Harlan Flint sat behind the counter of Galehaven Comics, the morning's chaos of customers—Fischl's theatrics, the Lady's chuunibyou meltdown, Luke's skirt obsession—finally fading into a quiet hum as the last trio of Mondstadt newcomers shuffled out, clutching their teacups and binoculars. The shop's narrow walls, lined with shelves groaning under the weight of colorful spines, glowed faintly in the noon light streaming through the single window, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. A kettle simmered on a small stove behind him, its steam curling upward like a lazy wisp of Anemo energy, filling the air with the faint scent of dandelion tea. He stretched, his dark jacket rustling, and glanced at the system panel hovering in his mind's eye—eleven customers served, a comic draw earned.
"Time to spice things up—system, let's pull two new comics," he said, his voice low but laced with anticipation as he rubbed his hands together, the thrill of the unknown sparking in his chest. The panel flared, its text scrolling with a mechanical whir. [Drawing initiated… Extracted comic: Little Master] followed by a description: a tale of Liu Maoxing, a young chef honing his craft at Yangquan Tavern, earning his special chef title, befriending culinary comrades, and facing off against the shadowy "Dark Cuisine Realm." Harlan's lips curved into a nostalgic grin, a flood of memories washing over him—childhood evenings glued to glowing screens, the iconic shimmer of egg fried rice stealing the show.
"Little Master—now that's a classic," he murmured, leaning back in his chair as the kettle whistled softly, its tune a faint echo of the anime's triumphant soundtrack. He could still picture it: the lid lifting, golden light bursting forth, that unforgettable melody swelling as flavors defied physics. It rivaled Shokugeki no Soma in flair, outshone Fugui in heart—a culinary odyssey that had once made his stomach growl through static-laden reruns. But a flicker of doubt crept in as he tapped the counter, his brow furrowing. "Liyue's the spot for this—dumplings, stir-fries, spice that bites back. Mondstadt's all grilled meat and ale—will it stick here?"
The thought lingered, swirling like the steam above him—Mondstadt's cuisine leaned rustic, hearty slabs of boar sizzling over open flames, washed down with cider that carried the wind's bite. Little Master danced with finesse: silken tofu soups, dumplings bursting with secrets, dishes that glowed with artistry. Yet Harlan's doubt dissolved as quickly as it came, a spark of conviction flaring in his hazel eyes. "Good food's universal—break the right barriers, and even Mondstadters will drool over glowing rice. This comic's got the chops." His stomach growled in agreement, a low rumble that snapped him out of his reverie.
"Noon already? No wonder I'm starving," he chuckled, glancing at the window where the sun hung high, its rays painting the alley outside in warm hues. The morning's bustle—eleven souls cycling through his shop, each leaving with a prize—had blurred time into a haze of laughter and lightshows. "Time for a bite," he decided, pushing off the counter and heading upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under his boots as he planned a quick meal—maybe some boar skewers, a nod to Mondstadt's roots, though Little Master's flair tempted him to experiment.
Miles away, beyond Mondstadt's stone walls, the Whispering Forest unfurled in a tapestry of emerald and gold, its canopy swaying gently under a breeze that carried the earthy scent of moss and the distant tang of Cecilia flowers. Barbara strode through the undergrowth, her blue skirt brushing against ferns, her Hydro Vision glinting at her waist like a droplet caught in sunlight. She'd parted from Lisa hours ago, leaving the city's bustle for this tranquil expanse, and now stood atop a mossy knoll, her arms spread wide as she inhaled deeply. "The air out here—it's so fresh, so alive," she said, her voice a soft melody as she closed her eyes, letting the forest's breath wash over her, a rare escape from her healer's duties.
"Chirp!" Snowballmon piped up from her shoulder, its tiny, white form bouncing with glee, its black eyes sparkling as it mimicked her delight. The Digimon, a fluffy orb of innocence from Digimon: First Frontier, had been her companion since Galehaven's magic gifted it to her—a baby stage with dreams of grandeur. "You love it too, don't you?" Barbara cooed, her fingers ruffling its fur as it nuzzled her cheek, its chirps a symphony of contentment. "I'll bring you here more often—promise," she added, her smile widening as she savored the moment, a freedom she'd rarely claimed before.
In the past, Mondstadt's wilds had daunted her—her strength lay in mending wounds, not fending off hilichurls, leaving her tethered to the city's safety. But now, with the Freeze Fruit's icy power coursing through her veins, she felt invincible—or at least secure enough to roam. "Harlan said I could reshape climates one day, but I just need to guard us out here," she thought, her confidence blooming as she pictured frost encasing threats, a shield born of One Piece's pages. Snowballmon chirped again, louder, as if cheering her resolve, and she laughed. "Let's hunt some wildflowers and fruits—you're evolving today, little one!"
Her mission was clear—Harlan's tip had stuck with her: feed Snowballmon nature's bounty to spark its growth, a path to power she trusted implicitly. To Barbara, Harlan was a titan—his shop conjured miracles, his strength humbled Harbingers, his words carried weight she'd never doubt. "If he says it'll work, it will," she affirmed, her steps light as she led Snowballmon deeper into the forest, her eyes scanning for the vibrant hues of Dandelion Puffs and Lamp Grass amid the green.
The Whispering Forest teemed with life—wind rustled leaves overhead, squirrels darted through branches, and the distant cry of a hawk pierced the stillness. Barbara knelt by a cluster of Dandelion Puffs, their feathery heads swaying like tiny suns, and plucked a handful, their sweet scent tickling her nose. Nearby, Lamp Grass glowed faintly, its soft light pulsing like a heartbeat, and she gathered those too, piling them into her satchel. "Try these, Snowballmon—see if they're tasty," she said, setting the Digimon on a mossy patch and offering a Dandelion Puff, its fluff brushing her fingers.
"Chirp!" Snowballmon nibbled eagerly, its tiny mouth working the flower into mush, its eyes curving into happy crescents as it savored the taste. Barbara's heart melted, a giggle escaping as she fed it more—Lamp Grass next, its glow dimming as Snowballmon devoured it. "You're adorable—my little foodie," she cooed, stroking its fur as it ate, its contentment a mirror to her own. Despite its size—no bigger than a kitten—it packed away the pile with gusto, the satchel emptying faster than she'd expected.
When the last fruit vanished, Barbara sat back, brushing dirt from her knees. "How're you feeling, Snowballmon?" she asked, her tone gentle but expectant. "Chirp!" it replied, hopping twice, its voice insistent. She tilted her head, guessing, "A little more, huh?" Another chirp, a double bounce—confirmation. "You're a bottomless pit!" she laughed, patting its head as she rose to gather more, her satchel soon brimming anew with forest treasures—Sweet Flowers, a stray Apple, more Lamp Grass glowing like fireflies.
Snowballmon dove in again, its appetite unrelenting, and Barbara watched with bated breath, her hands clasped as the pile dwindled. Then it happened—a blinding white light erupted from the Digimon, engulfing it in a radiant cocoon that pulsed with energy, the forest's sounds fading as if holding its breath. "This is it—evolution, just like Harlan said!" Barbara gasped, stepping back but keeping her eyes locked on the glow, her heart pounding with a mix of awe and pride. The light intensified, a beacon against the green, and she shielded her eyes, whispering, "Come on, Snowballmon—show me what you've got."
The radiance burst outward, a wave of warmth washing over her, and when it cleared, a new form stood where Snowballmon had been. A yellow, cat-like Digimon—Nyaromon—blinked up at her, its fur sleek and golden, its tail flicking with newfound agility, its eyes sharp with a spark of maturity. "Nya!" it mewed, its voice deeper, richer, a leap from its baby chirps. Barbara's jaw dropped, then split into a grin as she scooped it up, twirling it in her arms. "You did it—you're Nyaromon now! Oh, Harlan was right—you're growing so fast!"
The forest seemed to celebrate with her—birds trilled louder, the wind danced through the trees, and Nyaromon purred against her chest, its warmth a testament to their bond. But the moment shattered as a rustle sounded nearby, sharp and deliberate, snapping her from her joy. A hilichurl emerged from the underbrush, its club raised, its mask glinting with malice as it lumbered toward her, a growl rumbling in its throat. Barbara's smile vanished, her grip tightening on Nyaromon as she set it down, her Freeze Fruit power surging to her fingertips.
"Stay back, Nyaromon—let me handle this," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through her. The hilichurl charged, its club swinging in a wild arc, and Barbara thrust her hands forward, a blast of icy air exploding from her palms. Frost raced across the ground, encasing the hilichurl's legs in shimmering ice, halting it mid-stride as it roared in frustration. She clenched her fist, and the ice thickened, creeping up its torso, its club clattering to the earth as it froze solid, a statue of rage locked in time.
"See? I've got this," she panted, her breath misting as she turned to Nyaromon, who mewed in awe, its tail flicking with excitement. The forest stilled again, the threat vanquished, but Barbara's mind raced—her power, Nyaromon's evolution, all gifts from Galehaven. "We're stronger together now—thanks to Harlan," she murmured, a swell of gratitude warming her chest as she knelt to scoop up her Digimon, ready to head back and share her triumph.
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