The Great Quest for a Chef began not with scouts and flyers, but with a deeply philosophical debate.
"Flavor is a secondary concern," Valerius declared, pacing the Scriptorium. The half-eaten chalk biscuit lay on a velvet cloth nearby, already being treated as a relic ('The Remnant of the First Repast'). "Any journeyman can make a dish taste good. We are not seeking a mere cook. We are seeking a Culinary Theurgist. A Gastronomic Oracle."
Aurelia, ever the pragmatist, was taking notes. "So, what are the criteria, Sage? Purity of ingredients, we have established. What else defines the chef worthy of the Master?"
"Three principles," Valerius announced, holding up three gnarled fingers. "First: Harmony. The chef must not just combine ingredients. They must perceive the innate spiritual resonance of each component—the sun-drenched arrogance of the tomato, the humble earthiness of the potato—and unite them not in a mixture, but in a perfect, edible chord."
Seraphina, leaning against a bookshelf, gave a rare contribution. "So, they must be a master of balance. A tactician of the palate. This I understand."
"Second," Valerius continued, his eyes gleaming, "Subtlety. The Master's power is subtle. His every lesson is layered. Therefore, his food must be the same. The first bite should taste of one thing, but the aftertaste should reveal a deeper, hidden truth. The dish must be a koan. It must pose a question that is only answered on its way to the stomach. No boorish, overt flavors."
"So, a master of deception and misdirection," Seraphina said, a smile gracing her lips. "This, I understand even better."
"And third, and most important," Valerius said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Unknowing Mastery."
Aurelia and Seraphina exchanged a confused glance.
"A chef who knows he is the greatest is arrogant," Valerius explained. "His pride will contaminate the food. The perfect chef for the Master must be a genius who does not comprehend their own genius. They must work from pure instinct, from a divine, intuitive connection to the craft. They must be an 'idiot savant' of the kitchen—a vessel for the god of cooking who doesn't even know the god's name."
The criteria were set. They were looking for a harmonious, subtle, philosophically complex chef who was also a complete and utter moron when it came to their own talent.
"Such a person... does one even exist?" Aurelia wondered aloud.
"The world is full of hidden masters," Valerius said sagely. "Now... how to find them?"
An ordinary person would have put out a call, held a contest. But they were not ordinary people.
"We cannot simply ask," Seraphina stated, taking the lead on the operational side of the quest. "Our questions would reveal the Master's nature. We need a filter. A trial that will draw out the worthy candidate without them ever knowing they are being tested."
The three of them put their heads together. They were, in njihovim respective fields, the three most formidable minds on the continent: a master sage, a master assassin, and a master of political strategy. The solution they devised was a masterwork of baroque, overwrought complexity.
A week later, a strange new competition was announced in the capital city, its news spreading like wildfire via imperial couriers. It was called the "Festival of Humble Fare."
The rules were bizarre and unprecedented.
It was not a contest for royal chefs. In fact, any chef with a formal title was barred from entry. Only common cooks, innkeepers, and street vendors could apply. This satisfied the "Unknowing Mastery" criterion.
The competition had only one round. Each contestant was to prepare a single dish, but they were not told who the judge was. They were to prepare it for "an anonymous and discerning palate." The theme of the dish? "A Meal of Contradiction."
This rule, crafted by Valerius, was the core of the filter. A common cook would interpret it simply: sweet and sour, hot and cold. But a true Culinary Theurgist would understand the deeper meaning. They would create a dish that was both simple and complex, both nourishing and thought-provoking. This satisfied the "Subtlety" and "Harmony" criteria.
Finally, the judging process itself was unique. The dishes would be presented in a closed hall. The judge (whose identity was a state secret, but was actually Princess Aurelia, chosen for her refined but not overly magical palate) would taste them alone. There would be no score. No public announcement of a winner.
Instead, the cook who prepared the "correct" dish would simply receive a discreet summons the next day for a "private Imperial commission." They would never know they had won the most important cooking competition in the history of the world.
The trap was set. Now, they just had to wait for the right genius-idiot to wander into it.
Meanwhile, far to the south, the Demon King's new strategy was being put into motion. In a cavern filled with belching lava and screaming demons, a creature was being summoned.
It was not a being of cunning or magic. It was a Grokk. A twenty-foot-tall, bipedal engine of pure destruction with thick, rock-like hide, two tiny, malevolent eyes, and a brain approximately the size of a walnut. Grokks had two modes: eating and smashing. Their intelligence was so low that they couldn't be reasoned with, bribed, or intimidated. They were a force of nature, a walking earthquake with a bad attitude. They were the sledgehammer Xylos wanted.
King Xylos himself oversaw the binding ritual. He would not just summon it. He would give it a single, simple, overriding command that its tiny brain could process.
He channeled his immense power, searing a single, glowing rune onto the Grokk's forehead. The rune contained one, singular concept. It was not "kill the Librarian" or "destroy the ritual." Xylos knew the beast couldn't handle abstract concepts.
The rune he inscribed translated roughly to:
"WALK NORTH. FIND BOOKSTORE. SMASH."
He then gave it another instruction, one designed to get it past the Imperial Quarantine.
"Do not destroy anything else," he commanded the dim-witted behemoth, his demonic voice echoing in its vacant skull. "Ignore armies. Ignore cities. Just... walk. Do not radiate hostility until you see the target. Be... a walking mountain."
The Grokk blinked its tiny eyes, processing the order. It grunted, a sound like a continent breaking in half. It seemed to understand.
Walk. Bookstore. Smash.
With another ritual, Xylos teleported the creature to the southernmost edge of the Aethelian Empire's territory.
Its journey had begun. A slow, inexorable, and monumentally stupid apocalypse was now walking north. Its hostility index was null. Its magical signature was that of moving earth. To the Empire's sophisticated wards, it would register as a minor, itinerant geological event.
The sledgehammer had been launched. And it was on a direct, unthinking collision course with a town that was, at that very moment, blissfully preoccupied with finding someone who could make a really nice sandwich.