Arya lay on the narrow bed in the small upstairs room of the tavern, staring quietly at the wooden ceiling.
The mattress was thin. The blanket smelled faintly of old soap and smoke.
But to him, it felt like luxury.
A roof.
A bed.
And a door that closed.
Compared to the stone ground he had slept on two nights ago, it might as well have been a noble's chamber.
He folded his hands behind his head and allowed himself to think about the day.
Overall, it had been… productive.
A small smile formed.
People loved pizza.
Some things, it seemed, remained constant across worlds.
Humans truly are the same everywhere, Arya thought.
Give them bread, cheese, and flavor… and they'll fall in love.
Once the first table ordered it, the reaction had been immediate.
Confusion at the appearance.
Curiosity at the smell.
Then delight at the taste.
After that, the rest of the evening had descended into chaos.
One group saw another table eating it and ordered the same.
Then another.
Then another.
Before long, half the tavern was asking for "that round bread thing."
The kitchen had turned into a battlefield.
Flour everywhere. Dough everywhere. Renn running back and forth shouting orders. The tavern owner barking at customers to stop crowding the counter.
Arya had barely had time to breathe.
Still, in the middle of the chaos, one thought had quietly settled in his mind.
This world was… interesting.
While kneading dough earlier he had noticed something peculiar.
His body felt slightly heavier than usual.
At first he had assumed it was fatigue, but after paying closer attention he realized the cause was something else.
Gravity.
The pull of this world was stronger than his previous one.
It was not drastic—perhaps only slightly more—but enough that someone trained in physical discipline could feel the difference.
That was curious.
If the planet were larger, stronger gravity might make sense.
Yet theoretically that should also place him further from the core depending on density and structure.
Unless—
Arya frowned thoughtfully.
Unless the world simply operated under different physical rules entirely.
Or perhaps mana once influenced planetary forces.
Without more information it was impossible to know.
Still, one consequence was obvious.
People here ate more.
A stronger gravitational pull meant the body expended more energy simply moving through daily life.
Which meant higher caloric needs.
Which meant—
Arya chuckled softly to himself.
—more customers willing to eat large portions of delicious food.
Convenient.
The tavern had remained packed until late evening.
Only after the crowd thinned had Arya found time to leave the kitchen briefly.
He had walked through the tables quietly, introducing himself.
Not loudly. Not proudly.
Just politely.
"Did you enjoy the food?"
"Is there anything you would change?"
When people asked who had made the strange new dish, he simply smiled and gave a short explanation.
A traveler from a village destroyed by bandits.
Trying to rebuild his life.
Most people listened with sympathy.
A few even offered words of encouragement.
Arya understood something important about towns like Stoneford.
Reputation spread through people, not proclamations.
If the townsfolk remembered him kindly, opportunities would follow.
For now, being known as the quiet cook with strange but delicious food was enough.
Eventually, once his name carried weight—
He would move on to something greater.
Arya turned slightly on the bed and closed his eyes.
The tavern downstairs had grown quiet.
Tomorrow would begin early.
And so began his new routine.
Arya woke each morning before the sun fully rose.
Six o'clock.
By the time the first customers arrived for breakfast, he had already prepared dough, chopped vegetables, and organized the kitchen.
At first the tavern owner—whose name Arya learned was Garrick—watched him closely.
Suspicious.
Evaluating.
But after several weeks, the man's attitude began to change.
Not because of Arya's story.
But because of his work.
Pizza alone would have been enough to bring curious customers.
But Arya did not stop there.
Gradually, carefully, he began introducing new dishes.
First came herb flatbreads brushed with garlic oil.
Simple.
Addictive.
Perfect for drinking.
Then stuffed meat rolls, inspired by foods from his previous world but adapted to the ingredients available in Stoneford.
After that came layered vegetable pies, which became unexpectedly popular among the older townsfolk.
Each dish followed the same pattern.
Simple ingredients.
Careful balance.
A whisper of mana guiding the flavor—never enough to draw suspicion, only enough to elevate taste slightly beyond normal cooking.
Word spread.
Within a month the Drunken Pavilion began seeing new faces.
Travelers stopped more frequently.
Merchants recommended the tavern to caravan companions.
Even a few town guards began choosing it over other establishments.
By the third month the evenings had become crowded almost every night.
Garrick eventually installed two more tables.
Then three.
Renn hired another server.
And Arya gained something unexpected.
Responsibility.
At first it had been small things.
"Kid, handle the dough today."
"Arya, check the supply inventory."
Then larger ones.
"You decide the daily special."
Eventually Garrick stopped supervising the kitchen entirely.
Instead he simply pointed toward Arya whenever someone asked who created the food.
"That one."
It was the closest thing to praise the man ever gave.
Six months passed like this.
Arya's days settled into rhythm.
Wake at six.
Prepare the kitchen.
Cook through the busy hours.
Occasionally step into the dining hall to greet regular customers.
Then rest late at night in his small upstairs room.
The Drunken Pavilion slowly transformed.
Once it had been a modest tavern known mainly for cheap ale.
Now locals spoke of it as the place with the best food in Stoneford.
People even began using a nickname.
"Arya's Kitchen."
Garrick pretended to hate that name.
But he never corrected anyone.
One evening, after a particularly busy service, Arya stepped outside the tavern for fresh air.
The street glowed softly under lantern light.
Inside, laughter and conversation filled the building.
Arya folded his arms and looked at the night sky.
Six months ago he had arrived in this world with nothing.
No allies.
No power.
No place to belong.
Now he had a job.
A reputation.
And the beginnings of something stable.
It was not conquest.
It was not greatness.
But it was a foundation.
And foundations, Arya knew well, were where all great things began.