Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 196: Between Food and Drink

The next morning, Ramael woke up to the first rays of sunlight filtering through the treetops, hitting him directly in the face. He sat up slowly, letting out a soft grunt as he stretched; sleeping in the damp mud hadn't been as comfortable as he'd expected. His back creaked with some protest, and the dried mud clinging to his clothes formed rough, cracked patches.

In front of him, someone had placed a handmade wooden plate filled with toasted flowers. He studied them for a moment, curious. They had a sweet scent, similar to nectar, and tasting them confirmed they were edible. They didn't have much of a flavor, but at least they were nutritious.

After eating, he got up and took one last look at the makeshift camp. The moth was gone. It had vanished without a trace. Ramael threw some dry twigs onto the dying embers of the campfire, and after hesitating for a few seconds, decided not to put on his mask. He left it hanging from his belt, like an unused symbol.

He advanced through Darkwood Forest with a leisurely gait, skirting the twisted trees and treacherous roots that protruded from the ground. Occasionally, a monstrous caterpillar emerged from the bushes with slimy jaws, but Ramael annihilated them with precision, wielding his wooden bat as if it were still an extension of his arm.

The march was relatively peaceful until an unmistakable sound caught his attention: the rhythmic slicing of a knife on a chopping board, accompanied by the soft hiss of something frying in a pan.

Ramael narrowed his eyes. He had heard that sound many times in his world.

Guided by his keen hearing, he advanced toward the source until he came across an almost surreal scene: an open-air restaurant, set up on a small esplanade between trees. Several rustic tables were scattered around the place, and on them, silkworms were eating with obvious pleasure.

Without saying anything, Ramael sat down at one of the empty tables and waited.

From behind a huge, ornately shelled snail, a multicolored mantis shrimp emerged, wearing a chef's hat tilted elegantly. It carried a frying pan in its hand, from which perfumed smoke escaped.

Ramael recognized it immediately, although its colors were the opposite of those he was familiar with. Still, it was unmistakable: it was this world's version of Rakshasa.

"Order number seven!" Rakshasa exclaimed, dropping some fried radishes onto one of the tables with a dramatic flourish.

It was then that he noticed Ramael's presence. He approached with a graceful stride, raising an eyebrow with panache.

"Oh? Who are you?" "You look like lamb... but much more disheveled and dirty," he commented with his characteristic theatrical tone; rather than a criticism, it seemed like an observation with offended elegance.

"I'd like to order something," Ramael replied with a friendly smile. "But I don't know what dishes you offer... could you surprise my palate?"

Rakshasa's compound eyes sparkled with excitement. He twirled around, pan in hand, as if he were at a culinary show.

"I'll make your taste buds dance a tango!" he exclaimed, and ran into the makeshift kitchen, disappearing behind his enormous snail wife.

Ramael took the moment to look at his reflection in a glass salt shaker placed in the center of the table. He observed his face: dirty, covered in fresh mud and with a few dried stains that could well be a heretic's blood. He lowered his gaze, melancholy. He missed the magic... he used to keep it clean with a single gesture.

But his thoughts were interrupted when, from the edge of the restaurant, an almost familiar figure appeared.

A black cat in white robes walked with a firm stride, wearing a god's crown on its head. Its bearing was regal, and although its shape was identical to Aym's, Ramael knew immediately it wasn't him.