The dinner rush had stripped the kitchen to its bare bones. Greasy skillets, piled-high plates, and the lingering, heavy scent of rendered Ember-Tusk fat coated the air of The Hungry Griffon.

  At the main prep island, Yuno stood perfectly rigid. His mythril cleaver flashed in a silver blur, reducing a bundle of tough, fibrous Star-Thyme into uniform, millimeter-perfect ribbons. He didn’t use an ounce of mana. His knuckles were white, his posture locked into a rigid stance he’d practiced a thousand times.

  "Six piles," Yuno muttered to himself, scraping the herbs into exact, symmetrical mounds on the chopping block. "Consistent surface area means consistent flavor extraction."

  Across the kitchen, a sharp hiss of steam erupted, followed by the clatter of a heavy iron pot hitting the floorboards.

  "Damn it," Myria cursed, her golden tail bristling like a startled cat's. She was standing at the washbasin, one hand outstretched, channeling a localized Hydro-Vortex inside a soup cauldron. Water sloshed violently over the rim, soaking her apron and leaving a puddle on the floor.

  Yuno didn't look up from his cutting board. "You're bruising the ironwood finish on the counters, Myria. Magic isn't a substitute for elbow grease. Just use the brush."

  Myria flattened her ears, baring her canines. "And elbow grease isn't a substitute for actual mana, Yuno. I scrubbed three cauldrons in the time it took you to play geometry with a handful of weeds. The water pressure strips the grease instantly. You’d know that if you could feel the mana current."

  Yuno’s hand stopped. He set the cleaver down, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet kitchen. "I don't need to 'feel' the current to know you just blasted half our soap reserve onto the floor. Mages are precise. You’re just throwing power at a pot until it surrenders."

  "I am learning!" she snapped, a spark of genuine blue fire licking across her fingertips as her temper flared. "Master Adamas said my output is reaching Tier-2 capacity!"

  "Capacity isn't control," Yuno retorted, his voice cold.

  I leaned against the doorframe of the pantry, watching them. I didn't intervene immediately. Competition bred excellence. In the Ivory Tower, apprentices poisoned each other over library access. A little bickering over dishwashing technique was healthy. Yuno had the discipline of a master swordsman but lacked the arcane spark; Myria possessed the raw, untamed mana of the wild but lacked the patience for technique.

  They were both half of what I needed.

  "Enough," I said, stepping into the light of the glow-crystals.

  They both snapped to attention. Myria killed her water spell instantly, while Yuno grabbed a rag and began wiping his already-spotless blade.

  "Yuno is right, Myria," I said, walking past her to inspect the cauldron. "Your Hydro-Vortex was off-center. You focused the kinetic force on the bottom of the pot, neglecting the sides. That’s why you have a puddle." I dragged a finger along the inside of the rim, showing her a smear of leftover grease. "Sloppy."

  Her ears drooped, and she looked at the floor. "Yes, Master."

  "However," I continued, turning to Yuno. "Myria is also right. You took four minutes to julienne that Star-Thyme. If we had a full house ordering the roasted wyrm-fowl, the kitchen would stall waiting for your garnish. Precision is useless if it lacks speed."

  Yuno clenched his jaw, staring at his perfect little piles of herbs. "Understood, Master."

  Before either of them could formulate another insult, the heavy brass chime linked to the front door’s ward-stones rang out. It was a sharp, piercing note that meant someone had bypassed the "Closed" sign.

  Worse, I felt the spatial pressure before I even heard the bell. The air in the tavern suddenly grew heavy, tasting faintly of ozone and crushed sapphires.

  "Stay here," I ordered, my tone dropping its casual warmth. I wiped my hands on my apron and pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room.

  Standing in the center of my pristine, mahogany-furnished floor was a man who looked like a walking chandelier. He wore robes of spun star-silk that practically hummed with active enchantments. Six glowing kinetic orbs orbited his shoulders like lazy moons.

  Grand Scholar Vane. Seventy years my junior, profoundly arrogant, and the man who had eagerly taken my seat on the High Council the second I retired.

  "Adamas," Vane drawled, waving a hand dismissively at the lingering smell of roasted meat. "I tracked a Class-7 spatial distortion across three provinces. I assumed a demonic incursion. Instead, I find... a flying grease pit."

  I didn't blink. I walked behind the bar, uncorked a bottle of elven spring water, and poured myself a glass.

  "Vane," I replied, taking a slow sip. "I see you’re still compensating for your weak core by wearing half the Tower’s armory. Those kinetic orbs are out of alignment, by the way. The third one is lagging by a fraction of a second."

  Vane’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. He discreetly twitched a finger, and the glowing orb hurried to catch up with its brothers. "You abandoned the pinnacle of magical research, Adamas. You walked away from the Grand Theorem to what? Serve roasted pork to dirt-covered mercenaries?"

  "I walked away because the Ivory Tower is stagnant," I said, resting my forearms on the bar. I let a fraction of my aura bleed out—just enough to make the glow-crystals above us flicker and dim. "You spend decades debating the theoretical yield of a fireball. I prefer practical applications."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I looked him up and down, taking in his pristine, untouched robes.

  "But since you went through the trouble of tracking my spatial signature just to gawk," I smiled, a cold, sharp expression. "Sit down. Let me show you what real magic tastes like."

  Vane slowly dragged a finger across the polished mahogany of the bar, as if expecting to find a thick layer of grime. Finding none, he sneered and took a seat on one of the brass-studded stools.

  "Very well, Adamas. Let us see this 'practical application' of your century of study." Vane leaned back, his kinetic orbs spinning faster in agitation. "I don't want tavern slop. I want something that requires actual mastery. Prepare a Thunder-Blight Manticore Spine. Pan-seared. If the marrow loses its charge, or if the venom sacs rupture and melt my internal organs... I will personally see your little flying food cart grounded by the Council."

  I didn't break eye contact. I didn't even blink.

  A Thunder-Blight Manticore was a walking natural disaster. Its spine was packed with raw, volatile lightning, sheathed in a layer of highly acidic venom. Preparing it required absolute dominance over the ingredients. One mistake, and the kitchen wouldn't just explode; it would be vaporized.

  "Two hundred gold pieces," I stated smoothly. "Payable upfront. And I keep the leftover venom to clean my floors."

  Vane scoffed, tossing a heavy velvet pouch onto the counter. It clinked with the undeniable weight of solid gold. "Just cook it, old man."

  I snatched the pouch, flashed him a predatory grin, and pushed back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The moment the doors shut, my grin vanished.

  "Yuno! Myria!" I barked, my voice cracking through the kitchen like a whip. "Clear the central island. Everything goes into the washbasins. Now."

  They didn't ask questions. The sheer intensity in my voice sent Yuno scrambling to clear his cutting boards, while Myria practically shoved the remaining dirty pots into the sink.

  I walked over to the heavy, spell-locked vault at the back of the pantry. I fed my mana into the runic dials, turning them until the heavy iron door hissed open. Cold air plumed outward, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of an oncoming thunderstorm. I reached in with a pair of insulated wyrm-hide tongs and pulled out a two-foot section of jagged, black bone.

  Sparks of purple lightning arced wildly off the bone, snapping against the metal shelves.

  I carried it to the central island and slammed it down on the mythril cutting board. The air in the room instantly grew heavy, the hair on Yuno's arms standing straight up.

  "Thunder-Blight Manticore," I announced. "Yuno, you are on carving. Myria, you are on suppression. Move."

  Myria rushed to the opposite side of the island. Her golden eyes went wide as a stray spark of purple lightning leaped from the bone and singed the edge of her apron. She cursed, stepping back.

  "Don't retreat from the ingredient, Myria!" I snapped. "Dominance! I need a localized aura of heavy earth mana over the bone to ground the charge. If you let the lightning escape, it will paralyze Yuno's hands the second he touches it."

  She bared her canines, her tail lashing aggressively. She slammed her palms flat onto the edges of the cutting board. A thick, yellow glow emanated from her hands, forming a heavy, suffocating dome of earth-aspected magic over the spine. The purple lightning fought back, violently striking the inside of her barrier like trapped hornets. Sweat immediately beaded on her forehead.

  "It's bucking!" she grunted, her claws digging into the wood. "The mana is too wild!"

  "Hold it steady, beast," Yuno hissed, stepping up to the board. He pulled a specialized, glass-edged boning knife from his roll. Metal would conduct the lightning straight into his heart; glass wouldn't.

  "Shut up and cut, knife-boy!" Myria snarled back, her arms trembling under the strain.

  Yuno didn't waste another word. His eyes narrowed, entirely focused on the jagged black bone. The venom sacs were hidden beneath a layer of tough, rubbery membrane. He had to strip the membrane without puncturing the sacs, all while Myria's dome fluctuated violently around his hands.

  His blade flashed. It was a terrifying display of pure, physical technique. He didn't use an ounce of magic, yet his hands moved with the blinding speed of a master assassin. Slicing, peeling, pulling.

  "Your barrier is wavering on the left side!" Yuno shouted, wincing as a stray spark bit into his knuckles. "Tighten the seal! You're leaking current!"

  "I'm trying!" Myria yelled, her fangs fully bared now. The yellow glow of her earth magic flared, pushing the lightning back down. "Stop complaining and cut faster! I can't hold a Class-6 monster's residual core forever!"

  I stood at the head of the island, arms crossed, watching them tear into each other. Good. The pressure was peeling away their masks. Yuno’s pristine, robotic calm was fracturing under the pain of the shocks, forcing him to adapt his rhythm. Myria’s wild, chaotic mana was being forced into a rigid, desperate mold just to keep them both alive.

  With one final, brutal flick of his wrist, Yuno cleanly severed the main venom sac. He flicked it into a waiting glass jar just as Myria’s barrier finally shattered.

  A shockwave of static blew across the kitchen, sending pots rattling and violently fluffing Myria's tail until it looked like a golden bottle brush. She collapsed against the counter, gasping for air. Yuno dropped his glass knife, his hands trembling violently from the residual shocks.

  But sitting on the board was a perfectly clean, gleaming section of Manticore Spine, the marrow humming with a contained, brilliant purple light.

  "Adequate," I said, stepping forward and picking up the bone with my bare hands, letting my own overwhelming aura crush the remaining lightning into submission. "Now, let me show the Grand Scholar why he belongs in a library, and I belong behind a stove."

  The heavy ironwood skillet didn't need a flame. I set the Thunder-Blight Manticore Spine in the center of the cold metal, closed my eyes, and unleashed a fraction of my true aura.

  I didn't cast a spell. I simply imposed my will upon the ambient mana in the room, forcing it to compress around the skillet until the sheer pressure ignited into a blinding, white-hot sear. The kitchen flashed like a lightning strike. The purple lightning trapped within the bone shrieked, lashing out like a cornered beast, but my aura crushed it instantly, forcing the raw elemental energy back deep into the marrow.

  Behind me, Myria whimpered, dropping to her knees as the sheer weight of my presence choked the air. Even Yuno, stoic to a fault, had to brace himself against the washbasin, his breath misting in the sudden pressure drop.

  "Watch," I commanded, not looking back. "This is the difference between surviving an ingredient and mastering it."

  I grabbed a fistful of Yuno’s perfectly julienned Star-Thyme and tossed it into the pan, followed by a splash of wyrm-honey. The moment the ingredients hit the bone, the aggressive, biting scent of ozone was instantly mellowed into a rich, deep earthiness. The honey caramelized the lightning, turning the violent purple sparks into a gentle, pulsating violet glaze.

  Using my tongs, I lifted the spine—now glistening and perfectly roasted—and plated it on a slab of cold obsidian to keep the charge grounded.

  I dismissed my aura. The kitchen breathed again. Yuno and Myria gasped for air, staring wide-eyed at the glowing, beautiful cut of meat on the plating counter.

  "Clean your stations," I said, picking up the heavy obsidian slab. "Service isn't over."

  I pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. Grand Scholar Vane was casually inspecting his manicured fingernails, his six kinetic orbs lazily orbiting his shoulders. He looked up with a smug, expectant sneer that melted the instant I set the obsidian slab in front of him.

  The Manticore Spine hummed. It didn't crackle or spit; it vibrated with a contained, terrifying density of power. The violet glaze smelled like the quiet, electric calm right before a hurricane.

  Vane’s eyes widened, his posture snapping rigid.

  He leaned in, his pupils dilating as his arcane senses tried to parse what he was looking at. "You... you didn't extract the core energy," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "You synthesized it into the marrow. The instability threshold alone should have leveled the city block."

  "Eat it, Vane," I said, crossing my arms. "Or are you afraid a tavern cook’s dish is too rich for your refined palate?"

  He scowled, his pride forcing his hand. He picked up the silver fork and knife provided, his enchanted rings flaring defensively as he cut into the meat. It yielded like butter. He brought a piece to his mouth, chewed once, and froze.

  For three agonizing seconds, the tavern was dead silent.

  Then, Vane choked. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  A shockwave of pure, unadulterated mana erupted from his chest. The kinetic orbs orbiting his shoulders suddenly flared with blinding light, spinning out of control until—crack, crack, crack—all six shattered into a shower of harmless magical dust.

  Vane slammed his hands onto the mahogany bar, gasping for air as if he’d been held underwater. Veins of violet light pulsed up his neck and across his cheeks. He wasn't dying; he was expanding. The sheer density of the purified mana in the meat was violently scouring his blocked mana channels, forcibly widening his magical core.

  It was an advancement breakthrough. The kind of breakthrough Ivory Tower scholars spent decades meditating to achieve.

  He stared at his trembling hands, feeling the sheer, terrifying surge of new power coursing through his veins. Then, he looked up at me. The arrogance was completely gone, replaced by profound, soul-crushing humiliation.

  He realized what I had done. I hadn't just cooked a meal. I had casually handed him a decade of magical progression on a dinner plate, simply to prove a point.

  "You..." Vane croaked, his voice raw. He looked down at the remaining meat, terrified of it, yet desperately hungering for more.

  "Leave the gold," I said, my voice cold and dismissive. "And don't come back. The Hungry Griffon is for adventurers who actually work for their meals, not parasites who beg for scraps of power."

  Vane didn't argue. He didn't summon a portal or spout a grand threat. He clumsily shoved away from the bar, leaving the heavy velvet pouch of gold, and practically stumbled out the front door into the night, a thoroughly broken man.

  I picked up the pouch, tossing it lightly in my hand.

  From the kitchen doorway, two heads peeked out. Yuno and Myria stared at the shattered remains of Vane's kinetic orbs on the floor, then up to me.

  "So," I smiled, turning back to my disciples. "Who wants to learn how to properly sear a Wyvern flank tomorrow?"