My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 294: Helena’s Reports

He lowered his voice. "The reports Helena mentioned? They've continued. Tools with no Council ties. Nothing dramatic. But the pattern is refining."

"Hunting," Marron said.

"Yes."

She met his gaze. "Will I be targeted?"

Part of her wondered if it was okay to wish the extra tools hadn't come into her possession. A lifetime of protecting them from others sounded exhausting.

When did I just stop becoming a seller with a food cart and evolved into this?

"No," Edmund said immediately. Then, after a beat, "Not directly."

Marron's brow furrowed. "That's not comforting."

"It isn't, but it's honest. You've been keeping up with our requests...so I will level with you."

He set the untouched cup aside. "This person is cautious. Careful testing with response times and jurisdictional overlap. But most of all...they're irritated."

That caught her attention. "How...?"

Edmund's eyes sharpened as he looked at her. "A most valuable prize that was once within reach is no longer accessible to them."

The Slicer.

Marron leaned back against the table. "So they'll look for something else."

"Yes," Edmund said. "An alternative, if you will. Or...alternatives."

The Blade pulsed, concern rising. We might all be taken away from you, if this is allowed to continue.

Marron nodded slowly. "Then we stay visible."

Edmund frowned. "That's dangerous."

"And predictable," Marron replied. Putting her life at risk wasn't surprising anymore. She had wandered in a dungeon without backup, amongst mimics, and had come out relatively fine.

"Hunters prefer the shadows. If I'm always in areas with a lot of witnesses, and the Council is keeping their eyes on me...maybe they'll hesitate."

Edmund blinked and studied her. "You're thinking like bait, miss Louvel?"

"I'm thinking like someone who doesn't want this to spread," Marron said evenly. "And I'm not alone."

The tools hummed agreement.

Edmund sighed. "I'll inform Aldric."

"Don't ask permission," Marron said. "Just… make sure people are paying attention."

Edmund nodded. "They already are."

As Marron climbed the stairs that night, she felt it again—that subtle pressure, like fingertips brushing the edge of her awareness and pulling back.

It wasn't laced with fear, but interest.

+

Sweat trailed down the hunter's brow as he fumed beneath an ashen tree. He did not enter cities.

Cities entered me.

He set his pulse onto any information he could find, through traders and charms sold far beneath their actual worth. The hunter swiped tools that had vanished quietly (and remained unreported) because no notable chef had owned them.

And in that tangled mess was where he saw patterns.

Unfortunately, in this city, one pattern had been inexplicably broken.

He returned to his rented room beyond Lumeria's other road--the kind of place that catered to travelers who did not ask questions and did not stay long. The walls were bare. The window was narrow. The table had been scrubbed recently but still smelled faintly of old oil and damp wood.

The Slicer's signal—once sharp enough to orient by—was gone. Not destroyed. Not claimed.

Removed.

That was… irritating.

He carefully laid tools out on an old gray cloth. It had been white once. Whisks, wooden spoons, and an assortment of knives greeted him, shiny and silent. None of them had the pulse of a Legendary tool, though some were made of mythical minerals.

All silent and useless.

The hunter turned a thin disc of brass between his fingers. It was etched with directional runes meant to respond to dominant tool signatures. Normally, it would spin, stutter, then settle—pointing toward whatever presence exerted the strongest pull within range.

He had been trailing the Slicer for months, and usually it would point north. His true north, ever since Greaves the Butcher had it in his grasp. With the execution, the hunter hoped it would be his turn to own such a glorious, merciless instrument.

And now the Slicer's trail had frozen. His annoyance was at an all-time high.

"The Slicer's trail is lost."

A woman's voice spoke from the corner, distorted through a minor enchantment. "You're sure?"

"Yes," the hunter replied, tone calm. "The blade does not emit any pulses that the disc can feel."

"Contained?"

"Withdrawn," the hunter corrected. "Completely worse." He gazed at the brass disc as if it betrayed him by staying silent.

"Do you have records of such a thing happening?" The woman asked, appalled. The hunter had dragged her through countless inns in cities and villages just for a mythical slicer.

In response, he grabbed an old notebook from a drawer and flipped its pages. "Luckily a few scribes have. When a bonded tool withdraws, it means the bond with its owner was severed. Greaves died, and it didn't pick a successor. It didn't know the man was up for execution."

The woman blinked. "It's like these things are alive, if you have to tell them their owner is going to leave this mortal coil."

"Partially," the hunter replied. "Whoever created them sacrificed much magic. They have minds of their own, but can't operate by themselves. A kind of weird psychic link has to happen. Then they imbue the chef with knowledge from their creators. Enabling even complete novices to cook the finest dishes that could make monarchs weep."

"And why people will pay millions for them?" The woman prompted.

"Yes. In effect, the Slicer is depressed. No closure."

He set the device down. "That creates instability around the edges. Other tools resonate differently. Patterns emerge."

"And you've found one."

The hunter smiled faintly. "I've found several."

They stood and crossed to the window, peering out at the dark countryside. "There's a woman. Council-adjacent. Heavily bonded. Surrounded by unusually expressive tools."

"Protected," the voice warned.

"Visible," the hunter countered. "That's not the same thing."

They flexed their fingers. "She's not my target. Not yet. But she's… informative."

The voice hesitated. "You're vexed."

The hunter laughed softly. "I waited years for the Slicer to become available. And when it finally does—"

They made a small, irritated gesture. "It disappears inward. Like a sulking god."

Silence stretched.

"So what now?" the voice asked.

The hunter turned back to the table, eyes bright. "Now I observe. I take smaller pieces. I see how quickly the Council reacts."

"And if they react quickly?"

The hunter shrugged. "Then I wait."

They picked up one of the insignificant tools and snapped it cleanly in half. No drama. No effort.

"But if they hesitate," they added, almost pleasantly, "then I escalate."

Far away, Marron slept lightly, tools humming softly around her. The Blade remained alert, its concern sharpening into readiness.

The Slicer did not dream.

It did not listen.

And in the quiet spaces between attention and action, something old and patient prepared to move again—not with rage, not with hunger, but with methodical intent.

Vacancies, after all, were meant to be filled.