The walk back to the hut was a victory march. They carried the baskets of "waste" not with shame, but with the reverence of pirates carrying chests of Spanish gold.
The moment the wooden door latched shut, cutting them off from the prying eyes of the village,
For a heartbeat, there was silence... just the heavy breathing of five people staring at the wicker baskets overflowing with "trash" that was actually treasure.
Then, the dam broke.
The repressed tension of the morning... the fear of humiliation, the adrenaline of the crowd, the sheer audacity of the plan... all erupted into pure, unadulterated joy.
"We did it!" Liora squealed, dropping her basket and launching herself at Sol.
She slammed into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his tunic. "Did you see them? They were fighting for it! They were fighting for soup!"
Sol laughed, bracing himself just in time to catch the small, soft cannonball that slammed into his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his tunic, squealing with a joy so pure it vibrated through his ribs.
But before he could steady himself, Arelia joined in, hugging him from the side, her usually composed, stoic face glowing with relief. Her embrace was different... heavier, softer. Sol felt the long, elegant curve of her body press against his body, her forehead resting momentarily against his shoulder. Her face was flushed, glowing with a relief so profound it looked like exhaustion leaving her body.
Even Veyra, the eternal cynic, didn’t stand apart. She grabbed his arm, shaking it with aggressive, pent up excitement.
"Did you see the tanner’s wife?" Veyra crowed, her eyes shining, with a fierce, vindictive light. " The way she looked at the soup? She looked like she was going to lick the bowl! And the bones... Sol, we have enough food here to feed us for a month!"
Sol stood in the center of the warm, chaotic embrace, feeling the press of their bodies against him. Liora’s soft, youthful chest crushed against his front; Arelia’s tall, curve-hugging body pressed against his side; Veyra’s lean strength vibrating with energy.
He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply. The air in the hut was thick... a heady cocktail of woodsmoke, the savory spice of the soup that still clung to their clothes, and the distinct, intoxicating musk of four women.
This, he thought, a dark satisfaction curling in his gut. This is how it begins. First, they rely on you for food. Then, they rely on you for joy.
"I told you," Sol said, opening his eyes and didn’t pull away. Instead, he boldly slid his free arm around Arelia’s waist, his hand splaying over the curve of her hip. He gave her a squeeze... firm, possessive, lingering just a second too long to be merely familial.
They pulled back slowly, breathless and giddy, the adrenaline of the market still coursing through their veins. Liora was beaming, Veyra was grinning like a wolf, and Arelia was smoothing her tunic, her cheeks dusted with a becoming pink.
Lyra was standing slightly apart, watching the scene. Her eyes weren’t on Sol’s face, but on the mountain of raw materials... the bones, the tubers, the scraps. The greed in her eyes wasn’t ugly; it was the hunger of a woman who had starved for too long and finally found a feast.
She walked over to the baskets, her hips swaying with a loose rhythm that made Sol’s heart pound hard. She picked up a massive knuckle bone, weighing it in her hand like a gold bar.
"We need more," Lyra declared, her eyes scanning the mountain of raw materials they had just acquired. "The crowd will be back at dusk. We need to double the batch. The smell will have spread to the outer ring by then."
She dropped the bone back into the basket with a heavy thud.
"Triple it," Sol corrected, moving to the prep area. "We use every pot we have."
...
The afternoon turned into a cooking masterclass. This time, Sol wasn’t just the chef... he was the instructor. Since he couldn’t always be there to cook personally, he needed time to go out, explore, hunt, that type of HUNT, and pursue so much more. So, he decided to teach them as well. After all, it was a pretty simple dish to make.
"Arelia," Sol called out. The eldest sister was struggling to crack a particularly thick femur bone with a stone hammer. "You’re using too much arm. You’ll tire yourself out."
He walked over to her. instead of taking the hammer, he stepped directly behind her.
"Here," he murmured. "Let me show you the stance."
He pressed his chest against her back, molding his body to hers. He reached around, his hands covering hers on the handle of the hammer. The contact was electric. Arelia stiffened for a heartbeat, her breath hitching, but she didn’t pull away.
"Widen your stance," Sol whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. He used his knee to nudge her legs apart, opening her posture. "Ground yourself."
He guided her arms up. His forearms brushed against the sides of her breasts, a friction that was accidental in motion but deliberate in intent. He felt the heat radiating from her, the way her breathing synced with his.
"Use the motion," he instructed, his voice low and husky. "Drop your weight."
Thud.
They brought the hammer down together. The bone cracked perfectly down the middle, revealing the rich pink marrow.
"See?" Sol said, not letting go. He stayed there, wrapped around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. "Effortless."
Arelia turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing his nose. Her brown eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. She wasn’t looking at the bone.
"Effortless," she repeated breathlessly.
Sol smiled, releasing her slowly, letting his hands trail down her arms as he pulled away. He caught Veyra watching them, her eyes narrowed not with suspicion, but with a strange, contemplative biting of her lip.
"Back to work," Sol clapped his hands. "Time is meat."
...
By late afternoon, the prep was done. They took a break to assess their earnings.
Lyra spread the best cuts on a mat. In the chaos of the trade, they hadn’t just received bare bones. There were livers, hearts, kidneys, and chunks of fatty brisket that people had traded for immediate gratification.
"Look at this," Lyra whispered, holding up a slab of liver. "This is... this is warrior’s food. We haven’t had meat like this since your father was alive."
"We are eating better than the Chief tonight," Veyra said, looking at the pile with hunger.
"And tomorrow," Sol added, "we eat even better."
They ate a quick, hearty meal... using the "reject" soup from the bottom of the pot... and then loaded up.
This time, it was a caravan. Three large cauldrons. Stacks of gourds, which wasn’t difficult to get as they were easily available,and large woven baskets.
When they arrived at the square at dusk, the atmosphere had changed.
It wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was anticipation.
A crowd had already gathered under the Spirit Tree, waiting. The rumor of the "Magic Soup" had spread through the tribe like wildfire. People who hadn’t come in the morning were there now, clutching their scraps, eyes fixed on the path.
When Sol appeared, a cheer went up.
"He’s back!"
"The Soup maker!"
Sol set up the cauldrons with practiced ease. He opened the covers. As the soup opened up and the familiar, spicy aroma began to waft through the square, the line formed instantly. It wound around the tree and stretched down the path.
But this time, Sol changed the rules.
A man stepped up... a lazy gatherer who was known for mooching. He held out a handful of dry, yellowed grass.
"For the soup," the man grunted.
Sol looked at the grass. He looked at the bubbling pot of liquid gold.
"No," Sol said coldly.
The man blinked. "What? You took grass this morning!"
"I took Tear-Grass," Sol corrected. "That is dry bedding. I am not an animal. Next."
"But—"
"Next!" Sol’s voice boomed, reinforced by a flash of Ash Gray command. The man shrank back, scurrying away under the glare of the crowd.
Sol wasn’t desperate anymore. He was the monopoly and now that his reputation has been established it was time for some rules.
"I want quality!" Sol announced to the line. "Fresh bones! Clean organs! Good roots! Good Vegetables! If you bring me trash, you get nothing!"
He was ruthless. He rejected rotted meat. He rejected dry twigs. He established a standard.
However... there were exceptions.
A young woman stepped up. She was stunning... tall, with skin like polished obsidian and eyes like honey. But her hands were empty save for a single, small, pathetic-looking root.
"I... I tried to find more," she whispered, looking down, ashamed. "But the digging was hard today."
Sol looked at the root. It was worthless.
Then he looked at her. He looked at the curve of her neck, the fullness of her lips.
He smiled, a slow, charming smile that made her blush.
"For you," Sol purred, "I think we can make an exception. That root looks... very special."
He took the useless root and tossed it in the basket. Then he ladled out a steaming bowl, picking out the choicest piece of meat.
He handed it to her, his fingers caressing hers, holding the contact for a long, heavy moment.
"Enjoy it," he murmured, his Ash Gray energy pulsing a subtle command of attraction and gratitude. "And come back when you’re hungry. I’ll always have a bowl for you."
The woman beamed, her eyes shining with adoration. "Thank you, Sol! You are... you are so kind!"
She walked away, clutching the bowl like a treasure.
Behind her, a burly man with a similar root stepped up hopefully.
"No," Sol said flatly. "Next."
From the shadows, Veyra watched him work. She saw the way he rejected the useless, accepted the valuable, and pampered the beautiful.
"He’s not just a merchant," she muttered to Arelia, watching Sol charm another village girl with a wink and a ladle of broth. "He’s a wolf in human clothes."
"He feeds us," Arelia replied simply, watching Sol’s back with a soft, gentle gaze. "Let him hunt."
A/N: Need some big gifts, as Rising Fiction is ending and the money earned during this period will decide whether a book will get further promotion, which is very crucial for long term performance (and my motivation). So, if there are any rich people hiding between us, please do send some gifts.
Of course, I will also provide my support by updating extra 5-10 Chapters, maybe even more depending on gifts, and you can also designate a new character, or some events, as long as it make sense for story.