My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 223: Contests in the Woods

Chapter 223: Contests in the Woods
They continued walking past the sign until they saw a base of carved stone steps, winding around a mountain face like a massive spine.
"...This is going to take awhile," Mokko said quietly. But the Food Cart continued its journey--uncaring. The three existing tools were vibrating within the cart.
"This is it," Mokko said quietly, studying the steps. They were ancient—worn smooth by countless feet over countless years, edges softened by weather and time. "You sure you want to do this?"
"I don’t think I have a choice," Marron admitted. She touched her pack where the four tools rested. The Food Cart was back in Lumeria, too large to travel with, but its presence was still with her somehow—connected across distance through whatever bond the tools shared. "They’re calling to it. Or it’s calling to them. Either way, I need to see this through."
Lucy bubbled nervously from her jar. "What if the Champion doesn’t want to give it up?"
"Then we respect that and figure out next steps," Marron said. "I’m not stealing Legendary Tools. Even if they want to be together."
The Cart stpped at the first step, though. The magic within knew it was going to hurt itself unless aided. Mokko grabbed the wooden poles around the cart’s sides, and it yielded easily. "Huh. So you can walk straight roads, but not up steps?"
There was a hum of acknowledgement, and the bear chuckled.
"I see."
+
And so, they climbed.
The steps seemed endless—hundreds of them, maybe thousands, winding up through increasingly sparse vegetation. At first, there were trees and bushes clinging to the mountainside. Then just scrub grass and hardy flowers. Then only moss and lichen on bare rock.
But as they climbed higher, something strange happened.
The vegetation returned. Not natural mountain plants, but cultivated species—herbs and flowers and vines that shouldn’t survive at this altitude, growing from cracks in the stone as if the mountain itself had been convinced to nurture them.
"Someone’s been tending these," Marron murmured, touching a sprig of rosemary growing impossibly from a fissure no wider than her finger. "Caring for them. Teaching them to survive where they shouldn’t."
"Or something’s been helping them grow," Mokko observed.
They rounded a final curve, and the Verdant Ring revealed itself.
It was a natural amphitheater carved into the mountainside—a massive bowl of stone with terraced levels stepping down toward a central platform. But what made it remarkable was the life.
Everywhere, defying altitude and climate and logic, plants grew. Not wild and chaotic, but intentional. Gardens carved into stone shelves. Herbs cascading down walls. Vines threading through carved channels. The entire space was green and growing and
alive
in a way that felt almost sacred.
And in the center, on the main platform, a cooking competition was in progress.
Perhaps a dozen people watched from the terraced seating—locals from their clothing, mountain folk with weathered faces and practical garments. On the central platform, two figures worked at separate stations, preparing food under what was clearly some kind of judging process.
One of the competitors was young—maybe early twenties—with the kind of focused intensity that came from desperation. Their hands moved quickly, almost frantically, trying to execute techniques that were clearly beyond their current skill level.
The other station was empty. Waiting.
"The Champion’s station," Mokko guessed. "Where is—"
A bell chimed—clear and pure, the sound carrying across the stone amphitheater with perfect resonance.
ROUND ONE: COMPLETE
The words appeared somehow—not written, not spoken, just
known
. Like the mountain itself was announcing the result.
Three judges—elders by their age and bearing—tasted from the young competitor’s plate. Their expressions were kind but honest. Not good enough. Not yet.
The young competitor’s shoulders sagged with disappointed acceptance.
Another chime.
ROUND ONE: CHALLENGER DEFEATED
A pause, thick with expectation.
Then a voice—calm, clear, carrying across the space without needing to shout:
"The Ring remains open. Next challenger may approach."
Every head turned toward Marron.
She hadn’t meant to be the next challenger. She’d come to find the Champion--to talk. Ask about her mortar, and if she understood it was a wondrous item. And...Marron wanted to understand what was happening here--why the sign had said all chefs would be challenged.
However, the people of the mountain had other ideas.
The food cart trembled in Mokko’s hands, and moved toward Marron. He let go of the wooden poles, and it creaked toward its owner. Marron’s other three tools, within the cart, pulsed in unison.
Yes. Here, now, please--
And her feet were moving before her brain could tell her no.
"Marron?" Mokko’s voice held warning and question in equal measure.
"I have to," Marron said. "The tools—they recognize something here. I need to see it."
She descended the stone steps toward the central platform, feeling every eye follow her progress. The first challenger was leaving through a different exit, head bowed but not broken. Learning experience, not failure.
Marron reached the empty station. The stone counter was worn smooth by countless hands, marked with old stains and scoring from years of preparation work. Beside it, a small fire pit burned with controlled flames. Basic tools hung from hooks—knives, ladles, bowls. Nothing fancy. Just fundamentals.
She set down her pack carefully, removed her four tools, arranged them within reach. The Copper Pot. The Generous Ladle. The Precision Blade. And carried in spirit if not in body, the Food Cart’s lesson of care.
The judges watched with increased interest. One of them—an ancient woman with eyes like mountain stones—leaned forward, squinting at Marron’s tools.
"Those aren’t—" she started, then stopped. Reconsidered. "Where did you acquire such items, young one?"
"They found me," Marron said honestly. "Or I found them. Or we found each other. Depends how you look at it."
The judge’s expression shifted. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment. Recognition of a truth carefully stated.
"The Ring does not care about where tools come from," another judge said—a man with hands gnarled from decades of work. "Only what the cook does with them."
The third judge—middle-aged, sharp-eyed—simply gestured toward the cooking area. "Round One tests foundation. You will be given ingredients. Prepare something that demonstrates your understanding of fundamentals. You have until the mountain says otherwise."
Until the mountain says otherwise. That was wonderfully vague and slightly ominous.
But Marron nodded acceptance, and the competition began.