Morning sunlight spilled through the inn’s wooden shutters, painting narrow golden lines across the small rented room.
Ethan opened his eyes and lay still for a moment. Outside, Azure Shore had already awakened. Merchants called out to early customers in the streets below, wagon wheels rumbled across cobblestones, and somewhere nearby, a blacksmith’s hammer rang with a steady, rhythmic clang.
Unlike yesterday, there was no hunting commission waiting for him.
He sat up, stretched, and opened his inventory. The remaining cuts of Forest Rabbit meat rested neatly inside, preserved by the inventory’s storage effect. He had killed it cleanly and harvested it properly, but every time his gaze lingered on those neatly stacked cuts, the same thought returned: I don’t actually know what to do with this.
He could sell it. Half the hunters in Azure Shore turned their game straight into bronze coins and let someone else worry about the kitchen. It was efficient, but it also felt... a little hollow.
If Asterra rewarded self-sufficiency — and everything he had experienced so far suggested it did — then depending entirely on purchased meals was a weakness waiting to be exploited. A long expedition with no nearby town. A supply line cut off. A wallet that ran dry faster than expected.
Another profession would make me less breakable, he thought, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
Cooking, then.
He had no real experience with it beyond cooking dinner for his parents back home, but that had never stopped him before. Archery hadn’t come naturally either. Neither had reading a wolf’s footprints. Everything in this world seemed to start the same way: badly, and then gradually a little less badly.
After washing up downstairs and finishing the inn’s simple breakfast of fresh bread, vegetable soup, and a boiled egg, Ethan stepped out into Azure Shore’s crisp morning air.
The town looked noticeably different compared to the evening before. Instead of battered adventurers returning from the wilderness, people were preparing to leave. Hunters checked bowstrings. Gatherers sorted empty baskets. Merchants arranged fresh goods outside their shops. Several players hurried past carrying pickaxes over their shoulders, likely heading toward nearby mining sites before they became crowded.
The market square occupied nearly an entire district near Azure Shore’s center. Canvas stalls lined both sides of the street, overflowing with produce, spices, herbs, dried meat, fish, and everyday supplies.
The scent hit him before the crowd did — fresh bread, roasted nuts, drying herbs, and woodsmoke lingering in the morning breeze.
None of it felt artificial or staged for players. A farmer argued cheerfully with a merchant over a sack of onions. Two children darted between cart wheels, chasing each other while their mother pretended to scold them. A cart loaded with clay jars rattled past, its driver calling out polite warnings to pedestrians.
The world didn’t exist just because players were in it; Azure Shore existed because its people lived here, worked here, and needed to eat.
Ethan wandered slowly, looking over the ingredients. He didn’t have a recipe — he didn’t know one here. Instead, he tried to think logically. Rabbit meat. It needed basic seasonings first.
A modest wooden sign reading Martha’s Pantry caught his eye. Shelves beneath the canvas awning displayed small cloth pouches filled with spices, bottles of oil, dried herbs, and neatly labeled jars.
An elderly woman with silver hair and sleeves rolled to her elbows sat behind the counter, sorting a basket of fresh greens with quick, practiced hands.
"Looking to cook for yourself, or just thinking?" she asked, glancing up with an easy smile.
"A bit of both," Ethan admitted, stepping closer. "It’s my first attempt here. I’m trying to learn the system, but I don’t really know where to start."
Martha set her basket down and studied him — not unkindly, but with the sharp eye of someone inspecting unshaped material.
"Then start simple, Ember," she said smoothly. "Most beginners start by chasing the wrong thing. They want rare ingredients, exotic spices, monster meat with a fancy name. Then they burn an onion."
Ethan huffed a quiet laugh. "That sounds uncomfortably specific."
"It’s specific because I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count." Martha gestured across her stall. "Everything here is ordinary. Salt. Black pepper. Wild garlic. Forest thyme. Cooking oil." She tapped the counter. "Yet half the dishes that fail in this town fail because someone couldn’t handle these properly, not because they lacked something rare."
"So the ingredients aren’t the problem."
"The ingredients are rarely the problem." Martha picked up a plain onion, turning it in her fingers. "Understanding your ingredients matters far more than owning expensive ones. This will teach you more about heat, timing, and patience than a rare monster steak ever will. Master the ordinary first."
Ethan quietly stored the advice away. It sounded surprisingly similar to something Garrick might say. Master the basics first. Only then move forward.
"What would you recommend for rabbit?" Ethan asked.
Martha nodded confidently and placed a few items on the counter. "Rock salt. Black pepper. Wild garlic. Forest thyme — use that one sparingly. And cooking oil. Beginners always forget the oil."
Ethan picked up each item in turn.
[Item Obtained]
Obtained:
• Rock Salt ×1
• Black Pepper ×1
• Wild Garlic ×1
• Forest Thyme ×1
• Cooking Oil ×1
After paying a few bronze coins, Ethan tucked the bundles into his inventory. Just as he turned to leave, Martha called after him, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.
"Oh, one more thing, Ember. If you ever get a craving for finer cooking — the best ingredients rarely come from market stalls. They grow in distant forests. Some only bloom during certain seasons. Others can only be gathered by adventurers willing to travel where merchants cannot." She smiled warmly. "And the rarest ingredients? They usually try to eat you first."
Ethan couldn’t help laughing. "I’ll keep that in mind."
"The public kitchen’s two streets over," Martha added. "Go watch before you cook. You’ll learn faster."
The public kitchen was louder and far more chaotic than Ethan expected.
Long stone ovens occupied one wall, iron cooking ranges lined another, and heavy wooden preparation tables filled the center. Smoke curled lazily toward vents in the ceiling, carrying a rich mixture of roasting meat, baked bread, simmering broth, and toasted spices.
Nearly every workstation was occupied. NPC families prepared meals together, traveling merchants cooked before hitting the road, and several beginner players nervously experimented with ingredients.
No system windows hovered over recipes. No glowing lines pointed toward success. Everyone learned the exact same way: by doing.
Ethan paid a small rental fee and took a spot near one of the stone ovens. But instead of starting immediately, he paused and watched, just as Martha had suggested.
He watched how the experienced cooks controlled their fires — never letting the flames climb too high, adjusting the wood in small increments rather than dumping it all in at once. He watched how they tasted constantly, adjusting as they went rather than trusting a recipe blindly.
Across the room, a young player proudly attempted to flip a pan-seared fish — only to launch it directly onto the stone floor.
The nearby workstation erupted into laughter.
"Congratulations," an old NPC cook grinned, leaning over his pot. "You’ve successfully prepared dinner for the floor."
"I knew I should’ve practiced first!" the player groaned, though he was laughing at himself as he reached for a rag to clean it up.
Nobody mocked him for it. Nobody so much as looked twice. The kitchen simply kept moving, one small disaster at a time.
They’re not chasing perfection, Ethan realized. They’re chasing understanding.
It reminded him, oddly enough, of the forest. Of reading tracks in the mud, or watching a target’s ears twitch before drawing his bowstring. Combat had taught him to read his environment before acting. Cooking asked for the exact same thing — just with fire and spices instead of steel and bowstrings.
He unslung his pack, laid the rabbit meat onto the wooden prep board, and picked up the kitchen knife.
An old cook passing by slowed his pace, glancing at the cuts of meat and the neatly arranged pouches of herbs. "First time?"
"Is it that obvious?" Ethan asked.
"You’re still deciding whether to touch the pan." The old man’s mouth twitched with a faint, dry humor. "Everyone hesitates before their first mistake."
"Comforting."
"It should be." The man walked on without lingering. "It means you’re paying attention."
Ethan looked down at the knife, the raw meat, and the quiet crackle of the wood fire beneath the iron range. He took a slow breath and rolled up his sleeves.
"All right," he whispered to himself. "Let’s see what I can learn."
He had no idea yet just how badly his first attempt was about to go.
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