After tasting sandwiches made with that Herba Mystica—culinary perfection, honestly—the whole team's morale (mostly Gast's) skyrocketed.
The little ghost who'd looked like the world had abandoned her was now brimming with spirit. She straightened her invisible spine, bobbing in midair, and now and then mimicked Iron Valiant by chopping with her tiny hands—clearly reliving the "enemy-in-mouth" heroics.
Her confidence was back.
How long it would last when the next big scary thing showed up… well, that was another matter.
After a short rest, they hit the road again.
Next target: the Sky Titan roosting on a crag in West Province (Area Three)—Bombirdier.
With the last excursion under their belts, travel went smoother this time. Gast was still terrified of heights, but whenever Iron Valiant "absently" flashed a lightblade, she'd suddenly find incredible reserves, shrieking, shutting her eyes, and sprint-floating across each exposed crossing.
Even so, living rough—trail rations and simple sandwiches every day—wore on Jason. With Cynthia, it had been fine dining. Now the menu was… repetitive.
His restless foodie soul rekindled.
"No, this is a waste."
That noon, as Jason pulled out another sliver of Sweet Herba to build lunch, he stared at the crystal-clear shard and sighed from the heart.
"Using an ingredient this top-tier just to stuff in bread every day is a crime against nature!"
The more he thought, the wronger it felt. He might be a traveler, but he came from a land with a deep food culture. He hadn't cooked much, sure—but if he hadn't eaten the pork, he'd at least seen the pig run. He'd watched every food show, every short, never missing an episode.
His theory? Abundant.
"No. Today I'm showing you what real human food is!"
Pumped, he pocketed the Sweet Herba and took out the Salty one.
Iron Valiant watched, expressionless.
Gast drifted over, circling twice, intrigued by the phrase "human cuisine."
Talk was cheap; time to chef.
Jason cleared his throat, adopted a TV-chef cadence, and began delegating.
"Gast, you—go into that grove and fetch dry branches for firewood. Dry is key!"
"Ke! Roger!"
Thrilled to have a job, Gast streaked into the trees.
"Valiant," Jason turned to his most reliable unit, "yours is finesse. See these potatoes and Oran berries? Use your blades to slice them thin. Thin-thin—paper-thin. Backlit."
"Leave it to me."
Iron Valiant nodded, stepped to the ingredients. "Vmm"—the blades sparked out; a cold flash, the stroke almost invisible.
If you agree to follow Jason, you follow orders.
Seconds later, potatoes and berries were neatly shaved into uniformly thin, translucent sheets.
The knife work made Jason's eyelids twitch. A three-star Michelin chef would be taking notes.
Ready.
Jason fished a camp pot out of his mouth, propped it on Gast's kindling, and dumped in the wafer-thin fruit and veg, plus some "probably not poisonous" wild mushrooms he'd picked.
Last, he chipped off a pinky-nail-sized shard of Salty Herba with a rock and plopped it into the pot.
"All right—time to witness a miracle!"
He slammed the lid and lit the fire.
He was a man who'd watched countless food shows. Stew is just toss-everything-in-and-boil, right? Easy!
Between theory and practice, however, lies not a puddle but the Great Rift Valley.
As the pot simmered, a peculiar aroma wafted out. At first it was fine—mixed fruit-and-veg freshness. Then the Herba fully melted and started reacting with… something. Things went wrong.
Purple bubbles began burping from the lid seam.
Then a smell no words could quite contain rolled out.
What smell? Half-rotten Oran fruit sourness blended with Muk-grade marsh-gas funk, laced with a whiff of scorched rubber—alchemized into an entirely new stench.
First casualty: Gast, waiting closest to the pot with shining eyes. The moment it reached her nose, she froze; her bright eyes turned white and rolled up.
"Ke…"
She barely managed a squeak before spiraling out of the air and face-planting, out cold.
Second reaction: Iron Valiant. Its face didn't change—but its body told the truth. It stepped back five meters. Then five more. Only when the smell faded did it stop—the quietest protest vote.
As for the culprit, Jason didn't fare much better. The instant the reek hit, his skull felt like it blew open. His stomach lurched, vision blackened; he nearly joined Gast on the floor.
Only then did it occur to him: maybe, just maybe, he had zero cooking talent.
He retched against a tree for a long time before he could stand. One look at the pot—still burping purple foam and death—filled him with despair.
He girded himself to dispose of his homemade WMD when a furious, disgusted cry split the sky.
A huge shadow stooped from the clouds at speed.
Jason's heart jumped. A dive attack now, really?
But the target wasn't them—it was the pot.
The massive bird banked, released a tabletop-sized boulder. It whistled down and—"BOOM"—crushed the pot into the earth. Not even a lid rim left.
Only then did the bird glide to a nearby ridge, looking down its beak at the trio, and roared again:
"Whatever that is—stinks! Get lost!"
Jason finally took in their "host."
A colossal raptor, feathers like dark rock, knife-bright eyes, radiating sky-king pressure.
Their target, the Sky Titan—Bombirdier.
Jason was speechless.
He just wanted to cook. How did that summon the boss?
From the bird's indignant tirade, a picture formed. As lord of these skies, it patrolled daily. Today, mid-patrol, it'd smelled something so foul it rattled its feathers—a direct insult to its sovereignty. It circled, hunted the source… and found them.
Those weird creatures must be spreading toxic fumes to pollute its domain!
Oh, the misunderstanding.
"Wait—I can explain!" Jason tried, pointing at the smashed pot and then at himself, pantomiming lunch gone wrong.
But the enraged Bombirdier wasn't listening. Jason's flapping looked like… posturing. A challenge.
"Caw!"
It lost it, hammered its wings, and raised a storm. Gravel lifted and, like bullets, ripped toward Jason.
Jason scrambled clear and sighed.
Some misunderstandings don't yield to words.
"We'll just have to beat you first, then talk."
He turned to Iron Valiant.
Valiant nodded; blades out, stance set.
He glanced at Gast, still prone… until she stirred, then gagged as the lingering smell hit.
"Urk… uuurk…"
She drifted over, puking up—something—and whispered hoarsely, "Jason… I'm done… urk… I can't fight this time… urk…"
Jason felt guilty. His "cooking" had benched his ghost.
He looked away and focused on the Bombirdier circling for another barrage.
Stones whistled; Jason rolled behind a boulder. Shrapnel sparked against it.
"Valiant!"
Iron Valiant wove through gaps, cleaving stray rock—but the air-siege hemmed it in; it couldn't close.
Stalemate.
This Titan was craftier than Klawf. It knew its edge and never gave the ground team a look—circling high, tossing rocks relentlessly, treating them like targets at a range. Valiant could leap off the rockface, but the bird simply sidestepped and answered with denser rain.
"This won't do—we'll be worn down," Jason thought, scanning nicks on Valiant's armor. He needed to bring it down.
His first thought: his ace, Koraidon's past-form counterpart—Roaring Moon. Fly up, smash it. Easy.
Three seconds later, he vetoed himself. Roaring Moon's aura was too distinct and too strong. If he transformed, best case it fled; worse, it enraged and went all-out—a far cry from "beat and explain."
He needed something subtler. Trickier.
His eyes roved the vertical cliff and an audacious plan clicked. He passed it to Iron Valiant between parries.
Valiant nodded almost imperceptibly.
~~~
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