The message in the bottle sent a ripple of unease through the Hearthline government. This was a problem that couldn't be solved with legislation or a duel. It was a subtle, almost spiritual crisis.
"It could be a trap," Grit rumbled, ever the pragmatist. "Luring you out of the academy, away from your allies."
"Or a hoax," Ciela added, though her tone suggested she desperately hoped it wasn't. "A very elaborate prank by some traditionalist snobs."
"No," Izen said, his gaze still fixed on the distant coast imagined by the map. "The soy sauce was real. The flavor was real. It's fading."
Nyelle, who had come to trust Izen's palate as an almost supernatural force, made a swift decision. "You can't go alone," she declared, her chancellor's authority clicking into place. "It's too risky. I'm coming with you."
"We'll all go!" Elara piped up, her loyalty absolute.
Izen shook his head. "No," he said, and the quiet certainty in his voice stopped all argument. "The guild needs you here. The city needs its meals. Nyelle, you are the head of the government; you can't just leave. This isn't a fight. It's a… a consultation. I'll just go and listen."
A compromise was eventually reached. Izen would go, but not alone. For safety, and for his undeniable skill in dealing with stubborn, old-fashioned types, Grit Hark would accompany him. Ciela, arguing that this was a vital story that needed to be documented (and absolutely refusing to be left behind), would also go, under the strict condition that she would only observe and not broadcast anything live without permission.
A few days later, a small, unassuming electric van, modified by the Titan Tools club for long-distance travel and loaded with Izen's toolbox, some basic supplies, and Ciela's camera gear, departed from the Aethertaste Academy.
As they left the bustling, futuristic city where the academy resided and traveled toward the coast, the landscape began to change. Gleaming maglev train lines gave way to old asphalt roads. Towers of chrome and glass were replaced by rolling hills and ancient forests. They were not just traveling through space; they were traveling back in time.
The town of Shiosai was nestled in a small, misty cove, looking as if it had been carved from the very rock and driftwood of the shore. The buildings were old, made of dark, sea-worn timber, with tiled roofs that sagged with age. The air was heavy with the smell of salt, brine, and the deep, funky, complex aroma of long-term fermentation.
There were no screens, no holograms, no modern conveniences. Fishing boats with peeling paint bobbed in the harbor. Old men with faces like wrinkled leather sat on docks, mending nets by hand. They eyed the unfamiliar van and its occupants with a silent, deep-seated suspicion.
"Okay, the vibe here is officially… spooky," Ciela whispered, filming on a small, unobtrusive hand-camera. "It's like we drove into a history book."
"They don't like outsiders," Grit rumbled, his massive frame looking comically out of place in the small, ancient town. "I can feel about fifty pairs of eyes on us."
Following the hand-drawn map, they navigated the narrow, winding streets to their destination. It was not a grand hall or a modern factory. It was a sprawling, ancient compound, surrounded by a high wall of dark, weathered stone. Over the heavy wooden gate, a single, faded kanji character was carved: 古 - Ko, meaning 'ancient' or 'old'.
As they approached the gate, it creaked open. An old woman stood in the entrance. She was tiny, her back bent with age, her face a roadmap of deep wrinkles. She was dressed in simple, traditional indigo-dyed work clothes. She looked them up and down, her dark, intelligent eyes lingering on Izen.
"You came," she said, her voice a dry rasp like rustling leaves. It was not a question.
"We received your message," Izen replied politely, giving a small bow.
The old woman nodded. "I am Tomi," she said. "The unworthy brew-mistress of this failing house." She turned, gesturing for them to follow. "Come. The Elder wishes to see you."
They stepped through the gate and into another world. The compound was a labyrinth of open-air wooden structures, clay pots the size of men, and massive cedar barrels, some of which looked centuries old. The air was thick with the scent of fermenting soybeans, a smell so potent it was almost a taste. It was the smell of umami itself.
Tomi led them to the largest building, a cavernous, dimly lit hall. In the center, a fire pit cast flickering shadows on the high, timbered ceiling. Sitting on a simple straw mat by the fire was an old man, so ancient he seemed almost translucent. His eyes were closed, and he did not seem to be breathing.
"Elder Kai," Tomi said, her voice filled with reverence. "The one who listens has arrived."
The old man's eyes slowly opened. They were cloudy with cataracts, yet they seemed to see straight through Izen, into his very soul.
"The bottle," the Elder Kai whispered, his voice as faint as a distant tide.
Izen stepped forward and respectfully placed the antique soy sauce bottle on the floor between them.
The Elder's gaze fell upon it, and a profound sadness filled his ancient face. "For five hundred years," he breathed, "the Ko Family has brewed the Shiosai Shoyu. We use the same air, the same water, the same soybeans, the same cedar barrels. And we use the 'kura-no-tama'—the soul of the brewery. A mother-mash, passed down for twenty generations."
He gestured weakly at the bottle. "But now… the soul is tired. The flavor, it fades. Each batch is weaker than the last. We have followed the recipe, the tradition, but… we have forgotten the taste. Our memory is failing. The sea, in our sauce, grows quiet."
He fixed his cloudy, desperate gaze on Izen.
"We have heard whispers of you, the 'God of Leftovers.' They say you can hear the stories of things that are discarded. The story of our flavor is being discarded by time. Our legacy is becoming a leftover."
His voice trembled with the weight of five hundred years of failure.
"Please," he begged, the proud Elder of an ancient house, now humbled before this strangely dressed boy. "Listen to our shoyu. And tell us… what have we forgotten?"