The tavern's kitchen had never looked more like a warzone.
Cauldrons bubbled with liquids that shifted color depending on which angle you viewed them from. Knives embedded themselves in the ceiling after particularly vigorous chopping sessions. The air itself seemed to recoil from whatever chemical reactions were taking place in the largest cast-iron skillet, which occasionally belched out plumes of smoke that formed tiny screaming faces before dissipating.
At the center of the chaos stood the Death Queen, her usual elegant poise replaced by the wild-eyed focus of someone who had just discovered a new way to weaponize cuisine. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms streaked with what Luo Feng hoped was just beet juice.
"Hand me the forgiveness peppers," she commanded without looking up, one hand outstretched while the other stirred a ominously hissing pot.
Luo Feng hesitated. "The... what?"
"The peppers," she repeated impatiently, gesturing to a small wooden box on the counter. Inside, nestled in velvet that might have once been alive, were six shriveled red peppers that pulsed faintly, like tiny hearts. "Harvested from the graves of my ex-lovers. Very rare. Very potent."
Luo Feng picked one up between thumb and forefinger, immediately regretting it when a wave of melancholy so intense it made his teeth ache washed over him. He saw flashes—a moonlit balcony, a whispered promise, a dagger sliding between ribs with the same tenderness as a kiss. He dropped the pepper back into the box, shaking his head to clear it.
The Death Queen smirked, tossing three of the peppers into her mortar and pestle. "The trick is to grind them just enough to release their essence, but not so much that the bitterness overwhelms the dish." She crushed them with more force than strictly necessary.
Next came the liquid regret. This was stored in a delicate crystal vial stoppered with a single frozen tear. The Death Queen held it up to the light, admiring the way the thick, silvery fluid inside swirled like trapped storm clouds. "Stolen from the Goddess of Wisdom's private collection," she said proudly. "Third shelf of her reliquary, behind the 'Poor Life Choices' section."
Luo Feng watched in horrified fascination as she measured out a precise droplet of the liquid into the mixture. The moment it hit the peppers, the mortar's contents turned a luminous shade of violet and began emitting a low, mournful humming noise.
"This," the Death Queen announced, scraping the paste into her simmering pot, "is going to be legendary."
The tavern's patrons had no idea what they were in for.
When the first bowls of Reaper's Ratatouille were served, the initial reactions were positive. The dish smelled incredible—rich and earthy with an undercurrent of something floral that made the nose tingle. The colors shifted mesmerizingly from deep burgundy to twilight purple with each stir of the spoon.
Then the first bite was taken.
A hush fell over the room. Forks hovered halfway to mouths. Spoons slipped from numb fingers.
Then the crying started.
In the corner, a grizzled demon warlord who had once besieged the Celestial City suddenly slumped forward, fat tears rolling down his scarred cheeks. "She said she'd wait for me," he sobbed into his ale. "I told her the siege would only take fifty years!"
At another table, a group of mercenaries clutched at each other, wailing about lost loves and stolen glances and that one summer evening by the lake that they'd never been able to recreate.
Even the Void Emperor, who had been reluctantly taste-testing under duress, looked shaken. He stared into the middle distance, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "...I did have friends once."
The Death Queen surveyed the emotional devastation with visible pride.
Later, when the last sniffles had faded and the tavern's patrons had either staggered off to nurse their emotional wounds or, in several cases, immediately written letters to long-lost loves, Li Qing approached the Death Queen's kitchen domain.
Without a word, she placed a plaque on the counter. It was a perfect rectangle of eternal ice, its surface frosted over except for the elegantly etched words: "Most Likely to End Worlds (Via Culinary Trauma)".
The Death Queen stared at it. Blinked. Then, in a move so fast it was nearly imperceptible, she hugged the plaque to her chest—just for a second—before shoving it away and clearing her throat.
"Obviously this is meaningless," she sniffed, carefully positioning the plaque on the most visible shelf in the kitchen. "But I suppose it would be rude not to display it."
Li Qing's mouth twitched. "Obviously."
From his spot behind the bar, Luo Feng watched as the Death Queen "casually" adjusted the plaque's angle three more times when she thought no one was looking. He decided, wisely, not to comment.
Some victories were too fragile to risk shattering.
END OF CHAPTER 105