Old Man Hemlock's cottage stood at the very edge of Umbraglen, hunched and forlorn, its thatched roof sagging, its single chimney leaning precariously. The windows were dark, grimy voids, and the small, overgrown garden was choked with weeds that seemed to writhe with a malevolent life of their own. A palpable aura of neglect and sorrow clung to the place, even thicker than the ever-present mist. The villagers gave it a wide berth, muttering about bad luck and restless spirits.
Shadow, ever the dramatist, approached the cottage with a theatrical slowness, his cloak billowing (he made extra sure of it this time, even in the still, oppressive air). The abandoned dwelling of the missing sage, he mused internally. Likely filled with cryptic clues, ancient traps, and perhaps a lingering spectral guardian. A perfect mini-dungeon before the main event at Castle Maleficus! This is where my keen intellect and mastery of lore will shine!
Saitama, however, just wrinkled his nose. "Phew. Smells kinda like old cheese and regret in here. You sure this Hemlock guy wasn't just a really messy hoarder?" Mr. Fluffles, perched on his head, sneezed delicately, showering Saitama with a fine mist of bunny dander.
Alpha, her hand resting on her sword hilt, scanned the cottage's dilapidated exterior. "The magical signatures are faint, but… strange. Not overtly malevolent, more… eccentric. And there are definitely subtle wards woven into the structure."
"Wards?" Saitama perked up. "Like, to keep out bad guys? Or just really persistent door-to-door salesmen?"
"Likely a combination of both," Beta interjected, her pen already poised. "Eccentric hermits often employ unorthodox protective enchantments. We should proceed with caution. Old Man Hemlock was known for his… peculiar sense of humor, even before Valerius's reign."
The front door, a warped, splintered piece of wood, was swollen shut. Shadow was about to suggest a subtle, arcane method of unsealing it, perhaps a "Shadow Whisper Incantation" to bypass the wards, when Saitama just walked up to it and… pushed.
There was a loud CRUNCH, a splintering of wood, and the door, along with a sizable chunk of the surrounding doorframe, simply… caved inwards, collapsing into the dusty interior with a mournful thud.
Saitama peered into the gloomy opening. "Oops. Guess it was stuck."
Shadow closed his eyes. He counted to twenty this time. In High Elven. Backwards. My dramatic, subtle entrance… my moment to showcase my arcane prowess… reduced to 'oops, guess it was stuck.' This man is a walking, talking antithesis to everything I stand for.
Alpha just sighed, a sound that was becoming increasingly familiar. "Well, Saitama-sama, you have certainly… expedited our entry."
The interior of Hemlock's cottage was even more chaotic than the exterior. Dusty tomes were piled precariously high, strange alchemical contraptions bubbled and hissed in corners (some still faintly glowing), and bizarre, taxidermied creatures with too many eyes or not enough limbs peered down from cobweb-laden shelves. The air was thick with the smell of dried herbs, forgotten experiments, and a faint, surprisingly pleasant, aroma of… cinnamon?
"This place is a mess," Saitama declared, carefully stepping over a pile of what looked suspiciously like fossilized socks. "How did anyone find anything in here? It's like my apartment, but with more dead animals and less empty ramen cups."
"Look for anything that might resemble a recipe," Shadow instructed, trying to regain some semblance of control. "A hidden compartment, a specially marked book, a cryptic inscription…" He began to meticulously scan the shelves, his keen eyes (or so he liked to believe) searching for subtle clues.
The search proved… challenging. Hemlock's organizational system, if it could even be called that, was a masterpiece of arcane clutter. Books on demonic summoning were wedged next to treatises on advanced cheese-making. Jars filled with glowing fungi sat beside collections of unusually shaped pebbles.
Delta, who had insisted on accompanying them into the cottage ("Smells like weird old man! Delta likes weird smells!"), was having a grand time sniffing everything, occasionally trying to chew on a dusty scroll before being gently dissuaded by Epsilon.
Genos, with his advanced scanning capabilities, was systematically analyzing the room's contents. "I am detecting trace amounts of Capsicum maledictum residue on several surfaces, Sensei, particularly around that large, bubbling cauldron in the corner. It is possible Old Man Hemlock conducted his… culinary experiments… there."
Saitama's eyes lit up. "The cauldron! Good thinking, Genos!" He made a beeline for the bubbling pot, which was giving off a faint, cinnamon-y aroma mixed with something else… something sharp and vaguely peppery.
Shadow watched him with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity. Please don't let him drink from the ancient, bubbling, possibly cursed cauldron. Please, please, please…
Saitama peered into the cauldron. "Huh. Smells kinda good. Like a spicy Christmas. Wonder what's in it." He reached out a finger to dip it in.
"Saitama-dono, I would advise against direct contact!" Shadow interjected, perhaps a little too quickly. "That concoction could be… volatile. Or worse, a laxative of unimaginable potency. Old hermits are notorious for such pranks."
Saitama paused, his finger hovering over the bubbling liquid. "A laxative, huh? That'd be a pretty lame way to find a secret recipe." He withdrew his hand. "Okay, fine. No cauldron-dipping. So, where else would a weird old guy hide a super-spicy relish recipe?"
It was Beta, with her keen eye for detail and her encyclopedic knowledge of obscure folklore (gleaned from her tireless research for the Chronicles), who found the first clue. Tucked away behind a particularly gruesome-looking taxidermied badger (which Sir Reginald Fuzzybottom eyed with distinct disapproval), was a small, leather-bound journal.
"Lord Shadow!" Beta exclaimed. "This appears to be Hemlock's personal diary! The last entry is dated just before his disappearance!"
Shadow, Alpha, and Beta gathered around as Beta carefully opened the fragile, yellowed pages. The handwriting was crabbed and eccentric, filled with strange symbols and even stranger doodles.
"The Count's shadows grow longer," Beta read aloud. "His creatures sniff at my door. They hunger for more than just my blood; they hunger for the Fire that Burns Within, the Secret of the Crimson Tear. Fools! They will never find it! My legacy is safe, protected by wit and whimsy, not by lock and key."
"The Fire that Burns Within… The Secret of the Crimson Tear…" Alpha mused. "Clearly a poetic reference to the Shadowfire Demon-Pepper Relish."
"Protected by wit and whimsy…" Shadow echoed, a glint in his hidden eyes. "A riddle, then. Not a physical lock, but a puzzle. Classic hermit move." Finally! Something that requires intellect, not just brute force! My time to shine!
The diary continued, filled with cryptic verses and nonsensical ramblings about talking squirrels, philosophical badgers (Sir Reginald twitched an ear at this), and the proper way to season a griffin gizzard. But then, on the final page, was a clearly delineated riddle:
"Where the hearth once warmed the soul,
And stories of old were often told,
A silent guardian, made of stone,
Holds the secret, all alone.
Speak the words that shadows fear,
And the path to spice will then appear."
"A riddle!" Saitama exclaimed. "Cool! I like riddles! As long as they're not too hard. Or about math."
Shadow studied the verse, his mind racing. "Where the hearth once warmed the soul… the fireplace, obviously. A silent guardian, made of stone… a gargoyle? A keystone? And 'speak the words that shadows fear'… a classic trope. Likely a phrase of power, or a name the Cult despises."
He began to examine the cottage's large, soot-stained fireplace. It was made of rough-hewn stone, and perched precariously on the mantelpiece was a small, crudely carved stone owl, its eyes made of mismatched buttons.
"The stone owl!" Shadow declared, pointing dramatically. "That must be the 'silent guardian'!" He approached it, his expression one of intense concentration. "Now, for the words that shadows fear… Perhaps the true name of Diablos? Or a verse from the ancient texts of Light?"
He was about to launch into a series of dramatic, arcane-sounding pronouncements when Saitama, who had also been looking at the owl, said, "Hey, this owl looks kinda like Mr. Fluffles when he's trying to look serious." He then reached out and… gently tapped the owl on its stone head.
Not a push. Not a poke. Just a friendly little tap. Like one might greet a small, slightly dusty, stone acquaintance.
With a soft click and a grinding sound, one of the large stones at the back of the fireplace slid inwards, revealing a small, dark recess.
Shadow froze, his hand still outstretched, his profound arcane utterance dying on his lips. Alpha's eyebrow twitched. Beta's pen clattered to the floor. Again. Epsilon just looked up at the cobweb-laden ceiling, as if silently asking the universe, Why?
"Huh," Saitama said, peering into the recess. "Guess it just needed a little nudge. What did the riddle say about 'speaking words'? Maybe the owl just likes being talked to nicely. Or tapped. Some people are like that."
Inside the recess, nestled on a bed of dried herbs, was a small, tightly rolled scroll, tied with a piece of faded red ribbon.
Shadow just stood there, speechless. His moment of intellectual triumph, his chance to unravel a clever riddle with his keen mind… had been preempted by Saitama tapping a stone owl on the head because it reminded him of his bunny. The universe, Cid was becoming increasingly convinced, was actively, maliciously, and hilariously trolling him.
Alpha, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all the shattered narratives in the multiverse, reached into the recess and retrieved the scroll. She carefully untied the ribbon and unrolled it.
The scroll was old, the parchment brittle, but the ink was still surprisingly clear. It was filled with Hemlock's crabbed handwriting, detailing ingredients, measurements, and cooking instructions. And at the very bottom, in slightly larger, more emphatic script, was the title:
"Old Man Hemlock's Shadowfire Demon-Pepper Relish (Not for the Faint of Heart, or Those With Sensitive Stomachs, or Anyone Named Reginald Who Complains About Indigestion After Eating My Experimental Pickled Onions That One Time – You Know Who You Are, Reginald!)"
Saitama's eyes lit up like a supernova. "YES! We found it! The legendary relish recipe! This is gonna be awesome! Genos, start taking notes! We need to find a cauldron big enough for a serious batch!"
Beta, having retrieved her pen, was already meticulously copying the recipe, her earlier shock replaced by a scholar's focused intensity. "Remarkable! The combination of Demon-Peppers, Sunstone Ginger, Tears of a Mourning Widow (likely a poetic name for a specific type of volcanic spring water), and… powdered griffin talon? Fascinatingly unorthodox!"
Shadow, however, was still staring at the stone owl, then at Saitama, then back at the owl. The riddle… "Speak the words that shadows fear…"
A dawning, horrifying realization struck him.
Old Man Hemlock, with his eccentric sense of humor, his penchant for talking squirrels and philosophical badgers…
"Saitama-dono," Shadow said slowly, his voice dangerously calm. "When you… interacted… with the stone owl… did you, by any chance, say anything to it?"
Saitama blinked. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I think I said something like, 'Hey there, little owl guy. You look kinda like Mr. Fluffles. Don't be a jerk and tell us where the relish is, okay?' Something like that."
"Don't be a jerk…" Shadow repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
The words that shadows fear. Not some ancient incantation. Not the true name of an elder god.
But a simple, colloquial request for a stone owl… not to be a jerk.
Old Man Hemlock, the eccentric hermit, had apparently believed that the greatest fear of any shadowy, malevolent entity was being politely, yet firmly, told off. And, in a universe that contained Saitama, he might have been… disturbingly correct.
Shadow felt a hysterical laugh bubble up inside him, a laugh that he ruthlessly suppressed. His world was not just absurd; it was being actively rewritten by a man whose problem-solving methods ranged from universe-shattering punches to casual, offhand requests for inanimate objects to be less difficult.
The Shadowfire Demon-Pepper Relish recipe was found. The path to Count Valerius's castle, and a confrontation with a powerful vampire lord, lay ahead.
But for Cid Kagenou, the Eminence in Shadow, the most terrifying revelation of the day was not the power of an ancient evil, nor the secrets of a forgotten recipe. It was the dawning, undeniable, and profoundly unsettling truth that in a world of shadows, monsters, and cosmic horrors, the most potent force of all might just be a bald man asking things, very nicely, not to be a jerk.
The thrill was well and truly dead. It had been replaced by a strange, almost Zen-like acceptance of the utter, beautiful, soul-crushing chaos that was his life. And a sudden, inexplicable craving for a very, very large hamburger. With extra pickles. And definitely no talking owls.