By noon, Charles reached his brunch destination: Tre Sorelle, the famous alchemical restaurant in Duranth.
Tre Sorelle did not sit in the merchant plaza. It reigned.
The two-story building stood like a crowned queen. Midnight wood and starlight formed its frame, and it rose from a circular garden of mana-fed roses. Shadow-dark timber supported climbing moonvine. Crystal-glass windows, enchanted to reflect the aura of any onlooker, sparkled. At that moment, the windows shone with a cool violet glow, echoing the masked presence of Charles.
The scent of rare herbs and elemental spices drifted from its terrace. Basilisk tongue. Frozen pepper root. Phoenix-leaf tea. A faint field of qi buzzed across the paving stones, pulsing like a heartbeat. The wooden sign, carved with flowing script, shimmered with three interlocking swords beneath a trio of stars.
Tre Sorelle. The Three Sisters. Its name was whispered in noble parlors, toasted in merchant halls, and burned onto the tongues of chefs from three kingdoms over. Not because it fed the rich, but because it fed the powerful.
Alchemical cuisine.
Food here didn't just fill you up; it made you better. Mana soaked the food. Spiritual metals served it. Beast cores and flame-attuned stones cooked it. The Warriors are left with faster reflexes. Mages left with clearer heads. Some people even said the food gave them dreams—dreams that revealed bloodline secrets or visions of the elements.
Charles walked through the outer arch, his hood pulled low over his face. A doorman in steel armor examined him. Charles appeared masked, cloaked, graceful, and difficult to read.
The man didn't ask. He just bowed.
"Welcome, dear guest."
Charles walked through the restaurant's door.
There was no sound around him. Not the silence that comes from being gone, but the silence that comes from respect. The mana-silk drapes moved in a breeze that didn't touch the air.
There were glass domes shaped like falling starlight, and above each one was a flame orb.
There were magical animals preserved on the walls. Not dead, but stuck in time: a wyvern frozen in mid-roar. A shadow cat is ready to jump. A silver vulture with feathers that look like knives.
Each crescent booth was made of runed, obsidian-lacquered wood. Silk curtains divided booths. The walls hummed with privacy magic; words spoken here stayed here.
A young woman came out from behind two screens. She moved like ink that had been poured: smooth, steady, and perfect.
She wore black and gold, and her tailored robes had Tre Sorelle's crest on her chest. Her aura was calm but sharp, like a knife hidden in velvet.
Charles looked at her quickly and, without thinking, used his trained eyes to take in the details.
[Target Analysis: Name: Micah. Job: Attendant at Tre Sorelle. Cultivation: Realm of Foundations, Level 6. Affinity: Wind.]
"Welcome to Tre Sorelle," she said with a practiced bow. "Would you rather sit at a private table or a booth by the window?"
"A booth. Windows to the west."
She nodded her head in agreement. "Right this way, sir."
Charles walked behind her into a hallway lined with softly humming glyphs. Micah moved as if she could break a bone with her elbow or quote classical poetry with equal skill. Her noble training now directed her focus to her current responsibilities.
In a past life, she would have signed million-dollar contracts with a handshake and put three of her competitors out of business by sundown.
Here, she quietly led masked strangers around.
Charles thought that Tre Sorelle didn't hire servants. They grow their assets.
A tall window made of mistglass stood in front of his seat, letting the sunlight in. Iridescent fractals shifted on the tabletop as Charles approached. When he sat down, glowing letters appeared, forming a menu that adjusted its options based on his current qi and constitution stats.
It was time to eat like a king.
It was time to think like a conqueror.
Micah gave him a black lacquered menu with silver filigree around the edges and a faint hint of magic. When Charles opened it, the script changed to match his qi signature.
"Sir, would you like some suggestions?" Micah asked, her voice smooth but with a hint of amusement, as if she already knew what the answer was.
Charles tilted his head slightly and allowed his eyes to sparkle behind the mask. "Of course. I didn't come all this way to eat something normal," he replied.
She smiled—a faint, knowing curve that carried just a hint of mischief. "Then allow me to tempt you with our Warrior's Set. It's our most requested course for traveling swordsmen, hungry duelists, and the occasional enigmatic noble."
"Oh? Sounds dangerously perfect. What's in it?" he asked, leaning back with theatrical interest.
She didn't miss a beat. "Thank you for your curiosity. Prepare for a memorable and exquisite journey.
She raised a hand and began to list, each item told in the style of a bard telling a story over wine and firelight:
"The first thing on the list is Seared Lava Drake Flank, which is covered in chasm salt and moon cider. It comes from a creature that has a harder time with fire than the average dragon-slaying poem. It will make your insides stronger, your blood hotter, and your heart beat like a drum."
"Spicy," Charles muttered approvingly.
"Next is Sylvan Nettleleaf Tagliatelle, pasta so elegant it practically floats. It's drenched in spirit-butter and touched with brambleberry oil. Foraged from fae groves, it's perfect for sharpening the senses and calming the breath. Side effects may include sudden enlightenment or accidental poetry."
Charles chuckled. "I'll keep my inner bard in check."
"Next, the Medu of the Siren Depths Soup—don't worry, it won't sing you to your doom. Distilled from a Moonlit Reef leviathan, it clears the mind, smooths the nerves, and unknots the soul like an underwater massage."
He said, "I could use a soul massage."
"And finally," she said with a fake-dramatic flourish, "the grand finale is Stardrop Custard Bloom." The cream from the dream fruit sits on a crust made of faerie petals. It has enough sweetness to make generals cry and enough wisdom to tell you secrets in your sleep.
Charles whistled softly. "That sounds like dessert therapy with a bit of spying."
"Exactly," she said with a wink.
"And the drink?"
She leaned in and lowered her voice, as if she were about to tell a secret. "Eclipse Thorn Reserve. Wine made from grapes that only grow when both moons are full. Cosmic timing, celestial vibes, and all that other fancy stuff. When you drink it at night, your qi starts to hum like a love song to the stars. The refinement of essence goes through the roof. It goes well with thinking on balconies."
With a smirk, Charles put down the menu. "You had me at 'brooding noble in disguise.' I'll take the whole thing. And the wine."
Micah bowed gracefully, and the corners of her lips twitched with laughter. "One Warrior's Banquet with a side of existential clarity is on the way."
He let out a breath and leaned back.
This place doesn't just serve food. It serves transformation.
The food didn't arrive. It made an entrance.
Servers in shadow-silk and gold sashes moved in perfect sync. They presented plates floating above rune-etched platters, supported by ambient qi and stabilization magic.
Charles arched an eyebrow. "Subtle."
"They're showing off," SIGMA said. "And you love it."
The Seared Lava Drake Flank descended, steam curling from its glazed, amber-red surface. Charles took a bite.
Boom.
His mouth exploded with fire and smoke. There was a punch of primal rage that somehow whispered balance. It wasn't just heat. It was awakening. His blood surged as if a bell had been struck inside his chest. His skin warmed. Muscles tightened. Even his spleen, that famously underappreciated organ, felt respected for once.
He exhaled.
"That's not food," he murmured. "That's a war chant served medium-rare."
"Your organs are clapping," SIGMA added.
"Tell them to save the encore."
Before his body could decide whether to growl or meditate, the second course arrived: Sylvan Nettleleaf Tagliatelle. A bouquet of green-gold pasta danced beneath a drizzle of brambleberry oil. The aroma was crisp and herbaceous, tinged with the wildness of woods at dawn. First bite?
Cool. Earthy. Alive. It felt like the wind was practicing footwork drills on his tongue. With every chew, his breathing slowed. Shoulders lowered by a fraction. Spine lengthened. He became still without becoming stagnant.
The world… made sense.
"It's like my lungs are meditating," Charles muttered.
"And your thoughts just filed themselves alphabetically," SIGMA replied.
The Medu of Siren Depths Soup arrived in a crystal bowl, shimmering ocean blue and starlight silver. Slices of medu pulsed faintly in the broth.
He sipped. Gently.
The taste was impossible to describe without sounding poetic.
Salted clarity. Liquified calm. It was the flavor of silence after chaos. Of moonlight on waves.
With each spoonful, Charles felt as if invisible weights were being lifted from his bones. His spine cracked—softly, appreciatively. His jaw relaxed. The vague tension that had been dragging behind his eyes since the Ziglar estate simply… unraveled.
"By the Abyss," he whispered. "I think I just forgave my enemies."
"Wait until dessert," SIGMA warned. "You might start blessing them."
Which led, inevitably, to the final act: Stardrop Custard Bloom.
A translucent plate of faerie-petal crust cradled a scoop of glowing custard—violet and blue, humming with soft magic like a lullaby. It shimmered under the dining light, utterly unthreatening, deceptively delicate.
He took one spoonful.
And smiled like he hadn't in weeks.
Joy.
Actual joy.
Not the manic kind that came from victory or revenge, but the quiet, gentle hum of something… okay, deep in his chest. A sweetness that reminded him of what happiness had once tasted like. Like clear skies, or his old favorite jazz vinyl, or coffee after a night of corporate bloodletting.
It made everything softer. How he felt. His heart rate. Even the cold edges of his mind.
[NOTIFICATION FROM THE SYSTEM]
Buff Acquired: Lunar Qi Alignment +12% Qi absorption rate during nighttime practice
Length: 24 hours
Buff Acquired: Improved Vital Recovery +20% muscle and core recovery
Time: 12 hours
Buff Gained: Reflex Heightening +7% agility and dodging efficiency
Time: 6 hours
Buffs gained: Emotional stability
Mood locked: Centered
Length: Uncertain (within 3 hours of taking Stardrop)
Charles leaned back, clasped his hands, and looked out the window, which was veiled, at the gondolas drifting by and the sun-dappled canal.
This wasn't food.
This was getting ready.
Tre Sorelle didn't just give food to soldiers. It made them better.
He drank the Eclipsethorn Reserve, and it went down his throat like moonlight. Smooth and complicated, with a hint of twilight at the end.
"Delightful," Charles murmured.
"According to legend," SIGMA added, "consuming this wine under moonlight while surrounded by musical cultivators boosts your insight rate by 19.2%."
He leaned back, and for once, he was still.
"This is it," he murmured. "This is a foodgasm of the highest order."
SIGMA replied, "Congratulations. You have achieved culinary enlightenment. Next level unlocked: Gastronomic Ascension."
Charles chuckled.
It wasn't just indulgence. It was a strategy.
Each dish was refined. Each ingredient was alchemized. Every effect was measured. Restaurant is a fortress disguised as a feast hall, he thought. No wonder nobles come here to negotiate. The food does half the persuasion for you.
He sipped the Eclipsethorn Reserve last.
And it was… otherworldly.
"SIGMA," he said softly. "When we build our empire… remind me to start with a restaurant."
"A wise choice," SIGMA replied. "After all, power begins at the table."
And Charles raised his glass with a grin.
"To conquer," he whispered. "One course at a time."