The West Plains did not smell like a kingdom. They smelled of dry grass, desperate sweat, and the metallic tang of fear.
I stood over a flat, basalt stone that I had spent the last hour heating with a localized friction spell. My Intelligence (150) calculated the surface temperature: 232°C. Perfect for a hard sear. Beside me, a slab of Great-Wolf haunch lay on a clean dock leaf. It was lean, tough, and carried the gamey scent of a predator that had spent its life running.
In my previous life, I was a High-Level Cook. I knew that with enough time, acid, and heat, even the most aggressive beast could be made tender.
"Arthur," a low, growling voice rumbled behind me.
I didn't turn. I adjusted my white chef's toque—a magically reinforced silk that stayed pristine despite the dirt of the plains. "Patience, Jasper. If I flip it now, we lose the crust. No crust, no flavor. No flavor, no morale."
Jasper, a silver-furred werewolf whose ribs showed through his matted coat, let out a huff of hot breath. Behind him, Amber and a dozen other refugees watched with hollow eyes. They were the "assets" the Gilded Chain Consortium had discarded when the famine hit—non-humans deemed too expensive to feed and too stubborn to break.
"The Consortium scouts are two miles out," Jasper warned, his claws twitching. "They come to reclaim 'stolen property.' They don't care about flavor."
"They'll care about the smell," I muttered.
I reached out my hand. [Skill Activated: Raise Minor Undead].
From the dirt beside the fire, a skeletal hand erupted, followed by a clattering frame of sun-bleached bone. It stood three feet tall, wearing a tattered rag that resembled a waist-apron.
"Sous-Chef One," I commanded. "Seasoning."
The skeleton reached into a pouch at its hip and produced a coarse mixture of crushed wild peppercorns and dried mountain herbs I'd scavenged in the Northern Forest. With mechanical, tireless precision, it sprinkled the rub over the meat from a height of exactly twelve inches.
[Parallel Processing Active: Monitoring Sear Depth... 88%... 92%...]
"Now," I whispered.
I flipped the steak. The hiss was like a battle cry. The aroma hit the air instantly—the sweet, nutty scent of rendering fat and caramelized protein. The Maillard Reaction was in full swing, turning the wolf's muscle into a deep, mahogany brown.
Jasper's knees buckled slightly. The refugees, who had been shivering in the cold wind, suddenly stood straighter. Their predatory instincts were being overridden by something older and more powerful: Culinarily-Induced Hope.
"They're here," Amber hissed, pointing toward the eastern ridge.
A line of armored riders appeared, their breastplates engraved with the golden-link sigil of the Gilded Chain. At their head rode a man in polished silk—The Ledger's local agent. They looked down at our small camp with the bored expression of a man counting crates in a warehouse.
I didn't reach for a sword. I picked up my obsidian boning knife.
"Sous-Chef One," I said, my voice cold as a walk-in freezer. "The onions. Slice them brunoise. If I see a single uneven cube, I'll send you back to the dirt."
The skeleton's knives began to blur. Clack-clack-clack-clack.
I stepped toward the approaching riders, the sizzling steak still resting on the hot stone behind me. "You're early for your reservation," I called out. "And unfortunately, we don't serve parasites."
The Ledger's agent sneered. "Arthur, the 'Mad Cook.' You've cost us a lot of gold, 'liberating' these laborers. We're here to collect the debt. In blood, if the copper is missing."
I tasted the air. The wind was carrying the scent of my roast across the ridge. I saw the riders' horses toss their heads, distracted. I saw the mercenaries' pupils dilate.
"You speak of debt," I said, lifting the knife. "But you've neglected the most important bill: The cost of service. My staff is ready. The station is prepped."
I snapped my fingers. From the shadows of the nearby rocks, ten more skeletons rose, each clutching a sharpened meat hook and a heavy cleaver.
"Service is live, boys," I grinned, the blue mana of a Necromancer flickering in my eyes. "Let's start with the de-boning."