The transition from the vertical heights of Pangaea to the lowland salt-marshes was a descent into a world of heavy air and stinging heat. The group had traded the crystalline elegance of the Apex Institute for a rugged, brass-armored caravan pulled by a pair of Steam-Bison—massive, shaggy beasts with copper pipes venting steam from their flanks.
As the Behemoth faded into a mountain-sized silhouette against the northern horizon, the landscape opened into the Glinting Flats, the threshold of the Sea of Spices. Here, the earth was a crust of white minerals, bisected by shallow, turquoise channels of seawater that flowed inland with the tide.
"Thirty miles to Port Saffron," Renzo called out from the driver's bench, squinting against the glare of the salt-crust. His Leaf-Blight sat atop the caravan's roof, its scythes clicking rhythmically as it tasted the metallic air. "If the wind stays at our back, we'll reach the docks by sunset. But the 'Salt-Wraiths' are active this time of year."
Konja sat in the back of the open-air caravan, sharpening the Heavens-Seared Cleaver-Blade. The Star-Iron sang under the whetstone, a high-pitched resonance that seemed to vibrate in sympathy with the distant ocean. Beside him, Zale was curled into a tight ball, his indigo fur damp with the humidity.
"You've been quiet since we left the city, Konja," Mina said, looking up from a mortar and pestle. She was grinding dried kelp-nodes from Aquaria into a fine, glowing dust. "The Fifth Gate... it's still weighing on you, isn't it?"
Konja paused, looking at his hand. The white light of the Fifth Gate had receded, leaving the silver brand of the Dragon-Piercer looking sharper, more defined.
"The Fifth Gate wasn't just a power-up, Mina," Konja said softly. "It was a connection. When I opened it, I felt every hungry stomach in the Hegemony. I felt the Behemoth's loneliness. It's like... I've learned a recipe I'm not sure I'm ready to cook every day."
"That's because you're a Munka," Tali chimed in, leaning against a crate of iron-rations. "You care about the flavor of the world, not just your own plate. But don't get too philosophical yet. We're about to enter the Free-Trade Zones. The Regency's laws don't reach the docks. Out there, 'Master' is just a title you have to defend every time you order a drink."
The Ambush of the Brine-Crabs
The road—a raised causeway of packed coral—suddenly shuddered. From the shallow turquoise waters on either side, armored shapes began to emerge. They weren't the Spirit-Bandits of the canyons, but something more primal: Brine-Crabs. These were the size of small wagons, their shells crusted with jagged salt-crystals that acted as natural mirrors, reflecting the sun's heat into blinding beams.
"Defensive positions!" Renzo roared, pulling the brake-lever on the Steam-Bison.
The crabs didn't just scuttle; they moved with a synchronized, clicking precision. One of them launched a jet of pressurized salt-water that sliced through the caravan's brass railing like a saw.
"Spice-Fist: Turmeric Wall!" Tali leaped from the wagon, slamming her tonfas into the salt-crust. A barrier of yellow, aromatic energy erupted, turning the water-jets into harmless steam.
Mina stood atop the Bison, her ribbons unfurling like the tentacles of a Portuguese Man-o'-War. "Sweet-Flow: Numbing Nectar!" She draped her ribbons over the nearest crab's eyes, the glowing silk secreting a paralytic herb-oil that slowed the beast's movements.
Konja stepped off the back of the wagon. He didn't draw his blade. He wanted to test the "Gentle-Heat" he had refined in Pangaea.
"Zale, Low-Voltage Ripple."
The indigo fox stood, his fur crackling. Instead of a bolt, he released a soft, circular wave of electricity that traveled through the shallow water. It wasn't enough to kill the crabs, but it disrupted their internal navigation.
Konja moved through the water, his feet barely splashing. He approached the lead crab—the largest of the pack. He placed a single palm against its jagged shell.
"Munka-Style: The Tenderizer."
He didn't hit it. He vibrated his Prana at the exact frequency of the crab's internal shell-joints. For a second, the massive creature went limp, its muscles relaxing as if it were being slow-cooked in a luxury kitchen. The crab sank into the silt, harmlessly drifting away with the tide.
The rest of the pack, sensing their leader's sudden docility, retreated back into the deeper channels.
The Stranger in the Mist
As the group gathered their breath, a small, flat-bottomed boat drifted out from a nearby fog-bank. Standing on the prow was a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat made of woven seaweed. He held a long wooden pole and was whistling a tune that sounded remarkably like a sea-shanty.
"Not bad, land-lubbers," the man said, his voice as gravelly as the salt-flats. "Most folk try to crack those shells. They don't realize a Brine-Crab just wants a good massage."
Konja looked at the man. He was lean, his skin tanned to the color of old leather, and he carried a long, curved fillet-knife tucked into his belt.
"You're a long way from the docks, Fisherman," Renzo said, his hand still on his scythe.
"The name's Sully," the man replied, tipping his hat. "I'm a scout for the Culinary League. Word reached us that a 'Sun-Breaker' was headed south. The League is always looking for new flavors, and frankly, the boy with the silver eyes looks like he's got a spicy soul."
Sully tossed a small, heavy coin toward Konja. It wasn't made of gold or silver, but of a dark, porous stone that smelled faintly of cinnamon and salt.
"That's your Challenger's Token," Sully said. "Port Saffron is hosting the Open-Water Qualifiers starting tomorrow. If you want to get a ship and a crew for the Sea of Spices, you'll need to win your way into the League. Otherwise, you're just tourists in a shark-tank."
Konja caught the coin, feeling its weight. The surface was etched with a simple emblem: a crossed fork and cutlass over a rising wave.
"We aren't here for the sights," Konja said.
"Good," Sully grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Then follow the smell of charred squid and desperation. Port Saffron is just over that ridge. And remember, kid—the sea doesn't care about your Gates. It only cares if you can stay afloat when the pot starts to boil."
Port Saffron: The Gateway to the Blue
As the caravan crested the final salt-ridge, the Sea of Spices finally revealed itself. It wasn't blue; it was a swirling, iridescent green, its waves carrying the bioluminescent algae that gave the region its name.
Port Saffron was a city built on stilts and floating piers, a sprawling mess of multicolored sails, steam-vents, and hanging markets. The air was a thick, intoxicating perfume of roasting peppers, fermented fish-sauce, and tropical fruits.
"This is it," Tali said, her eyes bright. "The edge of the known world."
They drove the caravan down the main ramp into the city. The streets were packed with people from every nation—merchants in silk, pirates in leather, and chefs in stained aprons. Everywhere they looked, people were cooking. On every corner, a "Dueling-Hearth" was active, with street-chefs competing for customers and prestige.
"Look," Mina pointed to a massive board in the center of the harbor.
It was the League Rankings. At the very top, in gold letters, were the names of the Four Spice-Lords, the masters who controlled the trade routes. Below them were hundreds of challengers, their names listed in order of their "Flavor-Rating."
Konja looked at the very bottom of the board. A fresh entry was being carved by a mechanical scribe:
NAME: KONJA MUNKA (OAKHAVEN)
RANK: 1,002
STATUS: PROVISIONAL CHALLENGER
"We've got a long way to climb," Renzo noted.
"Then we'd better find a kitchen," Konja said, Zale barking in agreement. "I want to see what rank 1,001 tastes like."
As they moved into the heart of the city, a shadow followed them from the rooftops. A figure in a dark, salt-stained cloak watched the boy with the silver eyes. The figure pulled out a small communication-pearl.
"The Munka has arrived in Saffron," the figure whispered. "Inform the Black-Salt Pirates. The recipe is in play."
The journey to the Sea of Spices had only just begun, and Konja Munka was already a target. But as he breathed in the spicy, salt-laden air, he felt the fire of the Hearth burning hotter than ever.