counter seemed to hum faintly.
He blinked.
"What… was that?"
Before he could investigate further, a loud crash came from outside. A stray low-level magical beast — a small Flamefang Pup that had wandered into town — had knocked over a market stall and was now sniffing around hungrily.
Will's heart jumped. This was dangerous. The townspeople were already shouting in panic.
Without thinking, he grabbed the Mother's Worn Pot (still half-full of the experimental spicy soup), the Inherited Kitchen Knife, and dashed out the door, Simple Apron still tied around his waist.
"Hey!" he shouted, waving the pot like an idiot. "Over here!"
The Flamefang Pup turned, red eyes locking onto him. It growled, flames licking at its jaws.
Will swallowed hard.
He had no plan. No magic. Only a pot of soup and sheer stubbornness.
The pup charged.
Will did the only thing he could think of — he scooped a ladleful of the still-hot soup and flung it directly at the beast's face.
The spicy aroma exploded in the air.
The Flamefang Pup skidded to a halt mid-charge. Its nose twitched violently. It sniffed once… twice… then lunged — not at Will, but at the pot itself.
It took a massive gulp straight from the ladle.
For three glorious seconds, nothing happened.
Then its eyes widened.
"GRAAAAAH—!!!"
The pup began to spin in circles, flames shooting uncontrollably from its mouth and nostrils. Its own fire element had gone completely berserk from the overwhelming spiciness. It looked like a living firework spinning out of control.
Will stood frozen, pot still in hand.
The pup finally crashed into a nearby tree, knocking itself out cold in a dramatic puff of chili-scented smoke.
Silence fell over the street.
Then someone started clapping.
Will turned slowly. A small crowd had gathered. Among them was old man Garrick, the town's retired hunter, who was laughing so hard he had to hold his belly.
"Boy, you just defeated a Flamefang Pup with soup! I've seen everything now!"
Will looked down at the Mother's Worn Pot in his hands. The soup inside was still steaming peacefully, as if nothing had happened.
He felt that strange spark again — warmer, clearer this time.
Maybe… just maybe… there really was another way.
That night, Will sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at the three pieces of equipment in front of him: the pot, the knife, and the apron.
He whispered to the empty room, voice filled with quiet determination.
"If magic won't let me stay by her side… then I'll make my own path. With nothing but these."
Outside, the moon rose high over Spicehaven. Far away, in the direction of the capital, Einsfel was probably already settling into her new dormitory.
Will gripped the handle of the Inherited Kitchen Knife tightly.
"I'm coming, Einsfel. Even if I have to cook my way through the entire academy."