CHAPTER 87: A DISH FOR HUNGRY GHOST

The room still reeked of burnt salt and smoke. Marron’s hand shook as she adjusted the straps of her pack, the hot plate pressing reassuringly against her spine.

The Jilted Lover was gone—for now.

But not defeated.

Ding!

[Quest Updated: Revenge Served Cold]

Objective: Flush out the mimic known as the "Jilted Lover" before she strikes.

Reward: Private Quarters (to examine the dungeon map without drawing suspicion).

Flush her out.

The words made Marron’s stomach twist. She didn’t want another fight. She’d survived tonight by sheer luck and a salty rice ball. What happened when she ran out of tricks?

Another notification flickered.

[Reminder: Current Quest Priority — Appease a jealous mimic.]

[Reward: A complete dungeon map — locate Comfort & Crunch.]

Marron’s breath caught. Comfort & Crunch. Her cart.

She closed the window with a snap of her fingers. The System didn’t have to remind her of what was at stake. Every step she took, every dish she made, was for that.

Downstairs, the innkeeper—still wearing her plump-cheeked mask—was rinsing the salted basin. She glanced at Marron, her borrowed eyes full of quiet amusement.

"First night with a token, and already you’ve drawn her out."

"Drawn her out?" Marron echoed.

The innkeeper tilted her head. "She always comes back. The Jilted Lover. She doesn’t care who she burns, as long as she gets to scratch her story into someone else’s flesh. Lieutenant doesn’t speak of her, but we all know. She’s a shadow you can’t shake."

Marron tightened her grip on the counter. "Then how do I—"

"Survive her?" the innkeeper cut in, drying her hands on a rag. "Feed her. That’s all she ever wanted. A meal just for her. Not shared. Not stolen. A dish with bite. If you give her that..." She shrugged. "Maybe she’ll leave you in peace. For a while."

Marron stared. A dish for a ghost. A jealous ghost.

It was absurd. Dangerous. Possibly her only option.

She carried her belongings back to the fourth floor, her thoughts buzzing louder than the lanternflies flickering in the stairwell. The bone shard in her apron pulsed, reminding her of the protection she carried. But the Lover had ignored it. Mocked it.

The System whispered faintly as she walked.

[Calculated move required. The Jilted Lover is fueled by envy. Channel it into hunger.]

Marron pressed her lips together.

If she wanted the map, if she wanted Comfort & Crunch, if she wanted her life—she’d have to cook something the banshee couldn’t resist. Something sharp, biting, impossible to ignore.

A dish not for the Lieutenant, not for the mimics, not even for herself.

A dish for a monster who hated her.

Back in the diner kitchen, the chatter of mimics faded as she tied her apron strings. Her hands found their rhythm almost immediately, but her mind was already on the recipe she’d have to create.

Salty rice balls worked by accident. What happens if I design something with bite? Something the Jilted Lover will crave?

She almost smiled despite herself.

Her whole life, she’d cooked to heal, to comfort, to nourish.

Now, for the first time, she was going to cook a weapon on purpose.

Outside the kitchen, shadows trembled faintly. The Jilted Lover’s voice slithered through the dark, unseen but unmistakable.

"Make it worth my while, little chef. I’ll be watching."

Marron’s knife froze halfway through a carrot. Her pulse raced.

Then she set the blade down and reached for a notebook from her pack—the journal she’d saved, pages worn with ink and oil. She flipped it open, pen hovering.

If the banshee wanted bite, she’d give her bite.

And Marron began sketching recipes in silence.

+

But this wasn’t about pleasing customers. The Jilted Lover wasn’t a guest to nourish or a mimic to poison quietly. She was a storm of envy, a banshee steeped in spite. Cooking for her meant feeding bitterness itself.

Marron sat at her worktable in the inn’s kitchen after breakfast service, journal spread open, ink smudging her fingertips.

"What does bite even mean here?" she muttered. "Not just salt. It has to cut. Sting. Burn."

She started scribbling ingredients all over the page

Chili heat — a fire that lingers.

Sour pickles — sharp, acidic bite that makes the tongue ache.

Bitter greens — harsher notes to keep it from being pleasant.

Garlic & charred peppers

— smokiness, turning bitterness into something addictive.

Rice base — comfort under the cruelty.

The page filled with her cramped writing. At the top she scrawled a name: The Bite of Envy.

Her chest tightened. She hated the thought of creating something for that banshee. But this was about survival. If she wanted the dungeon map, if she wanted her cart back, she had to bite first.

+

She rummaged through the pantry, careful to keep her movements casual. Mimics always watched.

From the shelves she took:

A small jar of pickled radish, sour enough to sting her nose.

Wilted greens, half-fermented but still edible.

A pouch of dried red chilies, hidden in the back as though meant for festival meals.

A sack of barley rice.

Nothing elegant, but it would do for a test. She debated spending gold on better ingredients. The System even offered a prompt:

[Upgrade available: Purchase higher-quality ingredients. Cost: 30 gold. Increase success chance by up to +20%.]

Marron’s lips pressed thin. Not yet. She needed to know what she could pull off with scraps first.

+

She heated oil in a battered pan, crushed garlic sizzling loud enough to drown her heartbeat. The dried chilies snapped as she tore them open, seeds scattering like embers. She fried them until the air burned her throat, then tossed in chopped greens and pickles.

The rice went in last, hissing and spitting as it absorbed the chili oil. She folded in an egg for body, let the whole thing sear until it crackled. Then, with practiced hands, she scooped the mixture into tight, crisp-edged rice balls.

Steam curled from them. The smell was acrid and savory, smoky and sour all at once. Marron pinched one between her fingers, blew on it, and took a cautious bite.

Her tongue lit with fire. Sour followed, then bitterness, sharp and overwhelming. Her eyes watered. But beneath it, the rice anchored her, made the bite bearable. Addictive, even.

She swallowed, throat raw.

It was vicious.

Exactly the kind of dish a mimic born of spite might sink her teeth into.