CHAPTER 54: 54

Velmora Capital – East Quarter, Day 8 after Emberdrop Pavilion’s Launch

Rumor spreads fast in Caerywn. But food? Food spreads faster.

Within eight days, Emberdrop Pavilion was more than a phenomenon—it had turned into a cultural movement.

People no longer simply ate there.

They pilgrimaged.

And not everyone was happy about it.

***

The Pavilion’s popularity had turned into a wildfire, and the first ones to feel the heat were the food guilds, mid-tier restaurants, and especially—the noble houses who prided themselves on their private kitchens and gourmet chefs.

One by one, aristocratic homes began to issue quiet orders to their household staff:

"Bring me samples from this... Emberdrop Pavilion."

They would not be seen among commoners, of course. Nobles do not queue behind merchants and street-sellers. But their curiosity, sharpened by whispers and secondhand praise, would not be denied.

Dozens of servants were dispatched, dressed plainly and handed coin pouches with explicit instructions:

"Do not speak our name. Do not draw attention. And for the gods’ sake, don’t let the food cool."

***

The Noble Kitchens – Where Prestige Crumbles

In House Lornevane, the food was delivered under enchantment-sealed wraps, still steaming.

The chefs, three men trained in imperial gastronomy, gathered around the dish with the reverence of priests before an altar.

The head chef, a rotund man named Pellan, leaned in.

"Spiced duck... rice... seared greens, pan-glazed with... what in flame’s name is that?"

He pointed to a crimson oil that shimmered like molten amber.

"I’ve never seen this reduction. Is it chili-infused butter? No. There’s a sweetness... and something smoky beneath it..."

They tried to replicate it.

They failed.

Over and over.

The duck was either too dry or underdone. The glaze curdled. The rice absorbed the oil but lost the perfume. The taste turned bitter.

They adjusted ratios. They summoned rare herbs. They even tried echo-heating the pans with lightning to mimic ember-searing.

Nothing worked.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

In House Velhurst, matters were worse.

The head of house, Lord Renholt, tasted the original Emberdrop dish—reheated, yes, but still divine.

He then tasted his chef’s recreation.

He spat it out, eyes twitching.

"What the hells is this? Are you trying to poison me?"

"No, my lord, I—"

"This is a mockery. My name is carved into the culinary books of Seriphore. And you bring me this?"

The chef, pale with sweat, bowed so low his forehead touched the marble.

"My lord, I have studied every school of elemental cuisine. I apprenticed under flame-masters. But this... this is alchemy disguised as food."

Lord Renholt clenched his fist.

"It’s just a dish. Why can’t we recreate a simple, godsforsaken meal?"

He wasn’t the only one asking that.

***

Industry in Flames

By the tenth day, the culinary industry was teetering.

The once-proud inns of the Velvet Street had emptied by half. Their customers now stood in winding lines at Emberdrop Pavilion, gossiping and posting fresh reviews on enchanted message boards.

Rival restaurants slashed prices.

Some tried to mimic the Pavilion’s name—Emberhearth Inn, Searstone Grill, FirePetal Cuisine—but customers weren’t fooled.

A street poet put it best:

"Fire may spread, but only one flame feeds the soul."

Some more... unsavory characters took a different approach.

Late one evening, a shadow slipped near Emberdrop’s delivery entrance, pouring a vial into the water barrels.

By dawn, he was caught, beaten, and thrown out—by customers.

"He tried to poison our kitchen?"

"Touch that place again, and we’ll cook you next."

The Pavilion’s defenders weren’t hired guards.

They were regular people.

But they loved the Pavilion like it was theirs. And they weren’t about to let scandalers snuff it out.

***

Back at House Ronse, a sorcerer-chef named Thalas attempted something drastic.

"I have acquired a lock of the Pavilion chef’s hair," he declared proudly.

The nobles stared.

"A... lock of hair?"

Asked Lady Ronse, blinking.

"Yes. From one of the apprentices. If I can trace the memory of her hands... perhaps I can simulate the motion—the intent—the very rhythm of the cooking."

"What are you, a chef or a necromancer?"

"A visionary,"

He corrected.

The attempt ended with a pot exploding and Thalas being admitted to the healing ward with third-degree burns and singed eyebrows.

***

Even as they failed, the noble houses kept silent. They didn’t dare admit defeat publicly. But the servants heard things.

That Lord Faelstrom had smashed five plates in fury.

That Lady Caervielle hired an entire research team to decode a single spice oil.

That House Delvair offered five thousand gold to anyone who could replicate the dish perfectly—and still had no takers.

And while the nobles fumed in silence, the people laughed and dined.

The Pavilion never advertised. It didn’t need to.

People came because they believed it meant something.

Not just taste. Not just flame.

Rebellion.

A meal that wasn’t reserved for bloodlines, crests, or ancestral silverware.

A flame that danced for everyone.

***

Back at the Pavilion

Aurevia stirred the broth pot, steam rising like incense. Serineth stood beside her, chopping greens with quiet grace.

Virellen burst through the kitchen’s side door with a grin.

"Two more copycats tried opening today. One’s already shut down."

Cellione smirked.

"Word is, Lord Renholt nearly choked on his own version of the fire duck."

Virellen tossed her hair back.

"They can imitate. They can stalk. But they can’t create. That’s the difference."

Behind them, Alaric sat near the open window, watching the sunlight filter through the steam. He said nothing.

But his eyes lingered on the flame.

And the flame... lingered on him.

***

The morning sun poured over the high walls of House Crydias, gilding the breakfast table in gentle gold.

The scent of fresh bread, herbed eggs, and crisped sausages filled the room, but the conversation carried more weight than the meal.

Alaric sat at the opposite side from the head of the table, flanked by Aurevia, Cellione, and Serineth. Across from him were Lord and Lady Crydias, with Virellen seated between them, her posture upright but her eyes bright with curiosity.

He had asked for the entire family to be present. Today wasn’t just about food—it was about legacy.

As the last plates were cleared and warm tea was poured, Alaric placed his cup down with deliberate calm.

"Lord Crydias,"

He began,

"are the auction preparations complete?"

The patriarch gave a respectful nod.

"Yes, Lord Alaric. The venue has been completed, the invitations are being sent under the appropriate channels, and the merchant circles are whispering with anticipation."

Alaric gave a quiet nod.

"Good. But we’re not just selling a [Grade-5] mana crystal, are we?"

Lady Crydias arched a brow. Virellen tilted her head slightly. Aurevia’s eyes flicked toward him, already guessing where this was going.

"A proper auction,"

Alaric continued,

"requires build-up. Lesser treasures must pave the way for the grand piece. Suspense is as valuable as the items themselves."

Lord Crydias offered a slow breath.

"That would be ideal... but we lack items of that caliber at the moment."

Alaric’s lips curled faintly into a smile.

"No need to worry. I’ve brought them."

He waved his hand and laid out the collection one by one across the polished table.

Ornate swords that glimmered with enchantments. Intricate gauntlets that pulsed faintly with embedded runes. Armor sets forged from rare alloys. Hammers that carried the weight of resonance. Trinkets, rings, and ornaments whose magic whispered just beneath the surface.

And, at the end, a mana crystal—perfect, pure, [Grade-5]—radiating with quiet, divine energy.

Sixteen items in total.

Lord and Lady Crydias exchanged a glance. Their noble training kept their expressions measured, but their posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

Even Virellen blinked, her mischief briefly replaced with awe.

"These,"

Alaric said smoothly,

"will serve as the opening act. The mana crystal will close the curtain."

Lady Crydias smiled thinly.

"You’re full of surprises, Lord Alaric."

"I prefer to be thorough."

He leaned back slightly, resting his fingertips together.

"But that’s not the main reason I gathered you."

The room quieted again.

"The true matter at hand is how we’ll handle the mana crystal’s sale. We must decide what kind of offers we’ll entertain—and how to manage the public perception of this entire event."

"I’m listening,"

Lord Crydias said.

"We’re not limiting it to coin,"

Alaric said.

"We’ll accept land deeds, trade contracts, rare artifacts, or even a highly skilled individual—should one be offered. Or any combination, if the offer meets the item’s worth."

Lady Crydias nodded slowly.

"And who will host such a spectacle?"

Alaric gestured to the three girls seated beside him.

Aurevia, Cellione, and Serineth, who had been quietly eating moments ago, looked up in sync—each one freezing mid-bite.

"You three,"

Alaric said calmly.

"You’ll lead this auction."

Aurevia blinked.

"Us?"

"You’ll each have your role,"

He explained.

"Aurevia, you will be the host. Cellione and Serineth, you will assist her—displaying and introducing the items. Keep the flow smooth and professional."

He turned to Aurevia specifically.

"Your task isn’t only to speak. You must assert authority. Make it clear from the very beginning that if anyone disrupts the event—no matter their house, title, or arrogance—they will be removed."

"Permanently?"

Cellione asked, a flicker of amusement behind her violet eyes.

"Firmly,"

Alaric replied.

"We don’t tolerate disrespect. Not in our domain."

Aurevia hesitated for a moment, crimson eyes searching his face. Then she bowed her head slightly.

"Yes, Master. I will make it known."

Alaric nodded.

"Good."

Then, with a shift in tone, he added,

"And finally—this auction will serve as the announcement of our next venture."

He looked directly at Lord and Lady Crydias.

"We are establishing a company."

That earned more raised brows.

"Think of it as a production house—our own independent source of elite goods and rare craftsmanship. The Crydias Merchant Firm will serve as our official distribution channel. You handle the logistics. We provide the supply."

Lord Crydias leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed.

"You intend to build an enterprise out of this?"

"No,"

Alaric said, smiling faintly.

"I intend to build a legacy."

Lady Crydias’s expression shifted, calculating but intrigued.

"Then we will need to ensure the message is clear. The people must not misunderstand. This is not favoritism. This is structure."

"Exactly,"

Alaric agreed.

"We frame it as partnership. Foundation. Vision. Let others catch up if they can."

From across the table, Virellen gave a knowing smirk.

"Bold,"

She said.

"But then again, so was the Pavilion."

Alaric didn’t answer immediately.

He looked toward the window, where the morning light filtered in—warm, steady, inevitable.

"A flame can light a kitchen,"

He said softly.

"Or it can light the way forward."

-To Be Continued