My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 268: The Binding

Aldric had thirty seconds to make a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Greaves was moving toward them—not running, not rushing, just walking with the calm certainty of a man who’d done this before. Many times before. The cleaver in his hand caught the morning light. Behind him, his pack lay open, revealing more tools. Knives. Hooks. Coils of rope. The professional equipment of someone who’d turned butchery into a science.

The mandoline on his hip glowed red, pulsing in rhythm with Marron’s screams.

She was still tied to the tree, but the tree was failing. The trunk had cracked when she’d pulled against it with joy-fueled strength. Roots were tearing from the earth. In another minute, maybe less, the whole thing would topple, and Marron would be free.

Free to run to Greaves. Free to give him the Blade. Free to complete the reunion that was tearing her apart from the inside.

Lucy launched herself at Greaves—a blue blur of desperate courage. The slime wrapped around his ankle, tendrils trying to climb higher, trying to slow him down.

Greaves looked down. His expression was curious, clinical. "Interesting. Blue slime. Uncommon variant. Probably worth keeping for the collection."

He reached down and plucked Lucy off with practiced ease, holding her up to examine. Lucy’s glow intensified to blinding, her tendrils lashing wildly.

"Good coloration. Healthy specimen." Greaves pulled a glass jar from his belt—empty, waiting. "I’ll process you last. Slimes keep well if stored properly."

He dropped Lucy into the jar and sealed it with a cork. Lucy threw herself against the glass, but it was thick, reinforced. Made for containing things that didn’t want to be contained.

Aldric’s knife felt like a toy in his hand. He was a scholar. A researcher. He’d never fought anyone in his life, never even thrown a real punch. And Greaves moved like violence was breathing—natural, automatic, efficient.

The Wanderer’s Food Cart rolled forward, positioning itself between Greaves and Marron. The Eternal Copper Pot tipped, spilling boiling water across the ground. Steam hissed, creating a barrier.

Greaves stepped around it without breaking stride.

The Generous Ladle swung down like a club. Greaves caught it mid-swing with his free hand, yanked it from its hook, and tossed it aside. The ladle hit the ground and went dark, its green glow extinguished.

"Legendary Tools," Greaves observed. "I’ve heard of them. Pre-Cataclysm artifacts with semi-sentient properties." He looked at the Cart, the Pot, the Ladle lying in the dirt. "You’ve taught them loyalty. Admirable. But loyalty without strength is just sentiment."

He was ten feet away now. Eight. Six.

Aldric raised his knife. His hand was shaking so badly the blade looked like it was vibrating.

"I don’t want to hurt you," Greaves said, and his tone was almost kind. "You’re not optimal specifications—too thin, not enough muscle mass. The clients prefer premium cuts. But if you force me to defend myself, well." He shrugged. "Waste is inefficient. I’ll find use for you."

Behind them, Marron’s screams intensified. The tree groaned, tilting. She was pulling so hard blood ran down her arms in streams, pooling on the ground beneath her.

"Please!" Her voice was raw, desperate, not her own. "Please just give him the Blade! Let me give it to him! I need to, have to, please Aldric PLEASE—"

Aldric’s heart was breaking. That wasn’t Marron. That was the joy speaking, using her voice, wearing her face like a mask. The real Marron—the one who’d spent four months learning to understand the tools, who’d refused Champion Sienna’s trade, who’d chosen the harder path—was buried somewhere underneath that incandescent happiness.

Buried but not gone.

He could see it in her eyes. Brief flashes of horror between the joy. Moments where she recognized what she was saying, what she was begging for, and hated herself for it.

"I know you’re in there," Aldric said, not taking his eyes off Greaves. "I know you’re fighting. Keep fighting, Marron. Don’t let it win."

"Touching," Greaves said. "But ultimately inefficient." He raised the cleaver. "Last chance. Give me the Blade, and I’ll leave. You keep your life, your tools, your friend. I take what I came for and you never see me again."

"No." Aldric’s voice shook, but the word was firm.

Greaves sighed. "Pity. You seemed intelligent. I respect intelligence." He shifted his grip on the cleaver. "This will be quick."

He moved.

Aldric barely saw it—one moment Greaves was standing still, the next the cleaver was arcing toward his throat. Aldric threw himself backward, the blade passing so close he felt wind on his neck.

He swung his knife wildly. Greaves sidestepped, grabbed Aldric’s wrist, twisted. The knife fell from Aldric’s numb fingers.

"Untrained," Greaves observed. "As I thought. This won’t take long."

The cleaver came down again. Aldric rolled, came up on his knees, scrambled backward. His mind was screaming, trying to think, trying to find some way to fight, to survive, to—

The Wanderer’s Food Cart surged forward, ramming into Greaves from the side. The impact knocked him off balance, the cleaver missing Aldric by inches.

Greaves recovered immediately, turning toward the Cart with interest. "Autonomous movement. Remarkable. The artifacts are more developed than I realized."

He brought the cleaver down on the Cart’s wooden frame. The blade bit deep, splinters flying.

The Cart shuddered. Its wheels locked. But it didn’t retreat.

The Eternal Copper Pot tipped again, pouring more boiling water directly at Greaves’s feet. He danced back, but not quite fast enough—steam caught his leg, and he hissed in pain.

"You’re making this complicated," Greaves said. His professional calm was slipping. The mandoline on his hip pulsed faster, its joy bleeding into irritation. "Complications are inefficient. I don’t like inefficiency."

He kicked the Cart, hard. Wood cracked. The Cart rolled backward, one wheel wobbling.

Behind them, the tree gave way with a sound like breaking bones.

Marron fell forward, still bound by ropes, but no longer anchored. She hit the ground hard, the impact driving air from her lungs. For just a moment, the shock broke through the joy, and she gasped Aldric’s name—her real voice, her real self.

Then the joy returned, stronger than ever, and she began crawling. Hands still tied behind her back, legs bound together, she crawled across the clearing toward the chained box containing the Blade.

"Marron, no!" Aldric tried to move toward her, but Greaves was between them, the cleaver raised.

"Let her go," Greaves said. "She wants to give me the Blade. Why fight what she wants?"

"Because that’s not what she wants!" Aldric’s voice cracked. "That’s the joy! That’s the Slicer manipulating the Blade and the Blade manipulating her! She’s being possessed!"

"Semantics." Greaves took a step toward Marron’s crawling form. "Want, need, compulsion—the mandoline has taught me these distinctions are inefficient. What matters is action. And she’s acting."

Marron reached the chained box. With her hands bound, she couldn’t open it, couldn’t touch the locks. But she pressed her face against the wood, tears streaming, her whole body shaking with joy and desperation.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please, I need it, need to take it to him, need to help them be together, please please please—"

The Blade pulsed inside, and through her connection to it, Aldric saw something that made his blood run cold.

The Blade was trying to break free. Not by its own power—it couldn’t do that, couldn’t act independently. But it was pulling at Marron’s will, using her joy-fueled desperation to make her stronger. If she got her hands free, if she reached the locks, she’d open the box. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.

And then she’d take the Blade to Greaves. Would hand it over with a smile while the real Marron screamed from somewhere deep inside.

Aldric made his decision.

He ran. Not toward Greaves, not toward Marron. Toward his pack, where he’d stored the extra rope. The chains. The iron shackles Marcus had given them "just in case."

Greaves saw the movement and turned, cleaver raised. "Running? Disappointing. I expected more fight."

But Aldric wasn’t running away. He grabbed the rope and sprinted toward Marron, diving past Greaves’s swing, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Marron was still pressed against the box, sobbing, her fingers scrabbling uselessly at the chains. Aldric rolled, came up behind her, grabbed her bound wrists.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "Marron, I’m so sorry."

He added more rope. Wrapped it around her wrists three times, four times, five times. She fought him, thrashing, trying to pull away.

"No! No, don’t, please, I need to—have to—Aldric, please, I’m begging you—"

"I know." His voice broke. "I know you are. But you’ll thank me later. When the joy fades. When you’re yourself again."

He pulled the rope tight, then added the iron shackles. Heavy chains that Marcus had used for securing valuable cargo. He locked them around Marron’s wrists, then her ankles, then around her torso.

She couldn’t crawl anymore. Could barely move.

But she could still scream.

"PLEASE! ALDRIC, PLEASE! I NEED IT! I NEED TO GIVE IT TO HIM! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS! THE BLADE NEEDS ITS SIBLING! THEY NEED TO BE TOGETHER! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE—"

Tears streamed down Aldric’s face as he worked. Every plea felt like a knife in his chest.

It was clearly Marron’s voice, face, and desperation.

But it wasn’t her.

Greaves watched this with clinical interest. "You’re prolonging her suffering. The joy won’t stop just because you’ve restrained her. It’ll burn through her until there’s nothing left. I’ve seen it before—people consumed by obsession, by need they can’t fulfill. It breaks them. Hollows them out." He tilted his head. "I should know."

Aldric looked up at him, still kneeling beside Marron’s thrashing form. "You’re wrong. She’s stronger than you think. Stronger than the joy. She’ll fight it."

"For how long?" Greaves gestured with the cleaver. "Hours? Days? The Blade’s sibling is right here. The call won’t stop. The joy won’t fade. You’re not saving her. You’re just making her suffer longer."

He took a step forward. "Give me the Blade. End this. Let them be together. Your friend will be free, and I—" His eyes gleamed. "I’ll have what I came for. Perfect efficiency. Perfect precision. Together, they’ll teach me to cut without thinking. Without hesitation. Without those last, lingering echoes of conscience that still slow me down."

The mandoline pulsed, encouraging him. Yes. Take it. Complete us. Be whole.

Aldric stood slowly, positioning himself between Greaves and the chained box. His knife was gone, lost somewhere in the fight. He had nothing but his body and his will.

"No," he said. "You’re not getting the Blade. Not while I’m alive."

Greaves smiled. It wasn’t a cruel smile. Just professional. The smile of a businessman closing a difficult deal.

"That," he said, raising the cleaver, "can be arranged."

Behind them, Marron screamed again, her voice raw and breaking. The Blade pulsed in its box. The mandoline answered. And the joy between them sang its terrible, infectious song.

The sun rose higher, painting the clearing in shades of gold and red.

And Aldric, a scholar who’d never wanted to be a warrior, prepared to die protecting a tool that was destroying his best friend from the inside out.