02. I'll Ravish Your Tongue
I'd spent the past few days investigating this world.
Library visits, buying drinks for adventurers—you name it.
If you're wondering why I bothered with market research after reading the entire original story, it's simple: I've only got one life.
What if this world deviated from the original? Who'd take responsibility?
Life doesn't come with save points or extra coins.
No one's gonna answer for my choices, so I had to play it safe.
Anyway, from what I'd gathered, most modern stuff wouldn't sell here.
Magic, alchemy, holy arts—they were insanely versatile. Overhyped to the point of replacing science entirely.
Don't ask me how; that's just how the original story rolled.
Kitchen gadgets, beauty products—covered across the board.
"But they haven't completely replaced everything."
Thank god for genre limits. The Obesity Treatment hadn't hit this world yet. No issues selling that.
So, problem solved? Hell no!
Selling unproven, theoretical junk to nobles? Piece of cake, right? Yeah, impossible at this stage.
Can't just hypnotize them with an app and say, "Trust me, bro."
I needed credibility. According to Sylvia, there were about two months left in the break.
I had to make Leperi de Arno come to me before the Academy reopened.
"May the blessings of capitalism be with me..."
The Adventurer's Guild Academy Branch. A place where you took on rank-based quests and claimed rewards.
Even on weekends, it buzzed with people nonstop.
Just like that dwarf uncle who chugged a whole keg of beer had said—every type imaginable crammed in.
Potential customers, sure, but not yet. I headed to the counter where a receptionist was visible.
"Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild Academy Branch! How can we help you today?"
"Here to register as an adventurer."
"Sure thing. Just fill out your personal info and specialties here."
I got a straightforward F-rank. No surprise—nothing to put under specialties.
Rank didn't matter. I just needed adventurer status to pick up quests.
This guild was more like a fixer service: 'As long as the pay's right, we'll handle anything legal.'
Why let civilians register easily? They needed pros, but also grunts for odd jobs.
'Low-rank quests mix easy stuff with low-paying tough ones.'
That was the rundown during registration. I needed the hard, stingy-pay variety.
"Bingo."
Sifting through tattered papers, I found the perfect one.
[New Menu Recipe Contest (Ongoing)]
The client? None other than the Owl's Nest Inn, my current digs.
It promised pay based on internal review for anyone bringing a fresh dish.
"Why not post this in the lobby?"
Maybe they didn't want guests seeing it. Whatever.
Noble-connected client with influence, a long-standing quest perfect for buzz—jackpot.
I told the front desk I was claiming it and headed back to the inn.
The Inn Manager greeted me with a polished service smile.
"Welcome back, sir. We've cleaned your room while you were out."
"Thanks. Hey, mind if I ask something...?"
"I'll answer what I can."
"Saw your inn's quest at the guild. Can I join in?"
"Absolutely. The Owl's Nest Inn always welcomes new recipes."
No restrictions, huh? Make 'em food, hand over the recipe if they like it, get paid.
"Any idea on judging criteria? I'd love to aim for top marks."
"As I mentioned on your first visit, it's off-season now."
Academy break meant no noble students or visitors—demand tanked hard.
"Inns like ours used to close for refurb during breaks and reopen for the new term."
Off-season, costs outpaced earnings. Like AC installers or summer valley chicken soup joints.
"But lately, some reason's kept us open year-round. We let non-guests use the restaurant to cut losses, but it's just damage control."
"So, you need a menu magnetic enough to turn the inn into a restaurant hotspot?"
"Exactly. Lots applied when we posted, but nothing's met the bar yet."
They probably wanted something popular even after term starts. Food sells year-round.
But what were the criteria?
Did my face give it away? The manager cut to the chase.
"My apologies for the long backstory. Here's the evaluation standards."
I borrowed the kitchen after dinner service.
The manager asked if I wanted to start right away, but witnesses weren't ideal for what I had planned.
I requested a quiet time slot. Sorry to the manager stuck late.
His three criteria:
1. Create a completely new dish to avoid friction with other eateries.
2. No ultra-expensive ingredients.
3. Simple recipe, short prep time.
Simple, but brutal. Tasty, novel, easy—this is why no winners.
But no worries. 21st-century corporate PhDs got this.
Domain Deployment. Let's Feed 'Em.
I activated the 21st Century Item Purchase skill and paid 1 silver. A rift opened, revealing the Bulgogi Seasoning.
Familiar corporate logo. I grabbed employee-grade beef brisket from the kitchen's magic fridge and sliced it thin.
They had steak cuts, but... ugh.
"Might as well boil sashimi for hotpot."
Thin-sliced meat, seasoned per instructions, water added.
Straight-up eating style would've been too intense.
Marinate 30 minutes in the fridge.
"Manager! Something amazing smells from the kitchen!"
"Indeed, Sylvia. Room 204's guest is whipping up something special."
A commoner booking solo had seemed off from the start, but this?
I wanted to bust in and see. What could produce such heavenly aroma?
If he hadn't forbidden entry pre-completion, I'd have broken the door.
"One hour's almost up. We'll see soon. Join the tasting, Sylvia."
"R-Really? Thank you! I'd regret it forever otherwise!"
"Haha, can't have staff losing sleep. But keep it down."
"Of course! Can't risk another wage cut in front of him... ugh."
"Sorry. Out of my hands."
This time, he'd satisfy for sure.
"Done."
Stewpot-less bulgogi stew. Taste test: PhD perfection. Water diluted it a bit, though.
Finished with butter and salt. Solid.
Heading to the restaurant, the manager and Sylvia stared— at the cart I wheeled out.
Expectant eyes? Chef's kiss.
Max-level full-gear getting noob stares.
"Sorry for the wait. Dish is ready—please sample."
"Well done, Mr. Grid. Sylvia, set the table."
"O-Okay... plates coming!"
"Stew, so bowls, not plates."
Didn't know if rofan had soup; called it stew. Spoons incoming.
"Mr. Grid, one thing before tasting."
What? Veto rights?
"One more taster joining me."
"Any allergies, dietary restrictions, religious no-gos?"
"Haha, no. We'd have mentioned."
"Cool. Made extra with staff beef."
Whew. Almost PTSD.
Always the ones silent at menu pick who later whine, "Huh? Can't eat this T_T."
"Phew, good. Skipped dinner on paperwork. This'll fill me up."
Cheerful voice from the door.
"Perfect timing. Allow me: Iris, owner of our inn and Swordsmanship Department Head."
Didn't expect her here. Owner and department head?
Iris the Sword Saint. Minor in original—protagonist in magic dept, so cameo appearances.
But lore-wise, top-tier powerhouse enabling the peaceful academy life.
Academy trouble? Iris fixes it.
Empire issue? Iris handles.
World ending? Iris saves.
Some action fans yelled "Iris out!" but nah.
Elves are pretty. Pointed ears jumped out first.
Seen other races researching, but first elf.
Nearly 170cm, classic gold hair green eyes, athletic curves dizzying.
"Looks delicious."
"Pardon?"
"That on the cart. Smells divine—first time, heart racing."
Iris sat with a mischievous grin and loaded words.
Whew, easy to mishear. Five years younger, she'd have grandkids.
Big shot incoming? Fine. Good is good. Rack up points.
Sylvia served Iris and manager, then took hers to a far table.
VIPs might give indigestion.
Unlike her, I casually joined their table.
Can't miss mukbang.
Iris eyed the dish.
Dark, thick broth—not quite soup. Cheap cut meat.
'And he's a novice cook.'
Tough cut overboiled? Chewy as leather.
Normally, reject and scold manager. But she couldn't look away.
'How...?'
200+ years, never smelled such sweetness. Distant whiff was wild; up close, madness.
Saliva flooding, swallowing nonstop—stronger than any temptation.
Manager same... no, he's geared up. Holding back 'cause I'm not eating.
"Let's eat, manager."
"Yes. Thanks for the meal, Mr. Grid."
"Thanks, Grid."
No meat first—spoon of broth.
"!!!"
Enchanted, she shoveled it in.
Possessed, Iris devoured without describing the taste.
Couldn't think. More time for more bites.
"Haa... haa..."
Snapped out—bowl spotless, not a scrap left.
"To your taste?"
Grid approached, cart in tow.