The Alder Knight had fallen.
After watching Frederica Gunnhildr lose a swordsmanship duel without Lucian Vale even disturbing his breathing, most of the weaker spectators immediately abandoned any thought of challenging him through force.
They still wanted the prize.
The ancient jar of Barbatos’s Dandelion Wine sat behind the arena like a treasure from legend, filling the plaza with an aroma rich enough to make every drinker in Mondstadt restless.
But wanting the wine and being willing to face Lucian were two very different things.
People began whispering among themselves.
The rules placed no limit on the method of competition.
Victory was the only requirement.
That meant they did not have to fight him.
Surely no one could be skilled at everything.
Seven or eight men gathered, discussed the matter, and climbed onto the platform with renewed confidence.
“We challenge you to a drinking contest!”
A green-clad bard quietly slipped into their group.
Lucian saw him at once.
Venti smiled innocently.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
Still, he accepted.
A challenge was a challenge.
After someone contacted Charles, barrels of ordinary Dandelion Wine were transported from Angel’s Share to the plaza.
The tavern’s business had effectively moved beneath the statue of Barbatos for the day.
Amber was not joining this particular contest.
Lucian refused to let her drink merely to satisfy a crowd.
That left Lucian and Eula representing their side.
The first cups were poured.
Then the second.
Then the fifth.
The drinking contest quickly stopped resembling a contest and began looking like a public demonstration of impossible biology.
Lucian drank wine as though it were water.
Cup after cup disappeared without slowing him.
His expression did not change.
His face did not redden.
His speech remained clear, and his hand never trembled.
The spectators stared in growing disbelief.
Was he even tasting it?
At that speed, drinking and pouring the wine directly onto the ground seemed almost identical.
Eula performed admirably at first.
She had a respectable tolerance and refused to surrender easily, especially while hundreds of people watched.
Eventually, however, warmth spread across her face.
She set down her cup.
“I can continue.”
Lucian glanced at her.
“No.
You’re about to get drunk.”
“That is not the same as losing.”
“It is when I have to carry you afterward.”
Eula’s blush deepened for an entirely different reason.
She stepped aside before her legs began betraying her.
Barrel after barrel arrived from Angel’s Share, only to be emptied at a pace that made Charles look physically ill.
The wine might as well have been poured into a bottomless drain.
One challenger collapsed.
Then another.
Soon, only Venti remained.
The bard seemed determined to inherit the will of every defeated drinker in Mondstadt.
He clutched his cup with both hands and continued drinking against Lucian as though the honor of freedom itself depended upon him.
A vein pulsed on Lucian’s forehead.
Venti was not defending Mondstadt.
He was stealing free alcohol.
Worse, he possessed the tolerance of an Archon and the shameless persistence of a starving stray cat.
Lucian could have continued indefinitely.
His body could metabolize, store, or expel the alcohol faster than any normal person could drink it.
But this ridiculous duel was delaying the actual purpose of the arena.
Lucian stared at Venti.
The meaning in his gaze was unmistakable.
Enough.
Venti pretended not to understand.
Lucian’s eyes became more dangerous.
The bard finally sighed.
His cheeks reddened at a speed that was almost theatrical.
His eyes crossed, his body swayed, and he dropped face-first onto the table.
The crowd erupted.
Lucian set down his cup.
At last, the drinking challenge was over.
He looked around and found more than a thousand people staring at him as though he were a monster.
Their reaction was understandable.
Lucian and Venti had consumed more wine than the apparent volume of their bodies should have allowed.
Venti’s defeat made the mystery even stranger.
As he lay unconscious, wine began leaking from his mouth in a small, steady stream.
It arced toward the ground like a tiny fountain.
Apparently, the bard had forced himself beyond his limits merely to avoid disappointing the challengers.
Lucian, by contrast, looked completely normal.
His stomach had not expanded.
His breathing remained steady.
No one knew where the alcohol had gone.
Ignoring their horrified expressions, Lucian motioned for Eula to drag Venti behind the statue, away from the crowd.
She stared at the leaking bard.
“You want me to move him?”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
“You’re already standing.”
Eula remembered another grievance.
Still, she grabbed Venti by the cloak and hauled him away.
Lucian stepped to the center of the platform.
“Who else?”
Silence answered.
Across a plaza packed with more than a thousand people, not one person dared meet his eyes.
If he could defeat the Alder Knight in swordsmanship and drink an entire tavern dry, what weakness could possibly remain?
Then a familiar voice rose from the crowd.
“M-Me!
I’ll challenge you!”
Lucian turned.
Near noon, Sara stood inside Good Hunter and looked at the deserted street.
Business had not even begun.
Usually, the restaurant would already be receiving workers, adventurers, and knights searching for an early meal.
Today, hardly anyone passed through the square.
What had happened to Mondstadt?
Then Sara saw Charles struggling down the street with a large barrel of wine.
Sweat soaked his clothes as he pulled it toward the Anemo Archon’s statue.
She hurried outside and questioned him.
Charles explained the arena, the challenges, the divine wine, and the enormous crowd.
Since there was no business to conduct anyway, Sara locked the doors and windows of Good Hunter and hurried toward the commotion.
“You are not qualified.”
Lucian waved her away the moment she reached the arena.
A green sphere of light had already appeared above Sara’s head.
As one of Eula’s few genuine friends, she possessed none of the prejudice required as an entry fee.
Eula gave Sara an apologetic look.
The rules were supposedly being judged by Barbatos himself.
This was not something she could change.
Sara frowned.
She understood that Lucian was defending Eula.
She even respected him for it.
But the sight of Mondstadt’s people remaining silent after all their gossip irritated her.
She turned toward the crowd.
“Do none of you have any courage?”
Her voice carried across the plaza.
“You whisper about Eula when she isn’t present, but when someone asks you to stand behind your words, you lower your heads.”
No one answered.
Sara pointed toward a knight trying to make himself small among the spectators.
“You.
Give me your qualification.”
The man stiffened.
“If I challenge him in your place and lose, you will never speak badly about Eula behind her back again.
Understood?”
The knight remained silent.
The orange light above his head floated away.
At the same moment, Sara’s green light shifted toward him.
The two colors exchanged places, leaving orange above Sara.
Apparently, Barbatos approved the transfer.
Lucian watched with interest.
The knight whose qualification Sara had claimed was Brook—the same fly Lucian had verbally crushed the previous night.
Sara stepped onto the arena and winked at Eula.
Eula answered with a helpless nod.
Then Sara faced Lucian with a meaningful smile.
“There is an old saying.
To capture someone’s heart, first capture their stomach.”
Eula’s expression changed.
Sara continued before she could object.
“I challenge you to a cooking contest.”
Lucian smiled.
“Accepted.
Name the dish.”
“Soup.
We each prepare one pot, and everyone present will judge.”
“Deal.”
Lucian liked her immediately.
Maintaining a sincere friendship with Eula despite years of social pressure proved that Sara possessed both loyalty and independent judgment.
Three more figures emerged from the crowd.
They were arranged almost perfectly by height.
Diona came first, followed by Noelle, then Mika.
Each had exchanged a green qualification with someone carrying orange prejudice.
“I’ll help with preparation,” Noelle said.
“So will I,” Mika added.
Diona crossed her arms.
“Me too.”
She glared at Lucian.
Anyone capable of consuming that much wine deserved suspicion.
He had drunk more in one morning than most people drank in a year.
Still, he was helping Eula.
For that reason alone, Diona decided to forgive him.
Once.
With support from Blanche, owner of Mondstadt General Goods, two enormous cooking stations were assembled on the arena.
Sara chose her specialty: traditional Mondstadt chicken soup.
Given the audience and the stakes, she held nothing back.
Eula watched Sara begin with practiced confidence and felt concern creep back into her heart.
Lucian was overwhelmingly strong.
His body seemed beyond human, and his swordsmanship had defeated Frederica.
Cooking was different.
It required patience, experience, and repetition accumulated over years.
Lucian turned toward her.
“Eula, cut the lotus root.”
She blinked.
“Lotus root?”
“I’m making lotus-root and pork-rib soup.”
The decision came easily.
It was Nefer’s favorite soup.
When prepared correctly, it was a simple but nearly unbeatable classic.
Lucian began cutting the ribs.
The spectators were unconvinced.
A pot this large could not be won through seasoning alone.
Heat control would determine everything.
Pork ribs required enough time to become tender.
Lotus root had to soften without dissolving into mush.
Too little heat would leave the meat tough.
Too much would destroy the texture and cloud the broth.
How did Lucian intend to manage all of that in a public arena?
The answer was simple.
He would cheat.
Lucian placed the chopped ribs into cold water and added ginger, green onion, and cooking wine to remove the unpleasant smell.
Then, instead of lighting a fire beneath the pot, he placed his palm directly against the metal.
“Hamon Overdrive.”
Golden energy surged through his arm.
The iron pot began glowing red.
The crowd recoiled.
“Is that Pyro?”
“His Vision is Anemo!”
Citizens unfamiliar with Lucian assumed he possessed a hidden Pyro Vision.
The knights who had personally witnessed the Anemo Vision manifest stared in disbelief.
Varka knew the Dendro Vision was fake.
Now Lucian was producing heat without either element.
The Grand Master’s expression became strangely blank.
And he still claimed not to know martial arts.
Lucian maintained perfectly even heat.
Within minutes, the water began to boil.
Blood and excess fat rose to the surface as pale foam.
He skimmed it away, removed the ribs, and rinsed them in warm water.
After cleaning the pot, he returned the meat, added fresh ginger, knotted green onions, and enough water for a long stew.
Then he covered the pot.
His control never wavered.
Sara occasionally glanced toward Lucian’s station.
At first, she intended to win.
After watching his preparation, that desire gradually faded.
His knife work was precise.
His timing was effortless.
Every movement showed the calm familiarity of someone who had prepared the same dish countless times.
Sara stopped worrying about the result.
Instead, she allowed herself to enjoy the act of cooking.
It seemed Eula had found an exceptional man.
Strong enough to defend her.
Cultured enough to understand her.
And skilled enough to cook.
The aromas of both soups spread across the plaza.
Under Lucian’s control, the two pots finished at almost the same moment.
The result was obvious before anyone tasted them.
Sara’s Mondstadt chicken soup smelled rich and comforting.
Lucian’s lotus-root and pork-rib soup possessed a depth that made the surrounding crowd unconsciously swallow.
This was not only talent.
It was repetition.
Ever since Lucian first demonstrated his cooking to Nefer, she had become the greatest glutton in all of Nod-Krai.
Of every dish he prepared, she loved this soup most.
During the past four years, Lucian had made it no fewer than a thousand times.
He could control the heat blindfolded.
Nefer had once declared that he was only allowed to make this particular soup for her.
But Nefer was not in Mondstadt.
Therefore, it was probably fine.
Probably.
Amber’s stomach growled.
A heartbeat later, Eula’s answered.
Both women froze.
Their faces reddened.
They had left home without breakfast.
Lucian smiled and filled two bowls to the brim.
“Hungry?
Drink.”
“Thank you!”
Amber accepted hers first.
She lifted the bowl and took a careful sip.
Warm broth flowed down her throat.
The sensation was like returning from winter rain, taking a hot bath, and crawling beneath a freshly warmed blanket.
The ribs were tender without falling apart.
The lotus root retained a gentle bite.
Its subtle sweetness blended perfectly with the savory richness of the meat.
Amber’s eyes widened.
This was so, so, so, so, so delicious.
She made an immediate decision.
No matter what happened in the contest, she would drink until she could not move.
Eula watched Amber’s blissful expression with suspicion.
Had Lucian added something strange?
She tasted her own soup.
Her eyes softened instantly.
The same resolution formed.
Neither woman offered a review.
They were too busy drinking.
The people below noticed.
“What does it taste like?”
“Why aren’t they saying anything?”
“That aroma is torture!”
The crowd began demanding portions.
From behind the statue, Venti suddenly lifted his head.
The fragrance reached him.
His body floated upright almost on instinct, and he drifted back toward the arena.
The man standing beside him recoiled.
“By Barbatos!
Weren’t you unconscious from drinking?”
Venti followed the scent with half-lidded eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then how are you awake?”
“The wine is gone.”
Venti pointed toward the soup.
“So I recovered.”
The man stared at him.
No explanation came.
None was possible.
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