Yeats stared at the glowing golden words before his eyes.
[Spirit of the Feast]
A title bestowed upon those who have mastered the culinary arts. Allows the user to turn any theoretically edible ingredient into a delicious dish, and adds bonus effects to all meals.
He blinked.
Wait… isn't this the same title I earned in Phantom Wing after maxing out my cooking skill
In this fantasy world, there existed a support profession based around gourmet magic: Feastmasters. They even had their own guilds, academies, and annual cooking duels.
At the peak of their ranks stood the elite few known as Spirits of the Feast—chefs whose food was said to earn divine approval. The word feast itself came from "sacrificial offerings," and these people made dishes worthy of gods.
Yeats could barely contain his excitement.
So grinding cooking to max level in-game actually earned me this legendary talent IRL—er, in this world?
In his family, many siblings had awakened their innate talents even before reaching their first adventurer tier.
Yeats, at fourteen, had neither advanced nor awakened anything.
But now, thanks to this "system" (or game panel, whatever), the talent slot had finally been filled.
Sure, this wasn't some combat cheat like Hundred Weapon Styles or Kingslayer, but…
As a life-skills main? This was perfect.
Then again… he suddenly felt a phantom ache in his liver.
"I sacrificed so many sleepless nights grinding for that cooking title. My roommates thought I was dying."
Yeats sighed and accidentally tapped the panel.
[Inherit this Talent?]
[Decline to reroll for another random Talent (Warning: No guarantee of higher rarity!)]
He flinched.
Don't accidentally reroll. Don't reroll the golden title.
Wait... did he have any other game titles worth considering?
Maybe the Soul of the Azure Angler—the ultimate fishing achievement. It let you reel in all sorts of rare loot.
But cooking still made more sense.
Also, rerolling was too risky. He wasn't about to trade five-star gourmet for a one-star "Herbalist Intern" badge.
Yeats hit [Confirm].
Suddenly—boom.
Memories surged into his brain like a culinary enlightenment montage. He stood frozen, expression blank, like a cat who'd just glimpsed the secrets of the universe.
"Hey! Young Master? Hellooo?" Grey waved a hand in front of his face.
"Are you zoning out or having a stroke?"
Yeats blinked, focus returning.
His senses were… enhanced. Every ingredient now shimmered with potential. Even the bisected cockatrice from earlier—splattered in goo—looked like a perfectly marbled delicacy.
He exhaled slowly, stepped around Grey's hand, and spoke calmly:
"Call me Yeats. Also—"
He turned to face her, emerald eyes glowing with serene confidence.
"Didn't you say earlier… you were hungry?"
Grey scratched her cheek with a sheepish grin.
"Yeah… I kinda only ate that one chicken yesterday. And technically, that chicken walked itself into my path."
You lured it five miles with rice grains like a poultry Pied Piper.
Even a mind flayer would've gotten less suspicion.
But Yeats shook his head.
Dragonborn… chicken-thieves. It's practically folklore.
"Farkas," he called out. "Head into the village and buy us a cooking set. We'll stay the night and cook our own dinner."
"At once, Young Master."
Farkas gave a proper bow. Though he had culinary skills himself, the trip had been too rushed to pack cookware.
Now was his chance to finally show his young master a real butler's kitchen chops
But when he returned, pots in hand, what he saw shocked him.
By the riverbank, Yeats was washing his hands and prepping ingredients.
"Young Master… are you… cooking yourself ?!"
Yeats looked up.
"What, that wasn't obvious?"
"By the Light…" Farkas whispered, raising a trembling hand to wipe his eyes.
"Young Master… can cook?! "
Tears welled up in the old man's eyes. His voice cracked.
"Wuuuuu…""
My lord… your son has grown up.
You banished him to the frontier, and now he's learned how to make soup!
Grey looked confused.
"Uhh… why is your butler crying like he just watched a coming-of-age drama?"
Yeats winced.
"Maybe because I used to be a… bit of a brat."
Farkas, eavesdropping, almost snorted.
"A bit"? Oh please. That's like calling a chimera 'mildly inconvenient.'
After composing himself, Farkas stood tall and dignified again.
"Young Master, what's the plan for dinner? I can assist you."
"Perfect. Wash the ingredients for me."
Yeats pointed.
"We're having cockatrice tonight."
"Absolutely—wait WHAT?"
Both Farkas and Grey froze.
"You're serious?!"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"That's a magical beast ! " Farkas exclaimed, sweating buckets.
"You can't just cook monsters! Their organs get corrupted by mana!"
"Best case—vomiting. Worst case—instant death," Grey added solemnly.
"There's literally a clause about it in the Royal Code of Toxins!"
Grey knew the law so well she could probably get away with murder—legally.
Yeats shrugged.
"Then I'll just cut out the bad parts."
With casual precision, he drew a blade and began filleting the cockatrice like a pro.
"Toss this pile. Everything else is edible."
He gestured toward the meat with snake tail still twitching faintly.
Grey stared at it.
A drop of sweat slid down her cheek.
Did I agree to that one-year contract too fast...?
Farkas swallowed hard.
"Technically… with the right training, a Feastmaster can prep magical beasts…"
Yeats sighed.
"Farkas, I suppose I should tell you now."
"I've awakened my Talent. I just… didn't tell the family."
He looked calm. Composed. Almost glowing.
"And my Talent… is culinary."
Silence.
The sun dipped low. Birds held their breath.
Grey glanced at Yeats, then at Farkas.
Then the old man burst into tears.
"You… you have a Talent?! You finally awakened one?!"
Yeats nodded. Farkas rushed over and hugged him tight.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?! This is wonderful news! A miracle!"
Yeats awkwardly patted his back.
To be fair, this was kind of a big deal.
"Go wash the meat now, Farkas," he said gently.
Farkas beamed.
"Yes, Young Master!"
He practically skipped off with joy.
Yeats watched him go, lips twitching into a smirk.
At this point, we're less like master and servant… and more like weird frontier buddies.
Nearby, Grey crouched by the stream, resting her chin in her palms, eyes fixed on Yeats.
"This noble kid… he's kinda tsundere, isn't he?"
"Hmm. Interesting."