While the royal dining hall was bustling with flavour, laughter, and curious excitement, a very different scene was unfolding in the Astley castle.
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Here, the air was sharp with tension.
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So sharp that even the servants passing by the corridor slowed their steps, exchanging nervous glances at the tightly closed door of the sitting room.
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Inside, a fierce argument was taking place.
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"Absolutely not."
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Countess Astley's voice was calm.
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But that calm only made it more terrifying.
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Saphy stood in front of her, hands clenched at her sides, her expression stubborn and unyielding.
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"But mother, you can't just ban me like that!"
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"I can," her mother replied immediately. "And I already have."
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Saphy opened her mouth to protest, but the countess raised a hand, stopping her.
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"Saphy, listen to me. You are still a child. You should not be anywhere near open fire, boiling oil, or heavy iron cookware. The kitchen is not a playground."
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"But I've been in the kitchen for years now!"
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"And always under supervision," her mother said firmly. "And never as the main cook."
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She took a step closer.
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"This restaurant is not a small experiment in our home kitchen. It will be busy. Crowded. Dangerous. One mistake is enough for a serious injury."
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Saphy bit her lip.
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"That's why Roff will be there," the countess continued. "He is the head chef. A professional. With decades of experience."
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She turned slightly, as if pointing toward the distant kitchens.
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"And let's be honest. He is more than capable."
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"…I know that," Saphy muttered.
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"Not just capable," her mother said. "He perfectly recreated every single dish you invented. Taste, texture, even the smallest details. There is nothing lacking."
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Her gaze softened slightly, but her voice remained firm.
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"With his skill, there is no reason for you to stand in front of a stove yourself."
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Saphy raised her head.
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"There is a reason."
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The countess looked at her.
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Saphy's eyes were serious.
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"I'm going to introduce the two main dishes of the restaurant."
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"And?" her mother asked.
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"I must cook them myself."
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The countess frowned.
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"Saphy, this is not about pride."
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"It's not pride," Saphy said immediately. "It's responsibility."
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Then, with a little frustration creeping into her voice, she added,
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"And danger? Mother, I can heal missing limbs now."
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The room fell silent.
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For a brief moment, even the countess was at a loss for words.
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"If I can fix something like that," Saphy continued, "then what's a burn? Or a cut? Or anything that might happen in a kitchen?"
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Her mother stared at her.
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"…That is not how safety works."
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"But it is how reality works," Saphy insisted. "Nothing is truly dangerous to me anymore."
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"That is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people hurt," the countess snapped.
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Her calm finally cracked.
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"You are not allowed to treat your own body like a test subject just because you can heal! Accidents still hurt. They still cause pain. And sometimes—"
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She stopped herself, closing her eyes for a moment.
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Then she continued more quietly.
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"Sometimes, things happen too fast even for magic."
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Saphy clenched her fists.
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"But this is important to me."
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"So is your life."
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They stared at each other.
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Neither willing to back down.
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After a long silence, the countess spoke again.
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"Roff will cook. You will supervise. You will teach. You will taste. But you will not stand at the stove during service."
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Saphy shook her head.
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"No."
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The single word was quiet.
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But absolute.
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"For the opening days, for the two main dishes… I will cook them. If I don't, then their 'first appearance' won't be real."
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"…You are unbelievably stubborn," her mother said.
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"I learned it from father."
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"…That's not a compliment."
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Silence fell again.
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Heavy.
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Long.
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Finally, the countess exhaled slowly.
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"…We will discuss this again with your father and Roff present."
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Saphy's eyes widened slightly.
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"That's not a no?"
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"It's not a yes either," her mother replied. "But this is not something we will decide in anger."
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Saphy nodded.
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"…Okay."
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But inside her chest, her resolve remained completely unchanged.
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Far away, the royal family was celebrating new flavors.
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But here, in the Astley castle, the most important battle was not about taste.
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It was about fire, danger…
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And how much trust a mother could place in her extraordinary daughter.
Thus, after much arguing, stubbornness, and far too many heavy sighs, Saphy was finally able to convince her parents.
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…At least partially.
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The final verdict was delivered in a tone that allowed absolutely no room for negotiation.
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"You may cook," her mother said. "But only at home. Not at the restaurant."
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Saphy froze.
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"…What?"
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"You will prepare the dishes here, in our kitchen," the countess repeated calmly. "Under proper conditions. With proper supervision."
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"And Roff will handle the restaurant side?"
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"Yes."
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Saphy immediately shook her head.
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"That defeats the whole point! The first presentation, the atmosphere, the timing—"
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"No," her mother interrupted.
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One single word.
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Sharp.
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Final.
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"You are not standing in front of a stove in a crowded restaurant. This is not a discussion anymore."
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Saphy clenched her fists.
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"But—"
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"It's either this," the countess said, meeting her eyes without the slightest wavering, "or you do not cook at all."
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Silence fell.
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Heavy.
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Brutal.
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Saphy knew that look.
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Her mother was not negotiating anymore.
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She was drawing a line.
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"…Tch."
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Saphy looked away, clearly dissatisfied.
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"…Fine. I'll cook at home."
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Her mother nodded.
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But then she raised one more finger.
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"And there is another condition."
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Saphy immediately felt a bad premonition.
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"During your first cooking session, I will be present."
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"…Just watching?"
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"Closely monitoring."
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Saphy's shoulders stiffened.
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"If you get injured," her mother continued, "and I mean injured badly, then the ban is immediately reinstated. No arguments. No second chances."
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"…Even if it's an accident?"
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"Especially if it's an accident."
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Saphy opened her mouth.
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Then closed it again.
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She knew better than to push further.
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"…Okay."
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The countess studied her for a long moment.
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Then she nodded.
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"Good."
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Saphy let out a long breath.
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It wasn't the perfect victory she wanted.
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Not even close.
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But…
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At least she could cook.
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At least she could prove it.
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And in her heart, she was already certain of one thing.
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She would not get injured.
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Not even a little.
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Because if she did…
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This path would be closed forever.
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Far away, the restaurant preparations continued.
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But the real first battle would be fought…
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Not in a noble district.
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Not in front of customers.
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But in the familiar kitchen of the Astley household.
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Under the sharp, unblinking eyes of her mother.
But despite her outward disappointment…
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Saphy was secretly happy.
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Very happy.
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She kept her expression properly subdued as she left the room, but inside her heart, she was already celebrating.
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There was no way she would get injured.
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Not even a little.
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Not even by accident.
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Because unlike ordinary people…
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She had a very simple solution.
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"Just a thin layer of mana on my skin…"
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She muttered it so quietly that no one else could hear.
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A defensive coating.
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Something she had already used countless times in training and experiments.
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As long as she maintained it, heat, blades, oil, or even direct flames would never reach her real skin.
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In fact…
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"…Even if I stood in fire, nothing would happen."
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The thought made her almost want to smile.
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Almost.
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Her mother was worried about burns.
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Cuts.
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Accidents.
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All perfectly reasonable concerns.
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But unfortunately for those concerns…
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They did not apply to her anymore.
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"Sorry, mother…"
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Saphy thought, walking down the corridor with small, light steps.
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"I'm definitely going to pass your test."
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Not only pass it.
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She would pass it so perfectly…
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So flawlessly…
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That her mother wouldn't even be able to find a reason to complain.
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And once that happened…
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The next step would naturally follow.
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For now, she would cook at home.
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Under supervision.
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Under strict rules.
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But after that…
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"…Hehehe."
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A very dangerous smile appeared on her face for just a brief moment.
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The first real battle was coming.
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Not against nobles.
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Not against merchants.
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Not even against monsters.
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But against fire.
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Oil.
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And her mother's sharp eyes.
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And Saphy was absolutely confident of one thing.
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She would win.
Intermission…
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Now that she had finally obtained permission, Saphy was, at last, going to cook the main dish.
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And honestly…
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What could possibly be a main dish, if not steak?
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The two pillars of her restaurant's menu would be decided by this.
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Butter-basted picanha steak.
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And grilled tomahawk steak with compound butter.
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Before anything else…
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She had to prepare the compound butter.
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Saphy had already cured several egg yolks in salt beforehand, waiting patiently for this very day.
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She took out room-temperature butter and placed it in a large bowl.
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Then, one by one, she added the ingredients.
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Finely shredded cured egg yolks.
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Minced garlic.
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Minced chilies.
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Thin shavings of truffle.
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And finally…
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A carefully selected mix of local herbs.
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She still hadn't found thyme, rosemary, or any of the familiar herbs from her previous world.
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So she had no choice but to make do with what this land offered.
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Fortunately, after many trials and errors, she had discovered a few herbs with a clean, refreshing aroma—ones that paired well with butter and didn't overpower the other ingredients.
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She mixed everything slowly.
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Carefully.
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Thoroughly.
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The result was a pale golden butter, speckled with color and fragrance.
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She cut off a small piece and tasted it.
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"…Perfect."
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It had the deep richness of butter.
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The dense umami of cured egg yolk.
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The earthy, luxurious note of truffle.
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And a light, refreshing finish from the herbs.
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It was complex.
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But not chaotic.
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Bold.
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But not heavy.
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Saphy looked at the finished compound butter with satisfied eyes.
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"This will definitely go well with a charcoal-grilled steak…"
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Very well.
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The foundation was complete.
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Next…
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Would come the real star.
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The meat.
Lying in front of her…
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Were some of the finest-looking steaks she had ever seen.
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They were not from ordinary cattle.
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These cuts came from a demonic bull.
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A level 2 monster.
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Its meat carried a deep, healthy red color, and fine veins of fat ran through it beautifully.
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The marbling was excellent.
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Not on the absurd level of A5 wagyu…
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But closer to a high-grade Australian wagyu.
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Which, honestly, was perfect for steak.
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Too much fat would only make it heavy.
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This was exactly the balance she wanted.
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Saphy took a breath.
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Then she began seasoning.
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Salt.
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Pepper.
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And garlic powder.
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She didn't hold back.
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The seasoning had to be heavy.
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Very heavy.
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Because when cooking over a grill, a large portion of the seasoning would fall off together with the rendered fat.
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If she went light now, the final result would be bland.
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Once both sides were thoroughly coated, she nodded in satisfaction.
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"Alright…"
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Now it was time to cook.
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In front of her was a medium-sized grill.
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It was prepared in two zones.
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One side packed with hot charcoal.
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The other left empty.
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A hot zone.
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And a cold zone.
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This setup was essential.
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It allowed her to control the heat and avoid burning the meat while still cooking it through properly.
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As she was making her final preparations, she felt a gaze on her.
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A very sharp gaze.
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When she turned her head slightly, she saw her mother watching her like a hawk.
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Every movement.
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Every breath.
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Being monitored.
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But strangely…
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Saphy wasn't nervous at all.
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Because before even stepping into the kitchen…
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She had already coated her body and clothes with a thin layer of mana.
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A perfect, invisible protection.
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Burns, oil splashes, sparks…
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None of them would reach her.
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Only after everything was ready did she pick up the first piece of meat.
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Before placing it on the grill…
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She rotated it slightly.
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This way, there would be no ugly grill marks.
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The surface would sear evenly.
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Beautifully.
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Then…
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She placed the steak onto the grill.
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The moment it touched the hot metal—
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Sssssssss—
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A sharp, mouthwatering sound filled the air.
After some time passed…
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Saphy rotated the steak again.
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And then flipped it.
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Not just once.
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But regularly.
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She kept rotating.
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Kept flipping.
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Again and again.
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This way, the heat distribution would stay even across the entire surface.
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And more importantly…
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It would prevent those ugly gray bands from forming inside the meat.
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The surface slowly changed.
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From raw red…
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To a deep, appetizing brown.
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A thin crust began to form.
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And with it—
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That unmistakable aroma.
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The Maillard reaction.
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When Saphy felt the resistance of the meat under her tongs change…
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When the surface had turned a perfect golden brown…
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She knew.
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"It's almost there…"
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She took a piece of her prepared compound butter and placed it directly on top of the steak.
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It began to melt instantly.
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Sliding over the hot surface.
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Foaming.
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Releasing a rich, overwhelming fragrance of butter, truffle, garlic, and herbs.
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Then, without hesitation, she moved the steak to the other side of the grill.
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The side without any charcoal.
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Indirect heat.
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Now, it was no longer about searing.
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It was about gently bringing the inside to perfection.
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Saphy took out a small, thin metal needle.
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And carefully inserted it into the thickest part of the steak. And covered the grill with the lid. She also added some wood shavings to the charcoal. It will give an wonderful aroma to the steak.
And that needle was....
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A wireless thermometer.
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Yes.
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Wireless.
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But powered by magic.
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The grill itself was simple.
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Ironbeard could make something like this in his sleep.
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But this…
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This little device was a completely different story.
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The first problem had been the material for measuring heat.
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Finding something that could accurately react to temperature changes, stay stable, and still be small enough.
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That alone had taken ages.
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Once that was solved, the rest was… comparatively easy.
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Enchantments to measure temperature.
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Enchantments to convert it into numerical data.
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Then enchantments for sending and receiving the signal.
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And just like that…
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The world's first wireless thermometer was born.
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Well.
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Probably.
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But the biggest hurdle of all…
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Was making the whole thing small enough to actually stick into a piece of meat.
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Saphy glanced at the small display device in her hand.
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Numbers were steadily changing.
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Slowly.
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Very slowly.
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Exactly as they should.
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"Good…"
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Now, all she had to do…
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Was wait.
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Behind her, she could feel it.
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Her mother's gaze.
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Sharp.
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Unblinking.
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Watching not only the fire…
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But every single movement Saphy made.
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Completely unaware…
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That the most dangerous part of this cooking session…
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Was already long over.
When the number on the display finally reached…
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130°F.
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Saphy immediately opened the grill lid.
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A wave of hot, fragrant air rushed out.
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The steak inside had turned a deep, beautiful brown.
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Its surface glistened with melted butter and rendered fat.
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Tiny bubbles were still forming and popping on the crust.
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The aroma was overwhelming.
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Charcoal smoke.
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Rich butter.
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Garlic.
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Herbs.
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And the deep, savory scent of perfectly seared meat.
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Just breathing it in was enough to make anyone hungry.
⠀
Without hesitation, she took the steak out.
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And placed it on a wire rack.
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She had taken it out at 130°F.
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Not 135°F.
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Because the residual heat inside the meat would continue cooking it even while resting.
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If she waited longer, it would overshoot.
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And resting…
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Was not optional.
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It was essential.
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So she waited.
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And waited.
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The surface slowly stopped sizzling.
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The juices inside redistributed.
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And the meat quietly reached its final, perfect state.
⠀
When the resting time was over…
⠀
She picked up her knife.
⠀
First, she separated the steak from the bone.
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The blade slid through with almost no resistance.
⠀
Then she began slicing.
⠀
Each cut revealed the inside.
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A beautiful, even pink.
⠀
From edge to edge.
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No visible gray band.
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No overcooked ring.
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Just…
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A perfect steak.
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Juice glistened on the cut surfaces.
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The fibers were tender.
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Almost creamy.
⠀
Even before tasting, the result was obvious.
⠀
It was a success.
⠀
Next, she prepared the sauce.
⠀
In a separate bowl, she mixed together a very simple chimichurri.
⠀
Olive oil.
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Chopped tomatoes.
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Chilies.
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And herbs.
⠀
Nothing fancy.
⠀
Nothing complicated.
⠀
Just fresh, bright flavors to cut through the richness of the meat and butter.
⠀
Finally, she arranged everything neatly.
⠀
And looked at the result.
⠀
One of the main dishes of her new restaurant—
⠀
Charcoal-grilled tomahawk steak with compound butter and chimichurri.
⠀
Was complete.
⠀
All that remained now…
⠀
Was the judgment.
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From the strictest critic in the room.
⠀
Her mother.