My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 222: The Southern Path

Chapter 222: The Southern Path
It seemed like many months had passed during her stay in Lumeria. Marron thought that more red tape would follow her, if she tried to leave.
But surprisingly, no one tried. It was a little anti-climatic, if she was being completely honest.
You will return when you can, and that is all we can expect of you.
That was what the Lumerian Culinary Guild decreed, and she gave a respectful bow.
"Thank you."
+
Jenny had hugged her, but said softly, "People in Lumeria don’t believe in goodbye. Just see you laters."
Marron bought one last donut from a nearby stall, returned to her studio apartment, and left it with Mokko and Lucy in tow.
Slowly, the city’s tall towers and neon lights fell away, transforming into cultivated farmland.
"I’ve been in the city so long, I’d nearly forgotten what the forest smelled like." She smiled as she saw people toiling in the fields, women hanging shirts and trousers on clotheslines, and children running around in the tall grass.
There were no electronic gadgets to speak of, and it was an oddly refreshing sight.
Every step was a little heavier, the further they walked away from Lumeria. Marron’s legs ached, and her pack felt heavier, despite the three of them consuming supplies.
"Do you want me to carry you?" Mokko offered, but Marron shook her head. "Just need a bit of rest. My legs still work fine." There was a magnetic certainty that pulled her further, even when her body wanted to rest.
Part of it came from the tools themselves--when Mokko put the food cart down, the other three Legendary Tools emitted this...strange vibration that made the food cart move on its own.
"I’ve never seen it do that," Mokko confessed, as he and Marron walked beside the self-driving cart. "These tools really want to be reunited."
Marron, holding Lucy’s jar, nodded. "Yeah, but...before, they were contented to just...wait for us. This is different from the dungeon. Whatever the fifth tool is, it must be shouting at them to come."
Ding!
[The Southwestern Mountains. Where herbalists gather ingredients, and its people respect the forest’s rules.]
By midday, they’d passed through three villages, each one smaller and more remote than the last.
She moved carefully now, hand resting near the strap of her satchel. The forest was not hostile, but it was alert. Eyes in the brush, paws in the earth, and breath moving that she could not see.
In the final village—barely more than a collection of stone houses clinging to the mountainside—an elderly woman had pointed them toward the Verdant Ring.
"Healer’s territory," the woman had said, her accent thick with mountain cadence. "You go there for medicine or challenge. Nothing else brings folk up that high."
"Challenge?" Marron had asked.
The woman’s eyes had gleamed with something between respect and warning. "The Champion of the Verdant Ring. She who tends the highest gardens. She who holds..." The woman had paused, choosing words carefully. "Tools that make things grow when they should die. Tools that remember when the world was younger."
"I...I see. Thank you." Marron gave a respectful bow, but her heart stuttered.
Another Legendary Tool.
+
She looked up and saw smoke. It was thin, intentional, and faintly scented with mint and juniper.
Marron approached silently and found a small clearing carved from the greenery, carefully maintained. Bundles of plants hung upside-down from a low branch. Stones were arranged into a quiet fire-ring. A kettle whispered, sending up ghosts of steam.
Is this...where the Champion lives?
And beside it, kneeling in the leaves, was a stranger.
They wore simple travel-worn clothing, dusted at the hem and stained green at the fingertips. A satchel over one shoulder sagged with gathered plants. Their focus was deep — precise — the careful attention of someone who knew exactly what each leaf could do.
Marron’s heart almost sank. The figure looked like a regular herbalist; one who made potions and poultices to hold a body together until healing magic was applied.
The herbalist ignored her, and raised the mortar in their hand.
Marron’s eyes were drawn to it immediately, and she knew:
That was no ordinary mortar.
It was stone veined with green like living vines frozen in motion. Light touched it differently, as if its surface drank the sun instead of reflecting it.
The tools answered instantly.
A sharp, resonant thrum burst through Marron’s chest. The blade warmed. The tongs tightened in their case. The pan shimmered with faint heat.
The Verdant Mortar.
The herbalist paused.
Slowly, they lifted their head and looked directly at Marron.
There wasn’t any surprise or fear in their eyes.
Almost... a knowing softness.
"So," they said, voice calm as a shaded stream, "it finally stirred."
Marron swallowed. "You feel it too."
"I’ve felt it for a long time," the stranger replied, returning their eyes to the bowl. They pressed the pestle once, slow and deliberate. A rich green oil bled from crushed leaves. "The world grows restless when too many pieces start waking."
"You know what this is," she said.
"Yes."
"Do you know what I am supposed to do?"
A small, thoughtful hum.
"I imagine you believe you’re meant to take it."
They gestured softly to the mortar.
"Are you going to give it to me?"
At that, the faintest smile touched their mouth.
"No."
The word was not cruel. It was certain. Grounded.
"This tool is not won through asking," they continued gently. "And it is not taken from the unworthy. It is claimed only when power is proven — by the rules of the mountains."
"The mountains," Marron repeated.
Their eyes flicked eastward, toward the distant, jagged line where the peaks broke the sky.
"Yes. This wilderness is only the breath before the climb." They rose smoothly to their feet, tucking a sprig of pale flowers into their pack. "The wild still tolerates mercy. The mountains do not."
They studied her now — not as prey or threat — but as something being measured.
"You carry four," they said.
Marron stiffened.
"And they answer you," the herbalist continued. "That alone makes you dangerous. Or destined. Hard to tell the difference yet."
The mortar pulsed brighter once. Once only.
"Then you already know I won’t stop," she said.
A soft huff of amusement escaped them.
"I would be disappointed if you did."
They moved to the edges of the camp, extinguishing the small cooking flame with a pinch of herb-rich water.
"The wilderness has different rules from the mountains," they said quietly as the steam rose and the fire died. "Out here, knowledge is gathered. In the mountains... knowledge is tested."
They shouldered their satchel.
"If you want this," they added, glancing back once more, "you will come find me again. But next time, you will not meet an herbalist at a campfire."
"And what will I meet?" Marron asked.
The answer was carried by the wind.
"A champion."
Then they disappeared into the green, their path vanishing as if the forest had never parted for them at all.
Silence returned.
Only the tools remained restless, bright, expectant.
Marron touched her chest, feeling their synchronized pulse.
"This is what you meant by
seek
," she murmured to them.
Far in the distance, the mountains cut into the clouds like teeth.
And for the first time, Marron felt something new sharpen within her—
Not fear, but anticipation.
+
The land began to rise without asking permission.
One moment Marron walked beneath the wide green canopy of the wilderness, and the next, the earth slanted upward like it meant to unseat her. Trees grew lean. Roots twisted like knuckles through thin, stubborn soil. The air grew cooler, sharper — less forgiving in the lungs.
Above her, the mountains carved their silhouette into the sky.
Where land breaks sky.
The System’s words echoed again.
The four tools pressed close to her chest as though drawn by gravity of their own making.
By late afternoon, she came upon the first road.
Not a path — a
cut
through the stone. Wide and worn. Spattered in old scorch marks. The edges were carved with symbols that resembled flames, leaves, waves, and jagged lines like broken peaks.
A sign stood crooked beside it:
WELCOME TO THE LOWER RIM, WHERE FIRE IS CONTESTED.
CHEFS WILL BE CHALLENGED BY ALL.
Marron frowned. "Comforting."