The Conquerors Path

Chapter 1060: Chapter 1058 — Street Food and Sabotage

The heavy, crushing melancholy of the Abyssal Menagerie didn’t simply vanish, but Krave was an ancient entity. She had survived millennia in the lightless depths by constantly moving forward. As we ascended the spiralling stone ramps and left the cold, pressurised darkness behind, I watched her physically shake the nostalgia from her shoulders. By the time we stepped back into the shimmering, artificial sunset of the upper city, the manic, hyperactive tourist had seamlessly returned.

“We haven’t experienced the real capital yet. The Ducal Gardens and the high-society taverns are fine for stretching our legs, but they lack soul. If you want to understand how a city truly functions, you have to eat where the labourers eat.”

Krave declared, stopping abruptly in the middle of the crushed-pearl promenade. She spun around to face me, her dark eyes flashing with a renewed, predatory excitement.

“I assume this means we are going somewhere loud, heavily crowded, and structurally hazardous?”

I asked, my hands resting casually in my coat pockets.

“Obviously.”

Krave beamed.

She grabbed my sleeve and yanked me off the main avenue, diving down a narrow, descending stairwell cut directly into the obsidian foundation of the spire. I effortlessly adjusted my perceptual filter to match the sudden shift in our environment. I didn’t erase us, but I thickened the aura of profound unimportance surrounding us, ensuring that the heavily armed triton guards patrolling the intersections simply let their eyes slide right past my face.

We descended into the lower market terraces. This was the beating, greasy heart of the Dry Wards.

The transition was a violent assault on the senses. The pristine, magical silence of the noble districts was instantly replaced by a roaring, chaotic cacophony. Thousands of bodies—sweating human merchants, shouting sea-elf traders, and local deep-dwellers wrapped in heavily enchanted hydration-suits—crammed into the narrow, twisting alleyways. The golden dome of the city was barely visible down here, obscured by thick layers of highly spiced smoke and hissing steam.

“Look at this place! It’s a beautiful, unregulated disaster!”

Krave shouted over the din, her voice vibrating with genuine thrill.

I analysed the environment, genuinely impressed by the sheer, reckless audacity of the local mages. The lower terraces weren’t just drained of water; they were actively weaponising the ocean’s geology to cater to surface-dwelling palates.

Massive, iron-wrought pipes snaked along the cobblestone walls, glowing with a terrifying, cherry-red heat. The city engineers had tapped directly into the underlying volcanic fissures, redirecting raw thermal vents up into the market. Vendors were using these contained veins of liquid magma to power massive, open-air grills and slow-roasting spits. Because the ambient pressure of the Dry Wards was drastically lower than the deep ocean, the chefs had constructed highly specialised, localised air-pockets around their cooking stations to prevent the deep-sea meats from instantly depressurising and exploding in the pans.

“It smells like sulfur, burnt scales, and desperation.”

Luna projected directly into my mind. The silver wolf was perched securely on my shoulders, her claws dug into the thick fabric of my coat. She sneered at a passing triton who was hawking skewers of glowing, purple meat.

“It smells like culture, Austin, we are trying everything. I want one of whatever that man is burning.”

Krave corrected, tossing a newly stolen platinum coin into the air and catching it.

For the next hour, I allowed myself to simply be dragged through the throngs of people. It was a deliberate, ridiculous food crawl, fueled entirely by Krave’s bottomless enthusiasm and the massive pouch of stolen merchant money currently hanging from her belt.

Our first stop was a rickety wooden stall managed by an ancient, blind mer-woman. Krave purchased three massive cones of sun-dried anemone crisps. They were violently orange, dusted with a shimmering, iridescent powder that crackled with latent static electricity.

I took a single bite. The crisp shattered perfectly against my teeth, instantly followed by a wave of sharp, acidic heat that tasted exactly like licking a lightning bolt.

“Fascinating, the salt concentration is heavily modified to compensate for the lack of ambient oceanic pressure.”

murmured, using a microscopic thread of intent to neutralise the slight numbing sensation spreading across my tongue.

“They are magnificent.”

Krave agreed, already halfway through her cone. Luna carefully leaned forward, sniffing the crisp I held out to her. Her silver eyes narrowed in absolute disgust.

“This is calcified weed. It is not meat. It has never had a heartbeat. It crunches like sand and smells like a storm cloud. I refuse to acknowledge it as food.”

Luna declared flatly.

“Suit yourself.”

Krave laughed, snatching the cone from my hand and downing the rest of it.

Our next stop involved fermented pearl-wine served in hollowed-out crab shells. The liquid was thick, syrupy, and tasted like incredibly expensive vinegar mixed with liquid smoke. Krave loved it. Luna tried to bat the shell out of my hand into the street, forcing me to fold a tiny pocket of space around the cup just to keep my coat from getting stained.

We continued deeper into the smoke-choked alleys, rating dishes as we walked. Krave was a hyperactive judge, praising the bizarre textures and insane spice blends that were clearly designed to overwhelm the muted palates of land-dwelling tourists. Luna, acting as the self-appointed, highly critical counter-judge, rejected nearly everything.

A skewer of slow-roasted ghost-eel? Too rubbery. Not enough blood.

A bowl of deep-tide mushroom stew? An insult to my ancestors. Throw it in the magma.

A violently spicy slab of seared kelp-drake? Acceptable texture, but the venom completely ruins the mouthfeel. Three out of ten.

“You are the most difficult creature I have ever met.”

Krave sighed, tossing the remains of the kelp-drake into a nearby thermal disposal vent.

“I simply possess standards; I demand a meal that fought for its life before it was placed on a plate.”

Luna replied haughtily, resting her chin on the top of my head.

“I think I can accommodate that.”

Krave smirked, her eyes locking onto a massive plume of intensely thick, red smoke rising from the end of the terrace. We pushed our way through a dense crowd of heavily armoured dwarven traders, emerging into a slightly wider courtyard dominated by two massive, fiercely competing food stalls.

This was the undisputed centre of the lower market’s culinary warfare.

On the left side of the courtyard stood a scarred, heavily tattooed forge-goblin operating a massive iron spit. A thick, localized air-pocket surrounded his station, heavily pressurised to keep the massive slab of abyssal trench-boar currently roasting over a redirected thermal vent from falling apart. On the right side of the courtyard stood a rival chef—a massive, heavily muscled triton with a mechanical brass arm—cooking identically massive slabs of deep-sea wyrm flank over a bed of glowing, heavily enchanted cobalt coals.

The heat radiating from the two stalls was intense enough to warp the air, causing the cobblestones to hiss.

“Oh, this is going to be excellent.”

Krave purred, marching straight up to the invisible boundary of the forge-goblin’s pressurised cooking ward.

She slapped a heavy platinum coin onto the scorched wooden counter.

“One slice of the boar. Give me the fattiest cut you have, and do not skimp on the sulfur-crust.”

The goblin grunted, snatching the coin. He reached his tongs through the magical barrier, expertly slicing a thick, dripping slab of dark meat from the spit. He slapped it onto a piece of woven kelp-paper and pushed it across the counter.

Krave took a massive bite. She closed her eyes, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. Then, her dark eyes snapped open, wide with genuine, unadulterated delight.

“Nice!”

Krave shouted. She didn’t just say it. She projected her voice, letting a tiny fraction of her divine resonance bleed into the sound. It cut through the roaring din of the market like a physical shockwave, immediately silencing the surrounding crowd.

“This is an absolute masterpiece! The sulfur-to-salt ratio is flawless! The fat renders perfectly against the ambient pressure! It is a symphony of violence in my mouth!”

Krave yelled, pointing directly at the forge-goblin.

She turned on her heel, pointing a dramatic, perfectly manicured finger directly at the rival Triton chef across the courtyard.

“This man is an artist! Unlike that heavily spiced garbage they are attempting to serve across the street! Who uses cobalt coals for wyrm flank? It is an insult to the beast!”

Krave declared loudly to the crowd.

The courtyard went deathly silent.

The forge-goblin puffed his chest out, a massive, vicious grin splitting his scarred face.

“You hear that, Vark?! A beauty with actual taste! I told you your wyrm flank tastes like burnt saddle leather!”

He roared at the triton. The Triton chef’s face flushed a deep, violent purple. His mechanical brass arm whirred aggressively as he slammed a massive, rusted meat cleaver into his chopping block. The localised pressure ward around his stall flickered from the force of the blow.

“Burnt leather?! My family has been roasting wyrm flank since your ancestors were still eating mud in the volcanic gutters! Your boar is over-salted rot! A starving kraken wouldn’t touch it!”

The Triton bellowed. I felt Krave physically flinch at the kraken comment. Her eyes narrowed into incredibly dangerous, predatory slits.

“Actually.”

Krave stepped forward, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly smooth register.

“I happen to know for a fact that a kraken would gladly eat the boar, and then it would personally snap your mechanical arm off just for ruining the structural integrity of that wyrm meat.”

“Krave, do not kill the chef.”

I murmured, my tone perfectly even as I stepped up slightly behind her.

“I am merely offering a culinary critique, Austin.”

She replied without looking back.

“You ignorant surface brat!”

The triton roared, entirely failing to realise he was currently insulting an entity that could sink the entire city with a passing thought. He grabbed a heavy iron pan filled with boiling, violently spiced wyrm-grease.

“I’ll show you structural integrity!”

He hurled the pan directly at Krave’s head. The crowd screamed, scattering backwards. Krave didn’t even blink. She actually smiled, her fingers twitching as she prepared to casually swat the boiling iron back through the man’s chest.

I sighed.

Before the pan could cross the halfway point of the courtyard, I simply extended a thread of intent and grabbed hold of the physical laws governing the space between us. I folded the air. The heavy iron pan, along with a gallon of boiling wyrm-grease, entered a micro-fissure in reality directly in front of Krave’s face and harmlessly exited three feet above the courtyard’s central drainage grate, clattering loudly against the stone.

The sudden, inexplicable failure of his attack caused the triton to freeze. The forge-goblin blinked, looking from the empty air back to my completely unbothered expression.

Heavy, synchronised footsteps echoed from the far end of the terrace. A squad of local market guards, clad in shifting, liquid-metal armour and carrying heavy stun-pikes, was aggressively pushing their way through the gawking crowd.

“Right.”

I said calmly, stepping entirely past Krave and inserting myself directly between the two furious chefs.

I expanded my aura, allowing a gentle, overwhelming wave of absolute authority to wash over the courtyard. I didn’t weaponise it; I just heavily suggested to their primitive survival instincts that they needed to listen to me immediately. The anger drained from both the goblin and the triton, instantly replaced by a sudden, heavy sense of awe and confusion.

“My deeply passionate colleague is correct in her assessment of the boar; the thermal resonance of your crust provides an unparalleled, aggressive counterpoint to the deep-sea fat. It is a brilliant display of redirected magma-weaving.”

I announced smoothly, my voice resonating with the practised, arrogant cadence of a high-society scholar. I turned to the forge-goblin.

The goblin blinked, the compliment completely short-circuiting his aggression.

“Uh. Thank you, my lord.”

I immediately spun to face the triton, offering a polite, deferential nod.

“However, she lacks the refined, subtle palate required to understand your work. The cobalt coals do not ruin the wyrm flank; they induce a slow, methodical breakdown of the dense muscle fibres, ensuring the venom neutralises without compromising the earthy undertones of the meat. It is a heavily traditional, highly sophisticated technique that simple minds often mistake for harshness.”

The triton stared at me, his mouth slightly open. He looked down at his meat cleaver, then back up at me, his chest swelling with sudden, immense pride. “

Exactly! Finally, someone who understands the technique!”

“You are both masters of your craft; this was not an argument. It was a fiercely passionate academic debate regarding the pinnacle of deep-sea gastronomy. We will be taking two pounds of the wyrm flank to go.”

I declared, raising my voice just enough to ensure the approaching guards heard the conclusion of the dispute.

I tossed two massive platinum coins—vastly overpaying for the meat—onto the triton’s counter. He scrambled to wrap the steaming wyrm flank in kelp-paper, his previous murderous rage entirely forgotten in the face of excessive flattery and heavy currency.

I grabbed the package, placed a firm hand on the centre of Krave’s back, and smoothly turned us toward the nearest alleyway.

“Walk,”

I murmured.

We slipped into the dense crowd just as the guards breached the centre of the courtyard. Thanks to my perceptual filter, the guards’ eyes slid right past us, entirely failing to connect the wealthy scholar and the laughing woman with the near-riot that had just occurred.

“You completely ruined the fight.”

Krave complained as we merged back onto the main market avenue, though she was still grinning widely.

“I smoothed over your culinary sabotage. If you want to throw boiling grease at local vendors, you are carrying your own spatial barriers.”

I corrected mildly, adjusting my coat.

“The wyrm flank smells acceptable. It is bleeding slightly. I will consume it.”

Luna announced suddenly from my shoulder, her nose twitching violently toward the kelp-paper package in my hand.

“See? I told you we just needed to find the real capital.”

Krave laughed, snatching a piece of the wyrm meat from the package and tossing it up to the wolf.

I watched Luna carefully chew the violently spiced, highly toxic deep-sea meat. The wolf let out a soft huff of approval, settling back down across my neck. I let out a soft breath of amusement, maintaining our perfect, unremarkable disguise as we continued our ridiculous, leisurely crawl through the roaring heart of the Aethelgard Dukedom.