Al returned an hour later with a sack of common wheat flour, a crock of lard, a paper twist of coarse salt, and a bucket of well water.
"The Bazaar's finest," he said, setting each item on my worktable with exaggerated care. "The vegetable situation is dire. I acquired a few onions and what appears to be a turnip that has seen better days."
"That's it?"
"The Bazaar vendors take issue with buying single vegetables without committing to a larger purchase. It is, apparently, not done."
"Fantasy capitalism strikes again."
I lined up the ingredients. Common wheat flour. Water. Salt. Lard. A sad-looking onion. A turnip that seemed to be judging me.
The blue window was still there, waiting at the edge of my vision.
**First Test: Flatbread**
**Instructions: Prepare one flatbread using available ingredients. No system ingredients. Any cooking method acceptable.**
**Time remaining: 23 hours, 42 minutes.**
Simple enough. Flatbread was the most basic thing in human civilization. Flour, water, salt. Fat if you wanted it tender. Heat.
But I'd never made one with ingredients I didn't trust.
The flour felt wrong in my hands. Coarser than I was used to. Heavier. The water smelled faintly of minerals — well water, Al had said. Hard water would affect gluten development. Not ideal, but workable.
"Alright," I said. "Let's see what this shit can do."
I worked by instinct. Measured by feel. Two cups of flour, a pinch of salt, a tablespoon of lard. Rubbed the fat into the flour until it looked like coarse meal. Added water a little at a time, mixing with my fingers until it came together.
The dough was stiff. Not much give. Common flour meant less protein, less gluten. It would be dense. More cracker than bread.
But it would still be good.
I kneaded for ten minutes. The motion came back like muscle memory — push, fold, turn, push. My hands knew what to do even when my brain was still processing the fact that I had a magic pizza system.
Al watched from the dining hall, leaning against the bar with a cup of tea.
"Should I offer commentary, sir, or would you prefer silence?"
"Commentary. Distract me."
"Very well. A sorry excuse of a man in a grey cloak has been watching the building for the past two hours."
I stopped kneading. "What?"
"He's positioned near the tannery. He's trying very hard to look like he's reading a notice board. not succeeding, really, but trying."
Fuck.
Big brother dearest's people. Had to be. They'd traced me to Dalton faster than I expected.
"Do we need to leave?"
"I don't believe so, sir. He's watching the building, not you specifically. And we are wearing masks. He has no reason to connect a pair of travelers buying a rundown tavern with the Baron of Bolexe's fugitive brother."
"Right. Right." I went back to kneading. "Keep an eye on him."
"I am, sir."
"Smartass."
"I learned from the best, sir."
The dough rested while I chopped the onion. Small dice, fine and even. Sweated it in a pan with a smear of lard until it turned translucent and sweet. That would go into the flatbread — not traditional, but it would add moisture and flavor and prove I could work with limited resources.
I rolled the dough out thin. Not quite pizza-thin, but close. Spread the onions across the surface, pressing them in with the heel of my hand.
The oven was ready. I'd spent the last hour feeding it with the firewood Al had bought — normal wood, nothing special. But the oven itself was a work of art. The floor radiated heat evenly. The hood would need a proper stonemason's touch, but the core was solid.
I slid the flatbread onto the peel. A quick shake to make sure it wasn't stuck. Then a sharp flick of the wrist and it was inside, landing on the smooth, hot stone surface with a soft hiss.
Thirty seconds. Check. Rotate. Another thirty seconds. The edges were browning. The onions were caramelizing.
I pulled it out.
Golden. Crisp. A few spots of char for character. The onions had singed in places, gone dark and sweet. It smelled like bread should smell — warm and wholesome and edible.
The blue window appeared.
**Test complete.**
**Evaluating flatbread...**
**Criteria:**
**- Structural integrity: B (acceptable crumb, no breakage)**
**- Flavor profile: B+ (onion addition noted and appreciated)**
**- Texture: B- (common flour limitations acknowledged)**
**- Overall: B+**
**Result: PASS**
**Unlocked: Dawn Wheat, Sun-ripened Tomatoes**
**New ingredients available for purchase.**
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"I did it."
"Congratulations, sir. Was there ever any doubt?"
"Plenty. But I'm choosing to ignore that."
I pulled up the ingredient catalog. Dawn Wheat was listed at 2 silver per pound. Sun-ripened Tomatoes at 5 copper each. Not cheap, but not unreasonable. For the quality that the system described as "extra-fine, silky" and "naturally sweet, vibrant red," it was a bargain.
I placed an order. Two pounds of Dawn Wheat. Six tomatoes.
A notification appeared.
**Order placed. Delivery in 30 seconds.**
I counted. At twenty-five seconds, a small wooden crate appeared on my worktable. No fanfare. No magic glow. Just... there.
I opened it.
The flour was inside a cloth sack, tied with twine. I untied it and dipped my fingers in.
Holy shit.
It was like touching powdered silk. Finer than any flour I'd ever handled. It felt alive in my hands — cool and smooth and impossibly soft. I brought a pinch to my nose. The smell was sweet and clean, like fresh-cut wheat in morning sun.
The tomatoes were even more absurd. Deep red, perfectly round, with a faint warmth to the skin as if they'd just been pulled off the vine. I bit into one without thinking.
Sweet. So fucking sweet. Bright and rich and complex, with an acidity that hit the back of my jaw and made me want more.
"These are impossible," I said.
Al stared at the tomato in my hand like it might bite him. "Impossible in a good way, sir?"
"In the best way."
I looked at my hands. Flour dusted my fingers. The smell of the flatbread still hung in the air. My kitchen was warm and ready and mine.
The grey-cloaked spy was still out there, watching.
Let him watch.
I had Dawn Wheat, Sun-ripened Tomatoes, and a wood-fired oven.
I had work to do.
I reached for the flour again, and my fingers tingled.
Not a metaphor. An actual tingle. Like static electricity. Like the flour was responding to my touch.
Magic. Fucking magic.
I grinned and started measuring.
The flatbread came together beautifully. The Dawn Wheat moved like silk under my fingers. But when I reached for the toppings, the system pulsed.
**System Notice: Incomplete Recipe.**
**Required: Mozzarella.**
**Status: Locked.**
Of course. No cheese, no pizza.
I stared at the blue text. Then at my beautiful tomatoes. Then back at the text.
"Right," I said. "Tomorrow, I'm making cheese."