I ca down the stairs with Rue padding beside , his nails clicking softly against the wooden steps. The mont we reached the bottom, three kids leaped up from their seats, shouting in unison, “Rue!” Their voices rang out with an excitent only kids could muster at this hour.
Of course, Rue shot past like a bullet, tail wagging furiously, deserting without so much as a backward glance. He headed straight for his adoring fan club. This ti, the kids were sitting with two n at the table, their mother notably absent. Fortunately, the table next to them was empty, so I claid it, positioning myself where I could keep an eye on my wayward familiar. As I passed other tables, I checked the plates. To my relief, breakfast looked better than yesterday—eggs, sausages, and sothing like quiche. I prayed it would taste as good as it looked.
The kids’ father nodded in greeting, his expression warm. I stepped closer and offered a polite smile. “Good morning. I hope Rue wasn’t too much trouble yesterday.”
“Not at all,” he replied with a shake of his head. “He was a blessing—kept them entertained and out of trouble all day.”
The man sitting beside him chuckled, his voice tinged with genuine gratitude. “We’re thankful for the entertainnt and the exhaustion. We haven’t had such an easy ti putting them to bed in ages.”
While we talked, Rue was basking in the adoration. Tiny hands were rubbing his fur in all directions, and bits of eggs and sausage were stealthily slipped his way. Despite their best efforts at covert operations, their giggles and sneaky movents didn’t go unnoticed this ti.
The first man’s tone turned sharp. “Don’t feed your breakfast to the dog!”
The youngest of the three—a girl about six or seven years old with dark blond hair tied in uneven pigtails—pouted dramatically. Her big green eyes, a mirror of her older brothers’, widened in mock innocence. “But Papa, he’s hungry!” she protested, holding out a piece of sausage.
“Don’t argue with your Papa,” the other man said, his voice stern.
“But Dad!” the oldest boy groaned, dragging out the word as if the injustice was too much to bear. “He is hungry!”
That caught off guard. Papa? Dad? Both of them were their fathers? So... the woman I’d assud was their mother wasn’t?
“Good morning,” ca a voice behind —smooth, pleasant, and carrying just a hint of amusent. I turned to see the mistaken mother from yesterday stepping into the room.
“Mom!” the oldest boy exclaid, his whiny tone doubling down. “Papa and Dad won’t let us give Rue any treats!” He deployed a picture-perfect pout with drooping shoulders and wide, imploring eyes. I had to admit, the kid was a natural.
The woman shot her three children a withering look, one eyebrow arched in perfect parental disapproval. The room fell silent instantly, even the youngest shrinking under her gaze.
“Your parents are right. Eat your breakfast properly,” I said. “I’ll feed Rue.”
A strong wave of betrayal rippled through my bond with Rue. His head drooped dramatically as he let out a mournful sigh.
I scratched his ear. “You don’t want them to get in trouble, do you?” I asked him telepathically.
He hesitated for a mont before sending a resigned sigh through the bond, along with a palpable sense of dejection. My dog was quite the perforr when he wanted to be. He even added a pitiful glance at the kids’ plates for good asure.
I stifled a chuckle. “That’s my boy,” I said, scratching behind his ears.
Rue huffed and settled at my feet, but not before casting one last longing look at the sausage on the smallest girl’s plate. If there were awards for lodrama, my dog would have swept the competition.
Mahya joined for breakfast, sliding into the chair across from with a faint creak of the wooden legs against the floor. The food was indeed better than yesterday—fluffy eggs, crisp bread, and sausages that almost tasted seasoned. Still, no salt. I sighed quietly to myself. At least it was edible.
“Any plans for today?” she asked, her tone casual as she speared a piece of sausage with her fork.
“Yes,” I said, swallowing a mouthful of eggs. “I want to check the food shops or markets, see what kinds of things they have in this world.”
“I’m going to look for armor,” she said, tearing a piece of bread and spreading butter across it with deliberate strokes. “I still don’t have a good one.”
That was a solid plan. She was still stuck with the armor I’d picked up in Shimoor, which was woefully inadequate. She’d already gotten hurt a couple of tis due to its lack of protection.
“Good idea,” I said, nodding. “It’s ti for an upgrade.”
Mahya shrugged, taking a bite of her bread. “Yeah, I know. I’ll see what I can find.”
Al walked in, his gaze sweeping the room before heading toward us. He oozed into the chair—that was the only way to describe it. His entire body seed to lt into the seat, as though his bones had turned to jelly.
“You look relaxed,” Mahya said, smirking as she leaned back in her chair.
Al turned his head toward her, fixed her with a deliberate look, but didn’t say anything.
“Where’s your friend?” I asked, breaking the tension.
“Work,” he said flatly.
“Ah! So that’s why you’re gracing us with your presence,” Mahya teased, her smirk widening.
“No.” He straightened slightly, adjusting his posture. “I discovered much better accommodations and thought you’d appreciate the information. I know John’s penchant for luxury.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Rue exclaid, “Rue want stay with friends!”
Sighing, I shook my head. Arguing with Rue was pointless—I’d already lost.
Turning to the family nearby, I asked, “How long are you staying?”
“Until tomorrow,” the mother said with a polite smile.
“Is it alright if my dog plays with the children again today?”
The three little ones perked up imdiately, practically bouncing in their seats. Before their mother could answer, the dad enthusiastically said, “Yes! Yes, it would be marvelous.”
Rue, clearly pleased with the arrangent, rewarded with a sloppy lick on the cheek before bounding off to his fans. The kids were quick to start sneaking him food again, but their attempts were discovered again. The adults’ exasperations were almost as entertaining as Rue’s wagging tail.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Al placed a hand on my arm, drawing my attention. “I need you to open the house.”
“Why?”
“I need to brew potions,” he said, his tone clipped.
“I thought you had plenty in stock?”
“I do,” he replied, nodding briefly. “But they’re selling a popular potion here, and I’ve got a better recipe. I acquired it from the Alchemy Sage in the last world we visited.”
Mahya snickered, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Acquired, huh? I like your euphemism.”
Al shot her a glare and turned back to . “So, can you open the house in your room or mine?”
I nodded.
Mahya leaned forward, her curiosity sparking. “What kind of potion is it?”
“A female contraceptive,” Al said, deadpan.
“What’s so great about your recipe?” I asked.
“The version they use here lasts 50 days. Mine is effective for 300.”
“Oh, wow,” I said, leaning back. “That’s a big difference.”
Al nodded, his expression as neutral as ever.
“Why am I not surprised a contraceptive is popular here?” I muttered.
“What do you an?” Al asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Well,” I began, rubbing the back of my neck, “yesterday, a woman pinched my butt, and two others accosted in a gallery.”
Mahya’s head snapped up, her fork hovering mid-air. “You didn’t tell about that!”
“There wasn’t much to tell,” I said with a shrug. “They invited to lunch, I refused, and that was that. One of them was fine with it; the other wasn’t. End of story.”
Al nodded thoughtfully. “The won here are more direct. Twice, while walking with Erianòvé, won called us ‘such a waste.’”
Mahya snorted, covering her mouth as she tried not to laugh. I just shook my head. “Sounds like we’re in for an interesting stay.”
Mahya left right after breakfast. I opened the house in my room against a blank wall, and Al rushed off to his lab without a word. Even though I’d done this before—opening the house in a dungeon in Lumis and at an inn in the cultivators’ world—watching a new door materialize on the wall was still surreal. On the other side lay my entire house—five stories, with all the rooms and halls perfectly intact.
After arranging with the innkeeper to feed Rue, I got directions to the food market and set out to explore.
It took almost three hours to reach the market, and I was hit on twice along the way. Thankfully, the girls graciously accepted my refusal, which ended the encounters. This world was strange. I could understand people being forward—whether male or female—but here, the constant attention felt excessive, like it was the only thing on their minds. Sure, I knew I looked relatively attractive, but I wasn’t so great beauty or the picture of male perfection. So why all the attention? I couldn’t believe all of them were simply sex-crazed. It made little sense.
Finally, I reached the market, and it was a treat. It wasn’t a traditional market with open stalls selling produce and other goods. Instead, it was a cluster of four streets lined with low warehouses on both sides, each dedicated to a specific category of goods. I skimd through the warehouses for clothes, shoes, and household items, taking a quick look to get a sense of what they had to offer.
My next stop was the spices warehouse, and it was amazing. It took about five minutes to figure out how to dial down my sense of sll enough to actually enjoy the place. Spice sellers packed the massive space, and an overpowering mix of aromas hit like a tidal wave. All the spices blended into a choking scent that made breathing hard. But once I figured out how to reduce my nose’s sensitivity—an exercise in focused intention—it beca much more bearable.
The warehouse buzzed with life, a maze of stalls overflowing with colors, textures, and scents. I wove through the chaos, drawn first to the spice vendors. Their tables were piled high with vibrant powders in every color imaginable—and a few I wouldn't have thought spices could even co in. The air practically shimred with heat and flavor.
One spice was an intense, almost electric blue, and its taste was a wild mix of lemon, ginger, garlic, and cinnamon. Another looked like colorful glitter. At first, I was sure it had to be full of mana—it glowed, after all—but it wasn’t. What it was, though, was hotter than a Carolina Reaper.
The mont it hit my tongue, I almost died. Not from physical damage—though it did fry a couple of nerve endings, which Healing Touch took care of—but from sheer, brain-lting shock. I stood there, frozen, as my mind tried to process the sensory overload. Over a minute passed before I could even move.
One jar held a spice that reminded of vanilla, though its scent was so potent it made sneeze. Another had the golden hue of turric but a mild flavor with a surprisingly sweet undertone. The mont it hit my tongue, ideas for pies flooded my mind. Despite its appearance, it definitely wasn’t suited for savory cooking.
The selection of hot spices was staggering—black, red, yellow, green, even white and purple—each boasting unique flavors layered over their fiery kick. This ti, I was smarter. I only tasted a grain or two of each to get a sense of their flavors. None ca close to the heat of the glitter spice, but every single one had sothing interesting to offer.
The next section was full of stalls where bunches of dried herbs hung in fragrant bundles, their earthy tang blending with the sharper bite of vegetable extracts and fruit syrups nearby. Across the aisle, sellers displayed rows of candied fruits and flowers, their crystalline coating glittering under the warehouse’s dim lighting.
Further down, an entire section was dedicated to dried mushrooms—golden twists, inky-black buttons, and a pale lavender variety I couldn’t identify. I chuckled at the thought of Al; he’d go wild over this selection. Aromatic woods and roots, stacked in neat piles, filled the air with a smoky richness, while homade sauces and dressings added bursts of tang and spice to the overwhelming tapestry of scents.
I slled and tasted so much that my tongue and nose went partially numb, overwheld by the sheer intensity of the selection. The spices, herbs, and exotic ingredients felt like an endless parade of new sensations, each one more fascinating than the last. It was sensory overload in the best possible way, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the imnse variety cramd into this single warehouse.
By the ti I finished, I’d spent over 200 gold and felt like I was the bigger winner in the exchange. My Storage groaned with bags of spices, jars of sauces, bundles of herbs, and crates of dried mushrooms—practically everything they had to offer, bought in bulk. If I fell in love with sothing, I couldn’t just head to the nearest supermarket to restock. Each world offered a once-in-a-lifeti opportunity to discover new tastes and slls, and I wasn’t about to squander it.
When I left the spice warehouse, I still carried a cloud of scent that clung to my clothes and hair, a lingering reminder of the sensory overload inside. My next stops were the fruit and vegetable warehouses. Since we’d collected an absurd amount of at during the Occurrence, I skipped the at warehouse entirely. Fruits and vegetables, though, were non-negotiable.
The selection was as diverse as it was dazzling—produce in every imaginable shape and color, each with its own distinct taste and scent. To my surprise, I ca across pineapples and potatoes that bore an uncanny resemblance to Earth’s varieties. The potatoes had black skins, and the pineapples were three tis their usual size and red, but otherwise, they were identical. I double-checked—not just by looks, but by taste. They were the sa.
It made pause, sparking my curiosity. On Zindor, I'd also harvested potatoes while scavenging in a ruined farming community. Sohow, this crop seed to be a multi-universal constant. The thought fascinated , and I couldn’t help but wonder how such similarities could occur across entirely different planets. It was a puzzle that begged for answers, and I was itching to unravel it.
My curiosity got so bad that when I stopped for lunch at a small, out-of-the-way restaurant, I chose a secluded table, took a deep, fortifying breath, and dove headfirst into the Archive.
The ssage I’d posted to Mahya and Al about Zindor had ballooned with another twenty pages of comnts. Travelers were practically foaming at the mouth, demanding the Gate chain and calling an asshole—or worse—for not sharing it. Lis’s posts weren’t much better. They’d gained additional tens of pages of questions to dragons, alongside more desperate pleas for the Gate chain and plenty of cursing for good asure.
I ignored the bulk of the comnts on my post, skimming the initials to check if The Idiot—otherwise known as Sonak Susil—had left any new gems of wisdom. To my mild relief, everything was quiet. He was probably sulking after the brutal slap-down he’d received on his previous comnts.
For nearly three hours, I scoured the Archive, searching for anything related to the differences and similarities in food options between worlds. Sadly, I ca up empty. The closest I found was a brief article discussing the similarities in creature groups—canines, felines, ursines, snakes, rodents, and the like—but it was vague and based on observations from only ten worlds. Nothing particularly insightful or groundbreaking.
I made a ntal note to write about the subject myself soday if the pattern of similarities continued. It seed like an area worth exploring, assuming I could piece together enough evidence to make it interesting.
For now, though, the Archive had nothing more to offer. I closed the interface and stretched, the faint scents of spices still clinging to my clothes as a reminder of the morning’s finds.
Oh well, I thought as I pushed myself up from the table. There was still more food shopping to do and plenty of discoveries to be made—this ti from the market stalls rather than the Archive.
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