Yeats stared at the glowing golden words hovering before his eyes.
Talent Unlocked: Spirit of the FeastA title bestowed upon those who have elevated the culinary arts to near-divine mastery. Grants the ability to cook anything theoretically edible into a gourmet dish, complete with bonus effects.
He exhaled slowly.
Wait a minute... this is that title!
Back in Phantom Wings, he had burned days—literal days—grinding his cooking skill to max. No sleep. No breaks. Just endless fish filets, soup testing, and possibly hallucinating a conversation with a sentient oven.
And now?
He'd brought it with him.
I guess insomnia really does pay off.
In this world, there existed a support class known as Gastronome Mages, or simply Feasters—cooks whose culinary prowess could rival court sorcerers. The elite among them earned a mythical distinction:
Spirit of the Feast.
According to legend, even the gods stopped to admire their dishes. The word "feast" here was translated from an ancient term used for divine offerings.
Yeats clenched his fists, barely containing the tremor of excitement in his chest.
So grinding cooking to max in-game didn't just ruin my sleep schedule—it gave me a literal superpower.
In the Brandy family, most children awakened some kind of talent before their first magical promotion. Yeats, however, had always been the odd one out—no magic, no combat prowess, no affinity for swords, scrolls, or shouting dramatically at the wind.
Now, this game system—this… divine interface—had retroactively given him a gift.
Not for killing.
But for cooking.
I'm not a battle prodigy. But I'm damn near the Gordon Ramsay of wyvern meat.
He tapped the interface, and a new prompt appeared.
Would you like to inherit this talent?[Yes] [No – Reroll (Warning: Lower-tier results possible)]
Yeats nearly screamed.
WHO THE HELL HITS NO ON A GOLDEN RANK?!
He hesitated, though. Was there anything else in his account worth rerolling for?
There was one other title.
"Angler of the Azure Dragon" — maxed-out fishing rank. Gave you a chance to catch mystical junk like sunken relics, cursed boots, and possibly sentient carp.
Tempting.
But no.
"Spirit of the Feast" feels more… me. Plus, it's harder to monetize magical carp fillets.
He selected "Yes."
Instantly, a tidal wave of memory surged into his brain.
Cooking knowledge. Ingredient reactions. Flame patterns. Cutting rhythms. Flavor harmonics.
Yeats stood motionless, expression blank, eyes staring at something not quite there.
The boy has seen the flavor matrix.He knows umami on a molecular level.
"Uh, Yeats?" Gray waved a hand in front of his face. "Did your soul leave your body?"
Yeats slowly blinked, then focused.
Every ingredient around him—every bush, fruit, root—now shimmered with potential. Even the bisected corpse of the cockatrice glowed faintly.
That tail still twitching? That's just protein saying hello.
He exhaled deeply, brushed Gray's hand aside, and said calmly, "Just call me Yeats. And by the way—"
He fixed her with a level gaze, emerald eyes full of newfound purpose.
"Didn't you say you were hungry?"
Gray scratched her cheek. "Well… yeah. I've only eaten one chicken since yesterday."
You lured a chicken five miles out of town with rice just to make it legal. That wasn't dinner, that was poultry kidnapping.
Even an illithid would find that morally ambiguous.
Still, Yeats only smiled.
Dragonborn. Chicken thief. Law expert. Noted chaos gremlin. That's my party member now, I guess.
"Farkas," he called. "Go to the village and buy us some cookware. We'll rest here tonight. I'm cooking dinner."
Farkas blinked. "Y-yes, milord."
As he left, the butler clenched his fist with quiet resolve.
Tonight, I'll show the young master my secret dish. Mayonnaise Eggs Supreme.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Farkas returned an hour later, bearing a set of fresh cookware and a suspicious glint of competition in his eyes.
But as he reached the riverside clearing, he paused.
Yeats was already there, sleeves rolled, cleaning his hands beside the stream.
"Milord," Farkas said cautiously, "Are you… planning to cook yourself?"
Yeats looked up, deadpan. "Do you see anyone else holding a knife?"
Farkas's mouth fell open. "My heavens! You're cooking! With your own hands!"
His voice cracked. His monocle fogged.
"My boy's all grown up…"
"He's even… learned to feed himself…"
A single tear fell down the man's cheek. Farkas sniffed. "The frontier really has changed him…"
Gray leaned over. "Uh. Is he crying?"
Yeats sighed. "According to memory… I may have been kind of a privileged brat before."
Farkas (overhearing): 'Kind of'?! Young master, that's an understatement so massive it should be taxed.
Wiping his eyes, the butler assumed a more composed stance.
"What's the dinner plan, milord?"
"You wash the ingredients. I prep the meat."
Yeats gestured toward the bisected cockatrice. "We're eating this."
Farkas: "Sounds—"
Pause.
Farkas: "WHAT?!"
Gray: "YOU'RE KIDDING—RIGHT?!"
"Is there a problem?"
Farkas looked ready to faint. "That's a magical creature! Eating it is borderline suicidal!"
Gray nodded. "Toxins. Corruption. Magical backlash. That's chapter one in 'What Not to Eat in a Fantasy World.'"
"There's even a law against poisoning people with monster corpses!"
Yeats calmly drew his knife.
"Relax. You just cut out the corrupted parts."
With surgeon-like precision, he sliced away glistening purple tissue and steaming glands, sorting them into piles.
"That pile's trash. This one's dinner."
Gray stared at the twitching, still-faintly-glowing tail. Sweat beaded at her temple.
Did I… accept this job too fast?
Farkas swallowed. "Milord… in theory, monsters can be consumed… but only by licensed experts in the culinary guilds…"
Yeats put down his blade, exhaled, and turned dramatically.
"I suppose I can't hide it anymore."
Gray leaned in.
"I've awakened a talent," Yeats said, his voice low. "A gift aligned with the ancient culinary arts."
Farkas froze.
Gray blinked.
The sun dipped below the hills. The forest quieted. The stream murmured its approval.
Yeats remained still.
Then—
Tears welled in Farkas's eyes again.
"Y-you… you have a talent?" he whispered. "Finally?!"
Yeats nodded.
The butler rushed forward and hugged him.
"Such good news… such glorious, holy news… how could you hide this from us?!"
Yeats squirmed. "Okay. Enough. I need to—cook—now."
Farkas wiped his face. "Of course, milord."
He skipped—skipped—toward the water with the monster parts.
Yeats watched him go.
I've known this man for two days and he's cried three times. I'm starting to think I broke him.
Beside the stream, Gray rested her chin on her knees and watched Yeats prep ingredients like he was forging a sword.
"Huh," she murmured. "So he's talented, sharp-tongued, and kind of a tsundere…"
She smiled softly.
"Interesting."