The lunch rush hit hard, a tidal wave of hungry laborers and travelers that threatened to drown the small staff of "The Rusty Spoon." The restaurant was packed to the rafters. Gorn was shouting orders from the pass, his face glistening with sweat. Plates clattered, cutlery scraped, and the din of conversation was deafening. It was a symphony of stress.
Lencar was moving on autopilot. He was a blur of efficiency, plating stew, slicing bread, pouring ale, and navigating the crowded floor without spilling a drop. But his eyes were distant. He was physically present, but his mind was still in his room, staring at a jar of ash.
Then, the accident happened.
Rebecca was at the oven, pulling out a tray of their signature berry tarts. They were the most expensive item on the menu, difficult to make and highly requested. She was rushing, trying to keep up with the orders piling up on the spindle.
Her hand, slick with butter, slipped on the hot metal tray.
CLANG.
The sound cut through the kitchen noise. The tray hit the corner of the counter violently. Three pristine tarts slid off the edge and splattered onto the stone floor—a tragic mess of expensive jam, flaky crust, and wasted effort.
"No!" Rebecca cried out, dropping to her knees instantly. "Those were the last ones! The customer at Table 5 specifically asked for them!"
She stared at the ruin on the floor—the sticky, useless pile of what used to be culinary perfection. Her shoulders slumped.
She sighed, a sound of pure, exhausted regret that resonated with Lencar's own internal state.
"Ugh," she muttered, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of flour. "I wish I could just... Use magic to bring it back. Not fix it, but just... turn it back into ingredients. You know? Just separate the flour and the berries and start over."
Lencar stopped.
He was holding a knife mid-chop over a pile of onions. He froze.
The sounds of the kitchen—Gorn shouting for order 66, the sizzling of meat, the clatter of forks—faded into a dull, distant roar. The world narrowed down to Rebecca's voice echoing in his head.
Turn it back into ingredients.
Separate the flour and the berries.
Lencar's mind, honed by weeks of high-level magical theory and desperate calculation, latched onto that sentence like a starving dog finding a bone.
He had been thinking linearly. He had been thinking like a killer.
Live Body -> Dead Body -> Ash.
Live Magic -> Stolen Magic -> Void.
He had been trying to destroy the evidence. He had been trying to delete the matter left behind.
But in physics, and in the fundamental laws of magic in this world, matter cannot be created or destroyed. It can only change form.
When he used [Absolute Replication], he stripped the Soul of the mages.
But what if....
"That's it," Lencar breathed, the air rushing into his lungs as if he had been holding his breath for seven days.
The realization washed over him like a wave of pure, electrifying euphoria. The wall he had been banging his head against didn't just crack; it vanished into dust.
He turned slowly to look at Rebecca.
She was still on her knees, scraping up the ruined tart into a dustpan, looking miserable.
To Lencar, she didn't look like a clumsy waitress. She looked like a genius. A muse. The smartest person in the Clover Kingdom.
"Rebecca," Lencar said. His voice wasn't his usual calm, controlled monotone. It was vibrating with intensity.
She looked up, confused by his tone. "What? Lencar, I'm sorry, I'll clean it up, I know we're busy—"
"Say that again," Lencar commanded, stepping toward her, abandoning his station.
"Say what?" she blinked, shrinking back slightly. "That I'm clumsy?"
"No. About the ingredients."
"Uh..." Rebecca stood up, holding the dustpan of jammy mess. "I just said... I wish I could replicate the food back into ingredients? To try again?"
Lencar's eyes lit up. They blazed with an intensity Rebecca had never seen before—a mix of manic intellect and sheer, unadulterated joy that transformed his usually stoic face.
"Replicate back into ingredients," Lencar repeated, savoring the words as if they were a magic spell themselves. "Reversal. Of course. It's so simple!."
He laughed. It wasn't a dry chuckle. It was a loud, boisterous laugh that startled the entire kitchen staff, cutting through the noise of the rush.
Before he could stop himself, before the filters of "Lencar the employee" could clamp down on "Lencar the Heretic," he moved.
He grabbed Rebecca by the shoulders.
"You are brilliant!" Lencar shouted.
He pulled her into a hug. It was tight, crushing, and filled with the explosive energy of a scientist who just solved the equation of the century. He lifted her slightly off the floor, spinning her once in his exuberance.
"Thank you!" Lencar laughed into her hair, which smelled of flour and berries. "Rebecca, you just saved me! You have no idea!"
He set her down, grinned like a lunatic, and spun back to his cutting board.
"I have work to do!" he announced to no one in particular, grabbing a carrot and chopping it with supersonic speed, the knife a blur. He thought in his mind"The geometry! The mana flow! I have to rewrite the runic sequence for the intake valve!"
Rebecca stood there.
She was frozen. Her face was turning a shade of red that rivaled the berry jam on the floor. Her hands were still holding the dustpan in mid-air, forgotten.
She had never been hugged like that. Not by a man. Not by Lencar, who was usually as reserved as a statue.
"He..." Rebecca squeaked, touching her shoulder where his hand had been. "He hugged me."
The kitchen staff stared, mouths open. Even Gorn paused mid-shout.
Marco burst through the swinging doors, holding an empty plate, looking furious.
"BECCA! THE CUSTOMER IS MAD! WHERE ARE THE TARTS?!"
Rebecca didn't move. She was rebooting.
"BECCA!" Marco yelled again, louder.
Nothing.
"REBECCA SCARLET!" Marco screamed, tugging her apron violently.
"Huh?!" Rebecca jumped, nearly dropping the dustpan again. She looked around wildly, her face burning. "What? Tarts? Yes! Tarts! I'm making them! I'm... I'm going!"
She scrambled toward the oven, tripping over her own feet, casting a frantic, shy glance at Lencar's back.
Lencar didn't notice. He was humming a tune, mentally dissecting the metaphysical structure of the human soul.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of contrasting energies. Lencar was a machine of efficiency, fueled by his breakthrough. He moved through the dinner rush with a lightness in his step that bordered on dancing. He joked with Gorn. He juggled three plates for Marco's amusement. He was radiant.
Rebecca, on the other hand, was a mess. She dropped a spoon. She poured ale into a soup bowl by mistake. Every time Lencar came near her to grab an order, she turned bright pink and busied herself with scrubbing a spot on the counter that was already clean.
When the last customer finally left and Gorn flipped the sign, the walk home was different.
Usually, Rebecca chatted about the day, complaining about rude customers or worrying about bills. Tonight, she was silent. She walked close to Lencar, clutching her shawl, sneaking glances at him from the corner of her eye.
Lencar, still riding the high of his epiphany, walked with a brisk, purposeful stride. He was carrying a sleepy Pem on his back and holding Luca's hand.
"So," Lencar said, breaking the silence as they turned the corner toward the Scarlet household. "Tomorrow I was thinking of making a stew with the leftover mutton. If we slow-cook it, we can save on fuel. It's all about efficiency."
"Y-Yeah," Rebecca stammered, looking intently at her boots as if they were the most interesting things in the world. "Stew is good. You... you really like stew."
"Are you okay?" Lencar asked, glancing at her. "You seem quiet. Still upset about the tarts?"
"No!" Rebecca squeaked. "I mean... yes. The tarts. Just the tarts. I'm fine. Totally fine."
Lencar shrugged, shifting Pem's weight. "Don't worry about it. Everyone makes mistakes. It's how you fix them that counts."
He smiled to himself in the dark. And I am going to fix mine tonight.
They arrived at the house. The routine took over—getting the kids into pajamas, breaking up a fight over a toy, the chaos of brushing teeth.
Dinner was quick—leftover bread and cheese. Lencar ate quickly, his mind already in his room, surrounded by spell books.
"Story?" Marco asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Not tonight, Marco," Lencar said, patting his head. "I have... homework. Big brother stuff. Tomorrow, I promise."
"Okay," Marco yawned. "Night, Lencar."
Once the house was finally, mercifully quiet, Lencar retreated to his room.
He locked the door. He cast the [Sound Barrier].
He stood in the center of the room, the moonlight casting long shadows. The smile fell from his face, replaced by the cold, razor-sharp focus of the Heretic. The playacting was over. The science began now.