CHAPTER 53: 53

The second day at The Emberdrop Pavilion was chaos. Controlled, blistering, mouth-watering chaos.

The line wrapped around the plaza again. And now? It wasn’t just eager locals and curious merchants.

Servants had begun to appear.

Not in uniform. Never in uniform. They came dressed in humble robes and worn sandals, quietly stepping into line with their heads lowered. But anyone with eyes could tell—they were trained.

The way they carried themselves, the way their eyes scanned the entrance, the way they whispered orders to each other while pretending to be ordinary citizens.

They weren’t here for their masters.

They were here despite them.

Word had spread like wildfire through the noble households of Caerywn. Not officially—never officially—but down the servant halls and kitchen alleys, from stable boy to footman to chambermaid.

The Emberdrop Pavilion was the place. A temple of fire and flavor. A shrine of forbidden taste.

No noble had dared to come yet. But their shadows had.

***

In the Heat of the Kitchen,the kitchen was straining under the weight of expectation.

Flour misted through the air. Knives sang on chopping boards. Oil hissed like a demon caught in a steam pipe. The wok-stations were glowing, flames leaping higher than regulation allowed, but no one dared slow down.

The pressure was mounting.

And at the center of it all stood Virellen.

Her grey eyes were sharp. Her sleeves were rolled. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied into a messy knot that somehow still looked deliberate. Grease spattered across her apron like war paint.

"Station Four, you’re three seconds slow again. Get it together, or I’ll have you peeling garlic for the next decade."

"Drop that into the firepot—not the sauce! Are you trying to summon a fire elemental?!"

Orders flew like lightning bolts. Staff moved in her wake, snapping to action not out of fear, but because there was no room for hesitation. Not in this storm.

She moved like she belonged in this chaos—gliding from station to station with sleeves stained and hands steady.

She tweaked sauces with the flick of a ladle, checked temperatures with her fingertips, adjusted plating by eye, and never once stopped moving.

And beside her, silent and terrifyingly calm, was Master Electric.

He stood at the rear of the kitchen, fingers tracing glyphs in the air—soft, humming sigils that bent fire and steam to his will. He didn’t shout. He didn’t move.

But wherever his magic passed, the environment stabilized. Oil no longer boiled over. The air cooled by just enough. The woks settled into a perfect rhythm.

Together, they made the kitchen hum like a living engine.

But outside?

The Crowd Boils

Cracks were starting to show.

The line had grown too long. Wait times were now over two hours. People were tired, restless, irritated. And worst of all, hungry.

One customer muttered loudly,

"They let someone cut ahead—did you see that?"

Another snapped back,

"That girl had a blue armband. That’s Pavilion staff family, idiot."

And then, the whisper began to spread:

"Those girls weren’t commoners."

"Servants. From the noble quarter. House Vireth, I swear it."

"They’re sneaking in?"

"Yeah. And they’re not even ashamed about it."

In the far corner, two young servant girls sat quietly in a booth, heads bowed, sleeves long enough to hide their noble house markings.

They didn’t dare speak loud—but their eyes were bright, and their bowls were empty. Steam still rose from the lacquered plates before them.

"Don’t tell Lady Marvia,"

One whispered between bites.

"I won’t if you don’t,"

The other grinned.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Virellen Puts Her Foot Down

Seeing the tension beginning to rise, Virellen stepped out of the kitchen—sweat still on her brow, apron still tied.

She didn’t need guards. She didn’t need a wand.

Just her voice.

"Everyone waiting, listen up."

The crowd quieted. A few raised eyebrows. She didn’t look like a manager. She looked like she’d fought a war with a fire spirit and won.

"We’re behind schedule. I know. We’re working at full capacity—but we won’t compromise the quality of a single dish."

A murmur passed through the front row.

"If you’re impatient, I understand. But we don’t take bribes, we don’t play favorites, and we don’t skip the line. Even if you’re wearing silk under your robes."

That jab landed exactly where she wanted.

One servant flinched.

Someone laughed nervously. Then others joined. The tension cracked like sugar-glaze under a hot ladle.

"Now,"

Virellen added, brushing flour from her sleeve,

"if anyone wants to volunteer as a dishwasher, we’ve got a stack of plates taller than a wine barrel."

The laughter returned, louder this time.

Crisis, averted.

She turned on her heel and marched back into the storm.

***

High above it all, seated in the private chamber overlooking the floor, Alaric watched.

Unmoving. Quiet. His fingers rested lightly on a delicate porcelain cup—tea cold and untouched.

Beside him, Aurevia, Cellione, and Serineth stood.

Not in battle gear. Not even in formal robes. They wore soft loungewear, relaxed but dignified, their slave seals glinting silver against smooth skin.

They watched the kitchen below like goddesses observing their temple.

"She’s in her element,"

Cellione murmured, brushing her hair back.

Aurevia nodded, her arms folded.

"Virellen’s earned this. She could run a battlefield or a banquet. Or both."

Serineth, quietly sipping a warm lotus drink, whispered,

"People believe in this place."

Alaric said nothing.

But he saw it all.

Not just the food. Not just the crowds. But the servants in disguise, risking the wrath of their masters for a bite of flame-roasted truth.

The noble houses hadn’t moved yet. But their shadows had.

Which meant the true war of appetite was only beginning.

And when the [Grade-5] Mana Crystal Auction arrived in less than two weeks?

The spark this kitchen had lit might burn through all of Caerywn.

***

By the fifth day, Emberdrop Pavilion wasn’t a restaurant anymore.

It was an empire—one founded on fire, spice, and a recipe no one could seem to replicate.

***

At first, it had been street buzz.

Now, it was economic noise.

Tavern owners, innkeepers, and small-time restaurateurs who once laughed at the Pavilion’s "theatrical fire cooking" were now quietly panicking. Business had dropped.

Customers who used to settle for broth and barley were suddenly demanding crisped duck with ember-glazed glaze and rice steamed in wild basil.

The Pavilion didn’t just sell meals. It sold prestige.

People who ate there bragged about it. Loudly. Endlessly.

And even more dangerously? They didn’t just talk about the food.

They talked about her.

"The girl with the sharp eyes, running the kitchen—Virellen. She’s not just some chef, she’s a damn commander."

"You ever see a cook make an entire line of apprentices fall silent with a single glare?"

"They’ve got a Master-level mage stabilizing their kitchen flames. Who does that?!"

The nobles started to hear it too. Not directly, of course. But their servants had begun taking suspiciously long errand runs near the east quarter.

More than one dinner was delayed because the staff came back smelling of smoked chili and wine butter.

So House Delvair, House Ronse, House Faelstrom—they all reacted the same way:

Send someone. Quietly. Find out what the hell is happening.

***

Three blocks away from the Emberdrop Pavilion, a new sign went up:

"AshRoot Flame Café – Authentic Ember Cuisine! Half the price, same fire!"

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t elegant. And the food?

It wasn’t even close.

The rice was sticky. The duck was underseasoned. The fire-roasted meats were more "fire-singed." One plate came out half-charred, half-raw. A customer bit into a supposed ’Emberglaze roll’ and winced.

"Tastes like someone whispered the recipe to a blind man with no tongue."

Another café opened the next day:

"Pavilion Ember - Real Flame Cooking."

Their slogan was:

"Why wait in line? Get the heat you crave—fast and cheap!"

Their main dish?

"Searing Joy Stirfry."

It tasted like boiled regret.

Reviews on the street were brutal:

"It’s not the ingredients. It’s the balance. Emberdrop’s food doesn’t just burn—it sings."

"This stuff? It just burns."

"They think spice is the secret. But the real secret is something else... something deeper."

Some even joked that the fake Pavilions were giving fire cuisine a bad name.

One old man spat into the gutter and muttered:

"If I see one more menu with the word ’ember’ on it, I’m torching the sign myself."

***

The smarter noble houses didn’t try to imitate outright. They tried something more surgical.

House Faelstrom sent a taste-weaver—a mage specialized in sensory replication and culinary memory. His job was to take a single bite and deconstruct every spice, oil, and preparation method used.

Problem was, he never got a bite himself.

The food was brought to him, lukewarm and sealed in spellproof containers.

He opened the lid, sniffed, blinked.

"It’s... alive."

His attempt to reconstruct the recipe failed within hours.

The umami balance destabilized. The oil fusion separated. The rice turned gluey on contact with his heat spell. He cursed and threw the bowl across the room.

"The flame’s not just a tool,"

He growled.

"It’s part of the soul of the dish."

Another house sent a script-engraver, someone who read residual mana traces like fingerprints. She claimed she could tell a dish’s cooking style from the way heat signatures clung to the proteins.

She gave up after ten minutes.

"Too much interference. Either they’re masking it... or they’re cooking with divine rhythm."

Which made things even worse—because now the nobles were hearing:

"They might be using forbidden ingredients."

"Or secret divine glyphs."

"Or worse... a dragon’s fire."

All that from meals none of them had actually tasted.

Because nobles don’t stand in line.

And their pride won’t let them sit among commoners.

***

Meanwhile, at the Source

Back inside Emberdrop Pavilion, Virellen stared at the new dish being plated.

She was calm, but she knew.

The wolves were gathering.

"They’re trying to copy us,"

She said aloud, slicing through a smoked lotus root roll with one clean stroke.

"They’ll try again. They’ll fail again."

Across the prep line, Cellione raised an eyebrow.

"Should we be worried?"

Virellen shook her head.

"Let them chase. That’s all they can do."

From the side, Serineth glanced over a list of ingredients quietly, her soft voice drifting.

"They don’t understand. The recipe isn’t written. It’s lived."

Aurevia smirked.

"And no one lives it like we do."

At the far back of the Pavilion, seated at a shadowed table with the ledger open, Alaric dipped his pen in ink and said nothing.

But the corner of his mouth curled—just slightly.

-To Be Continued