I'd like to say I adjusted quickly to life in another world. I didn't and not even close to reality.
It had been two days since I escaped the castle, and so far my greatest achievement was not dying of confusion.
Turns out, "Master Chef" didn't automatically come with cooking skills.
Sure, I could make pizza in my sleep, knead dough, spin it, sauce it, toss it like a champion. But anything that didn't involve cheese, flour, or a preheated oven?
Yeah… that was foreign territory.
If cooking were a video game, I had one skill maxed out and everything else at Level 1 with a "?" icon.
Luckily, Tweety, my newly adopted, dove-sized Phoenix familiar was both a compass and a heat source.
"This way, John," Tweety chirped, perched on my shoulder. "There is a settlement ahead. I smell iron and people."
"You can smell people?"
"Everything that breathes leaves a trail," he replied calmly. "Mortals are especially fragrant."
I decided not to ask what "fragrant" meant in Phoenix language.
By sunset, we reached the outer fields of a small town ringed with wooden fences and glowing lanterns. Tweety told me its name: Doland, a trading post near the frontier, the same town, apparently, where traveling merchants stopped to buy cooking sets, tools, and all the essentials.
My relief was instant.
Civilization!
The guards at the gate gave me odd looks, probably because I rolled up with my delivery bike, a pizza box strapped to the back, and a talking bird.
But they waved me through after I offered them a few crumbs of leftover crust.
(They sniffed it like it was divine incense, which…okay… I took it as a compliment.)
Doland was busier than I expected.
Carts rattled down cobblestone streets, merchants shouted over each other, and the smell of grilled meat and sweet bread floated in the air. It felt almost normal if you ignored the adventurers in armor and the occasional lizard pulling a wagon.
I had exactly one goal: buy cooking gear and ingredients so I could finally use my "Master Chef" skill properly.
Well, properly-ish.
The problem was, I was broke.
Then luck smiled on me.
A fancy carriage rolled to a stop in front of me, it was glossy and ridiculously clean.
The curtains parted, and a man in noble robes peeked out. His eyes landed on the half-finished and cold pizza I'd been guarding like treasure.
"Is that food?" he asked.
I nodded slowly.
"Pizza."
He sniffed.
"Smells nice. How much for a piece?"
I blinked.
"You want to buy it?"
"Indeed." He held out a small pouch. Gold coins glinted inside.
Ten gold. For one pizza.
I tried not to scream.
"It's… uh, yours," I said, handing him the box.
He took a bite right there in the carriage, closed his eyes, and made a sound that could only be described as spiritual enlightenment.
"Exquisite," he murmured. "Truly, you must be a royal chef."
I laughed nervously.
"Yeah, totally. Royal. Self-taught."
Then he gestured at my scooter. "And that contraption? Name your price."
I hugged the handlebars.
"Not for sale."
He shrugged, still chewing happily.
"A shame. You could earn a fortune."
And just like that, the noble rolled away, leaving me standing in the street with ten gold and mild emotional whiplash.
It wasn't much, maybe a small fortune to someone else, but to me it was hope.
Enough to buy a pan, a few basic wares, and maybe some spices if I haggled hard enough.
I spent the next hour wandering through Doland's market checking stalls piled with earthen pots, wooden spoons, and bundles of herbs I couldn't identify.
It wasn't exactly a supermarket, but close enough.
By the time I finished, I had a small set of cookware, a few seasonings, and enough ingredients to attempt breakfast tomorrow.
I glanced at Tweety, who perched atop my shoulder.
"So," I said, "I've never cooked anything that wasn't pizza, but how hard can it be?"
Tweety tilted his head, eyes gleaming.
"Mortals often say that before burning down their kitchens."
"Comforting." I sighed.
Still, I couldn't help feeling a spark of excitement. A new town, a little gold in my pocket, and the chance to cook something new.
Even if I burned it, it would still be mine.
After buying my cookware and ingredients, I found a quiet spot by the river just outside Doland's town walls. It has a flat ground, a good breeze, and enough space for one hopeful beginner chef.
The sun was dipping low, painting everything in gold. I unpacked my haul and stretched my back.
"Alright, Tweety. Dinner time."
Tweety fluttered onto a rock beside me, glowing faintly like a living lantern.
"At last. I wondered when you would remember mortals must eat."
"Hey, I've been busy buying everything we need," I said, rummaging through the bag. "Speaking of, what do you usually eat?"
Tweety tilted his small head, his tone casual but oddly tired.
"Mostly meat. Large beasts, small beasts… roasted by my own flame. Sometimes raw, if the hunt was dull. I grow weary of it."
I looked at him, then at the single whole chicken I'd bought at the market.
"Well, my fiery friend, you're in luck. Tonight, we're going to make something different. Not something like that pizza you liked but with more… dirt."
Tweety blinked.
"Dirt?"
"Relax," I said, grinning. "It's called Mud-and-Charcoal Chicken. I saw it on a cooking show once."
Tweety saw the meat I thought was a full grown chicken.
"That's basically just a newly hatched chicken. It's just a baby."
I saw the disappointment in his eyes but hey it's still edible, right? Anyway I have to try and cook. I hope this will taste good. I saw this method of cooking once.
Step One: Cleaning the chicken.
Not glamorous, but doable. I rinsed it with water I fetched from the river with my new pot. I plucked a few stray feathers, and tried not to think about how many microbiology laws I was breaking.
Step Two: The Marinade.
I poured a dark brown sauce that I'd found in the market, a thick, salty blend called Soiya Extract, apparently their version of soy sauce.
A pinch of salt, no not really I think a cup of salt, ugh whatever. I'm not sure, okay? Added some rough-cracked black pepper, and I massaged it all in like I knew what I was doing.
Tweety watched closely, head cocked.
"This 'marinade' smells… alive."
"Good sign," I said, pretending I totally understood marination times. "We'll let it sit for a bit while I prepare the rest."
Step Three: Improvisation Time.
Nearby, I found large green leaves that looked suspiciously like banana leaves.
Perfect.
I washed them in the river, stripped the stems, and laid them out to dry.
Then I dug up some soft soil, mixed in a little water, and kneaded it with my hands until it turned into smooth clay.
My arms were sore halfway through, but it felt strangely therapeutic.
"I think I'm getting the hang of this cooking thing," I said proudly.
Tweety blinked.
"You are literally playing with mud."
"Artistic mud," I corrected.
Once the chicken had soaked long enough to smell like real food, I started chopping the aromatics I'd bought.
They had different names here oniyon, clovy aka garlic, and a kind of long, grassy herb called lemleaf, which smelled exactly like lemon grass.
I wrapped the chicken in layers of the broad leaves, stuffed the chopped herbs around it, and tied it with thin vine strings from the riverbank.
Then came the fun part.
I coated the whole bundle in clay until it looked like a small brown boulder.
When I was satisfied it wouldn't fall apart, I dug a shallow pit and buried it inside.
"Alright," I said, brushing dirt off my hands. "Now for the final step."
Step Four: Fire.
I stacked the wood above the buried chicken, forming a small teepee.
Tweety fluttered down, landing gracefully on the log pile.
"You wish me to ignite it?"
"Yeah, just a little flame, okay? Nothing extravagant."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.
"I am a Phoenix, John. Restraint is… relative."
Before I could object, Tweety took a small breath and exhaled.
A jet of golden fire washed over the logs, and they went up instantly roaring into a perfect, even blaze.
"Whoa! Okay, yep, that's definitely fire!" I stumbled back, shielding my face. "Good work, flamethrower!"
Tweety preened his feathers, looking very pleased with himself.
"A proper flame should obey the cook's heart."
"Mine says please don't explode my dinner," I muttered.
Still, the heat settled evenly, warming the pit. The scent of burning wood mixed with the faint aroma of herbs.
For the first time, I actually started to feel like a real cook or at least an enthusiastic impostor.
As the fire crackled, I sat down beside Tweety, both of us glowing in the reflected light.
Two days ago, I was just a guy with a pizza oven and rent due.
Now, I was roasting a clay-wrapped chicken, I mean chick in a fantasy forest with a divine bird the size of a dove(his own way of pairing with me) but actually he's a gigantic one.
I couldn't help but laugh softly.
"Not bad for my second day."
Tweety nodded, his eyes half-closed.
"Not bad indeed… though we shall see if it is edible."
"Have faith," I said. "If it's not good, I'll just… order something else."
"From where?"
I sighed.
"Yeah, good point."