"Didn't you say there was food here and that you wanted to treat us?"
Uvogin plopped down onto the cracked earth, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. His voice was rough but casual, as if they were lounging in some dive bar instead of the ruins of Meteor City.
"You really expect me to believe there's food in a place like this—where even the rats look half-starved?" He grinned, flashing a row of stark white teeth at Mog. "Unless… you're planning to serve yourself?"
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "With skin that soft, you wouldn't even fill the gaps between my teeth!"
Mog didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head and asked again, calm as ever:
"Are you hungry? Then let me serve you."
"Tch—you did say there was food here and told us to come!" Uvogin snapped, already losing patience. "So go on! Bring out whatever you've got! But if it's just some moldy, stinking bread—"
He balled his fists. "Don't blame me if I rip this whole roof off!"
He'd almost said flip the table, but caught himself—there wasn't even a table to flip. Just dust, rubble, and the distant silhouette of the church on the hill.
"Rest assured," Mog said softly.
Morlake—silent until now—offered no comment. He simply watched, arms crossed, as Mog closed his eyes and stilled his breathing.
Uvogin and Machi fell quiet. Ten seconds stretched like minutes.
Then—
"...That's it," Mog murmured, opening his eyes. He coughed lightly, as if clearing his throat after deep concentration. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?"
"Wait—you can just conjure food?" Uvogin scratched his arm, squinting. "Right here, right now?"
"If that's what you wish," Mog replied.
"Then I'll say—"
"Sticky rice cake."
Machi's voice cut through Uvogin's bluster like a blade. It was the first time she'd spoken—and the first time she'd looked Mog directly in the eye.
Uvogin blinked. "...Sticky rice cake?" He smacked his lips, memory stirring. "Oh—that stuff."
The kind they'd swiped weeks ago from Feitan and Phinks, who'd stolen it from a kid outside Father Lizor's church. The kid had been praying so hard his knees were bloody. Lizor had given him the cake as a blessing—rare, chewy, fragrant. Not meat, not rich, but real food in a place where real food was a myth.
Across the ruins, the church stood pristine amidst decay—its stained glass catching the weak sun. Lizor took in the dead of Meteor City, prayed over them, gave them names on tombstones. The living? They were left to rot. But sometimes, just sometimes, the church got shipments from the outside world… and shared crumbs with the devout.
"Sticky rice cake…" Mog repeated, nodding. "I know it."
He closed his eyes again.
Technically, Uvogin had made a request—fulfilling the condition Mog required to activate his ability. But Mog had overlooked something critical: the cost.
In Nen, nothing comes from nothing. Every ability draws from the user's aura—shaped by their will, their imagination, their limits. To materialize any food from thin air? That would demand an absurd amount of mental fortitude and magnanimity—traits Mog was still forging.
The "Gourmet Tablecloth" from those old manga he'd read? A fantasy. Reality was crueler.
So he narrowed the scope. One dish. One memory. One specific taste. That, he could manage.
Still… he thought, if only I had a four-dimensional pocket like that time-traveling cat…
He sighed inwardly. Maybe next life.
Or… perhaps I could bind it with Constraints and Vows? Reduce the strain? The idea flickered—useful, but for later. Right now, he had a promise to keep.
Just as Uvogin's boredom began to curdle into irritation—"Is this kid spacing out again?"—a soft violet light bloomed in Mog's palms.
"Huh?!" Uvogin shot upright.
Machi's eyes locked onto the glow.
Before them, the air shimmered. Metal coalesced—smooth, seamless, humming with latent Nen. A machine took form: compact, chimney-capped, with a small chute at its base and a lever on its side. It gleamed faintly, alien yet familiar, like something dreamed into existence.
"What… is that?!" Uvogin gaped, the expression of a toad who'd just crawled out of its well and seen the sky for the first time.
Machi said nothing—but her fingers twitched, just once, toward her thread.