The Fantasy Pizza Master System had a lot of opinions about what constituted "real pizza."
No mozzarella? Not pizza. End of discussion.
I pulled up the blue interface and found the Mozzarella Kit locked behind a simple requirement: demonstrate cheese-making knowledge. I laughed. I'd spent two summers at a fromagerie in Lyon during college. I could make mozzarella in my sleep.
Finding a workspace in Dalton was easy. Finding someone willing to let a stranger with no references use their back room? Less easy.
The dairy market sat at the north end of town, all wooden stalls and wet cobblestones. Hilda ran the biggest operation — a mountain of a woman with forearms like hams and a voice that could strip paint.
"You want to do what?" she asked.
"Make cheese. Mozzarella. In your back room."
She stared at me. Al stared at me. Even the cow behind her stared at me.
"I'll pay," I said.
"That's not..." She rubbed her face. "Why?"
"I need it for a recipe. And I need to prove something to myself."
Hilda sighed like a woman who'd heard every excuse in the book. "Fine. Five silver. You break anything, you buy it."
The back room was cramped but functional. Wooden counter, a massive iron pot, and cheesecloth hanging from hooks. The system dinged, and the Mozzarella Kit unlocked.
I pulled up the ingredient list: Dawn Milk, Rennet Extract, Salt. All purchasable. All costing real fucking money.
I bought a batch. The ingredients materialized on the counter — a clay jug of milk that practically glowed, a vial of amber liquid, and a small pouch of salt so white it hurt to look at.
The rennet caught my eye. Back on Earth, rennet meant animal stomachs, careful extraction, refrigeration, and variable potency. This stuff was different — crystal clear, warm to the touch, stable at room temperature. System rennet. No guessing, no spoiling, no mess. Just pour and watch it work.
"You just... had those?" Hilda asked from the doorway.
"Always be prepared," I said.
I poured the milk into the pot. The Dawn Milk was unlike anything I'd ever worked with — cream rose to the top in seconds, and the fat content was off the charts. I lit the fire and started heating.
"My grandmother taught me cheese-making," Hilda said, watching. "She'd put her elbow in the milk. Said if it felt like a warm bath, it was ready."
"Same principle," I said, "but I need exactly 90 degrees."
"You have a thermometer?"
I tapped my temple. "Finger thermometer. Right here."
I dipped my finger in. The heat felt right — that just-past-body-temperature warmth. I added the rennet and stirred. The milk shifted beneath the spoon, thickening almost immediately. That first chemical change — the moment liquid decides it wants to be solid — it never gets old. No matter how many times you do it.
"You're just... feeling it?" Hilda asked.
"I've done this before."
Stirring curds by hand is zen. The milk separates, with solid white curds floating in yellowish whey. It's alchemy, plain and simple. You watch liquid become solid, and you remember where food actually comes from. The warmth of the pot, the smell of fresh dairy, the gentle resistance of the curds against the wooden spoon — every sensation grounded me in the moment. This was the kind of work that didn't care about my past. The milk didn't know I was a baron's son on the run. It just wanted to become cheese.
"Now we wait," I said.
"Then what?"
"Then we stretch."
I cut the curds into cubes and let them rest. When the texture was right — firm but tender — I scooped them into hot whey and started working.
This is the part that separates mozzarella from every other cheese. The stretch. You take these rubbery curds, and you pull them, fold them, stretch them again. Hot enough to burn but not hot enough to stop you. Rhythm. Muscle memory.
My hands turned red. The curds transformed under my palms, becoming smooth, elastic, beautiful.
Hilda didn't say anything. She just watched.
I formed the first ball. Perfect. Glossy white, warm, with that slight bounce that tells you the structure is right.
The system pulsed.
**Mozzarella Kit: Unlocked.**
**Ingredient quality: Pristine.**
**Skill bonus: +15% cheese yield.**
I held the ball up. Light caught it — Dawn Milk's natural shimmer made the mozzarella look like it was glowing from within.
"Fuuuuck," Hilda whispered. "That's not cheese. That's a miracle."
"Same thing," I said, grinning.
I made seven more balls before the curd ran out. Each one perfect. Each one glowing faintly on the wooden counter.
Al appeared at the door. "Brokk finished the oven hood."
I'd hired a dwarven stonemason to fix up the oven's chimney — the system had built the core beautifully, but the smoke hood needed a proper touch from someone who knew stone. His name was Brokk. He had hands like cinder blocks and a mustache that looked like it could file paperwork on its own.
"Good. Tell him I'll pay him tomorrow."
He left. I grinned down at my cheese.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever made.
I bit into it. The texture was ridiculous. Soft, squeaky, creamy. The flavor — clean milk, fresh grass, something almost floral. The Dawn Wheat gave the bread character, but this... this was the soul of pizza staring right back at me.
"One more test," I said. "Then I can actually make a Margherita."
Hilda shook her head. "I've been making cheese for twenty years. I've never seen anything like that."
"Good ingredients help."
I tossed her a ball. She caught it, snorted, and bit into it like she was proving a point.
Her eyes went wide. She looked at the cheese. Then at me. Then back at the cheese.
"That's..." She chewed. Swallowed. Stared. "That's not right. That's not... cheese isn't supposed to taste like this."
"Good?"
"Wrong." She took another bite anyway. "Wrong in a way that makes me want more."
I laughed. "It does, doesn't it?"
I wrapped the bundle and stepped out of the dairy, mozzarella under my arm, system interface glowing at the edge of my vision. The sun was setting over Dalton, painting the rooftops in shades of amber and rose. Somewhere out there, my brother's men were asking questions. Somewhere out there, Big Brother dearest was still looking for me, still consolidating power, still likely poisoning anyone who got in his way. But here, in this moment, I had warm cheese in my hands and a city at my feet.
And right now, that was enough.