That evening, the Hearthline Guild was a different world.
For the first time in years, the old brick hearth roared with a cheerful, crackling fire. The long, scarred wooden table was laden with food, and the entire building was filled with the sounds of laughter and the incredible aroma of slow-roasted pork.
After the duel, true to Izen's word, both guilds had worked together to butcher the massive boar. The members of the Titan Tools Club, humbled and confused by Izen's gesture of sharing, had worked in a sort of grudging, silent respect. They were masters of heat, but Izen's quiet, waste-free butchery—using every single part of the animal, down to rendering the fat and saving the trotters for stock—was a lesson in a different kind of culinary efficiency.
Now, the main dining hall of Hearthline was hosting a victory banquet, but it wasn't just for them. Kael, at Izen's suggestion, had used their newfound influence (and the awe from the duel) to invite the captains of the other lower-ranked guilds.
The stoic woman from Agronomy was there, as was the wiry man from the Tinker's Union and the burly captain of the Forgemasters. Tentatively, leaders from other small, overlooked guilds had shown up as well. It was the largest gathering of people the guild hall had seen in over a decade.
They were all eating bowls of Izen's legendary bone broth, now enriched with thick, juicy chunks of the roasted boar and handfuls of fresh noodles that Elara had learned to make that very afternoon. It was a simple, rustic, and profoundly delicious meal.
"To the Hearthline Guild!" the Forgemaster captain roared, raising his bowl in a toast. "And to the Soup God, Izen Loxidon!"
A chorus of cheers echoed through the hall. Kael and Elara, who were running around serving everyone, blushed with a pride they hadn't felt in years. They weren't the "Soup Kitchen Squad" anymore. They were hosts of the most talked-about banquet on campus.
Izen, however, was not at the head of the table. He was in the kitchen, carefully packing the insulated delivery cart. He filled a dozen massive thermoses with the bone-and-pork-noodle soup. The rich aroma was enough to make a king weep.
"Izen-san, what are you doing?" Elara asked, coming into the kitchen. "You should be out there celebrating! You're the hero of the day!"
"The party can wait," Izen said, securing the lid on the last thermos. "The street sweepers' shift ends in an hour. We can't be late."
His simple dedication to their original mission struck Elara with a profound sense of respect. He wasn't fueled by victory or fame. He was fueled by the desire to feed people.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the kitchen doorway.
It was Grit Hark. He was standing there awkwardly, holding a large, canvas-wrapped bundle.
"Heard you were still doing your delivery," Grit rumbled, avoiding eye contact. "My guys… uh… we modified your cart."
He gestured outside. Kael and Elara followed his gaze and gasped. Their old, creaky, push-powered delivery cart had been transformed. The wobbly wheels had been replaced with thick, all-terrain tires. A small, silent, electric motor had been mounted to the axle, complete with a handlebar throttle. And a new, high-efficiency thermal lining had been installed in the main container.
Grit scuffed his boot on the floor. "Figured… since we're giving you our ingredient allotment for the month, it's gonna be heavier. This should help."
Then he thrust the canvas bundle into Izen's hands. "And this is for you."
Izen unwrapped it. Inside was a chef's knife. It was unlike any other knife he had ever seen. The blade was forged from a dark, rough-looking piece of damascus steel, but the edge had been honed to a terrifying, razor-sharp monomolecular thinness using a plasma sharpener. The handle was a custom-fitted piston from a high-performance engine, weighted and balanced to perfection. It was a brutal, beautiful, masterful piece of engineering.
"It's a Titan Tools original," Grit mumbled, still looking at the floor. "We call it the 'Faultline.' A real chef should have a real knife. Consider it… a sign of respect."
He cleared his throat. "Look, about what I said… about you being a clown…"
"Don't worry about it," Izen said, testing the weight of the knife in his hand. It felt like it was forged for him. "Your whole team is coming to dinner tomorrow, right? Don't be late. I'm making pies from the bruised apples and leftover pork fat."
Grit looked up, stunned. Izen was inviting his whole guild to eat at Hearthline? For the whole month, while they were paying the ingredient-tax?
It wasn't a punishment. It was a welcome.
A slow, genuine smile broke across Grit's tough face for the first time. "Yeah, kid," he said. "We'll be there."
As Grit left, a new figure appeared in the main doorway of the guild hall, drawn by the sounds of the party. It was Ciela Vantablue, phone in hand, live-streaming of course.
"OMG, you guys, you are not gonna believe this vibe!" she narrated to her stream. "Hearthline is the hottest new club on campus! The Soup God has united all the lower-tier guilds! This is HUGE! Social dynamics are shifting!"
She spotted Izen heading out the back with the cart and her eyes lit up. This was her chance. She darted over to him.
"Izen-sama!" she cooed, batting her eyelashes. "Your victory was so inspiring! Truly! I was wondering if you might be interested in an exclusive interview? Or maybe a sponsored cooking stream? I have a brand deal with the 'Sparkle Sugar' company that would be perfect—"
"I have to deliver dinner," Izen interrupted politely, already wheeling the souped-up cart outside. "But if you're not busy, you could help. I have an extra apron."
He offered her a plain, flour-dusted apron. Ciela, the social media queen whose hands had never seen a day of real labor, stared at the apron as if it were a venomous snake. Serve food? In the cold? To anonymous street sweepers?
But then she looked at Izen's serene face under the moonlight. She looked at the rising view-count on her stream. The storyline was too perfect. The rich, popular girl finding her conscience with the humble cooking saint.
With a dramatic sigh for her audience, she took the apron. "Okay," she said, her voice full of feigned reluctance that didn't quite hide her excitement. "But I am not getting my shoes dirty."
As they disappeared into the night, Izen on his mission, and Ciela narrating their journey to a rapt audience, Nyelle Ardent watched from the shadow of a tall oak tree across the lawn. She had been observing the whole evening.
She watched a broken rival become a loyal ally. She watched a collection of forgotten guilds unite around a simple bowl of soup. She watched a vapid influencer willingly put on an apron.
This boy wasn't just a chef. He was some kind of social catalyst. A force of nature in a cat-print apron.
And the more she watched, the less she wanted to expose him… and the more she desperately wanted to understand him.