The ascent into the Cinder-Peak Range was a grueling climb through a landscape that looked like a burnt crust. The air here was thin, sulfurous, and shimmered with a haze of permanent heat. Vegetation was sparse, replaced by jagged obsidian shards and vents that exhaled thick, yellowish steam.
"My fur," Jasper wheezed, his silver coat looking scorched and dull. "Arthur, this is madness. Even for you. We're walking into a furnace to find a lizard that breathes death."
"He's not just a lizard, Jasper. He's a Heat Source," I replied, wiping sweat from my brow with a dampened cloth. I felt the dry heat tugging at the hydration levels of my own body. My Intelligence (150) was mapping the thermal vents, calculating the exact pressure behind the steam. "And he's the only one with a high enough mana-sulfur ratio in his breath to create a true Aether-Smoke."
Beside me, my skeletal staff clattered along, unaffected by the heat. They were the perfect laborers for this climate—no skin to burn, no lungs to sear. Sous-Chef One was carrying a crate of the Water Wyrm we had harvested at the lake. It was already starting to weep moisture in the heat.
"We have exactly six hours before this protein spoils," I noted, checking the sun's position. "If we don't secure a cold-smoke facility by then, we've wasted the entire Salt-Cure harvest. The 'Eternal Service' doesn't include serving rotten fish."
The Gatekeeper of the Vent
As we reached the first major plateau, the ground rumbled. A Magma-Crag—a non-sentient elemental that looked like a pile of molten slag and boulders—lumbered into our path. It didn't speak; it simply radiated a heat so intense that the grass nearby ignited.
"Station Check!" I commanded. "We're dealing with a High-Heat Sear. Don't let it get close, or you'll warp your bones!"
The mercenaries of the old world would have used ice magic or water-bearers. I used Kitchen Physics.
"Goblins! The Salt-Blocks! Now!"
The Curiosity Goblins, wearing heat-resistant leather aprons they'd fashioned from Wyrm-scales, scrambled forward. They didn't throw the salt at the monster. They threw it at the ground around it.
"When salt hits molten rock, it creates an endothermic reaction as it dissolves," I explained to Jasper, who was backing away from the heat. "We're pulling the energy out of the pan."
The Magma-Crag stepped onto the salt-beds. The white crystals hissed, and the creature's molten limbs began to turn a dull, brittle gray. It slowed down, its movements becoming jerky and stiff.
"Sous-Chef One, Sous-Chef Two! The Shelling Technique!"
My skeletons didn't use swords. They used heavy iron mallets. They struck the Magma-Crag's cooling joints with the precision of a chef cracking open a stubborn lobster claw.
CRACK-THUD.
The elemental shattered. It wasn't dead, but its "structure" was compromised. It lay there, a pile of lukewarm rocks.
"Waste not, want not," I said, pointing to the glowing core of the creature. "Goblins, harvest the Heat-Cores. We'll need them to maintain the temperature during the transport back to Nova Roma."
The Dragon's Larder
We reached the summit of Ignivar's Crater. The air was silent, save for the rhythmic, bass-heavy snoring that sounded like a tectonic plate grinding against itself.
Ignivar was magnificent—a mountain of crimson scales and smoldering heat, curled around a hoard that consisted not just of gold, but of ancient, fossilized spices and petrified fruits. His breath was a steady plume of dark, aromatic smoke.
I didn't sneak. I didn't draw a weapon. I set up a Station.
"Sous-Chefs, the Wyrm-sides. Now. We need to create a Cold-Smoke Barrier."
We built a frame made of bone and Wyrm-ribs, draped it with damp kelp from the lake, and placed the salted meat inside. Then, I used my Wraiths to act as a "Ventilation System," gently pulling the smoke from the sleeping dragon's nostrils and filtering it through the kelp-lined box.
"You're... you're stealing the Dragon's breath?" Amber whispered, her eyes wide.
"I'm Recycling it," I corrected. "He's breathing it out anyway. It's a waste of a premium flavoring agent."
The smoke hit the salted Wyrm meat. The reaction was instantaneous. The minerals in the salt bonded with the sulfur and mana in the dragon's breath, turning the pale meat into a deep, translucent amber. The scent was intoxicating—sweet, spicy, and deeply primal.
Then, the mountain moved.
A single, golden eye, larger than a dinner table, opened. The vertical pupil narrowed as it focused on me—a small man in a white hat, standing over a smoker-box.
"WHO DISTURBS THE SLUMBER OF THE CALDERA?" Ignivar's voice didn't come from his throat; it vibrated through the very marrow of my bones. "AND WHY... DOES IT SMELL SO DELICIOUS?"
"I am Arthur, Sovereign of Nova Roma," I said, not flinching. I held up a freshly smoked slice of Wyrm. "And I'm here to offer you a deal, Ignivar. You have the heat, and I have the palate. For too long, you've eaten your prey raw and charred. Wouldn't you prefer a Smoked Glaze?"
The Dragon shifted, his massive claws scraping against the obsidian floor. He leaned his snout close, his hot breath ruffling my toque. He sniffed the meat I held out.
"THE SALT-CURE... AND THE BREATH OF THE ASH," Ignivar rumbled, his voice losing some of its edge. "YOU HAVE CAPTURED THE ESSENCE OF THE VOLCANO WITHOUT THE BITTERNESS OF THE FIRE."
He took the meat from my hand with a delicacy that was terrifying. He chewed slowly, his throat glowing as he swallowed.
"TALK, COOK. WHAT IS THIS 'TREATY' YOU PROPOSE?"
"I need a permanent smokehouse," I said. "You provide the heat and the aromatic exhaust from your vents. In exchange, my Eternal Staff will provide you with prepared meals. No more hunting, no more raw meat. You will be the first Dragon in history to have a Private Chef."
Ignivar let out a puff of smoke that sounded like a laugh. "THE GILDED CHAIN CAME HERE ONCE. THEY OFFERED ME GOLD TO BURN YOUR CITIES. I ATE THEIR MESSENGER BECAUSE HE TASTED OF GREED AND BAD WINE."
The Dragon lowered his head until his snout was level with my chest. "BUT YOU... YOU OFFER FLAVOR. AND FLAVOR IS THE ONLY CURRENCY THE IMMORTALS TRULY VALUE."
[System Notification: Faction Relation: Ignivar the Eternal — 'Business Partner']
[New Title Earned: The Dragon's Caterer]
[Level Up: 18 -> 22]
The Bitter Hero
Far below the volcanic range, at a mountain pass leading toward the High Capital, Julian Vane stood atop a pile of slain Orc refugees. His "Holy Blade" was dripping with green ichor, and his face was set in a mask of righteous fury.
"My Lord," a scout knelt before him. "The reports are confirmed. Arthur has not only secured the Salt-Flats, but he has entered the Dragon's Crater. He... he appears to be cooking for it."
Julian's grip tightened on his sword until the metal groaned. "He desecrates the dead to serve as scullery maids, and now he treats with the Great Calamity as if it were a common stove?"
The Hero looked toward the smoking peak of the volcano. "Arthur doesn't understand the 'Order' of this world. Everything must have its place. The monsters must be purged, and the dead must remain silent. If he will not stop his 'service,' I will be the one to clear his table... permanently."
Julian's aura flared—a blinding, white light that lacked any warmth. It was the color of bleached bone and empty promises.
"Prepare the Holy Knights," Julian commanded. "We march on Nova Roma. If Arthur wants to host a banquet, let's see how he handles a Purge for the main course."
Nova Roma: The Eternal Service
Current Population: 5,000 (Growing rapidly).
Current Staff: 12 Skeletons, 6 Wraiths, 10 Zombie Porters, 1 Dragon (Heat Source).
Current Menu: Dragon-Smoked Water Wyrm with Cinder-Pepper Rub.
Next Objective: The Imperial Banquet — The Final Ideological Clash.