Chương 175

Althea challenged.

"Cook a dish that surpasses anything that can be cooked using mundane materials. You cannot use a single magical herb. You cannot use monster meat. You must use only the non-magical ingredients and I will provide those ingredients. If you succeed, the path is yours. If you fail, the offer vanishes forever." [The Quest 'Proof of Saint' has been generated!] [Difficulty: SSS] [Althea, the Goddess of Alchemy, wishes to test whether you have the capability to reach the Cooking Saint Class. Clear Condition: Create a Unique-rated dish using only the normal ingredients provided by the Goddess. Clear Reward: Alchemy Mastery +5, Blessing of Althea, Clue to the Legendary Alchemist Class. Quest Failure: Althea's Curse.] The courtyard was dead silent. Getting an Epic rating on basic food was already a monumental task. Hitting a Unique rating using normal, non-magical ingredients was near impossible. All chefs including the previous him relied on high level monster meat or rare spices to reach that tier.

Rudra didn't even blink. A wild, excited grin spread across his face. He loved a good challenge. He accepted the quest quickly.

"Alright," Rudra said, pulling his white apron out of his inventory and tying it around his waist.

"If you're providing the groceries, let's keep it simple. Make me some regular wheat flour, fresh eggs, olive oil, hard cheese, water, and salt. Nothing magical." Althea watched him with glowing eyes.

"Flour and eggs? You intend to show your path using such an abnormal combination of non-magical items""I'm going to make pasta," Rudra said.

"And it's going to be the best pasta you've ever had." Althea waved her hand. A soft golden light swept over the stone table. When it faded, a neat pile of plain flour, half a dozen normal eggs, a small block of yellow cheese, a flask of oil, and a bowl of salt sat on the stone. Rudra dropped his heavy metal block. It unfolded into his Protean Crafting Cauldron, shifting smoothly into a flat wooden prep station and a boiling pot. He didn't start mixing immediately.

"Legendary Sage's Eyes," Rudra muttered. His vision shifted. The world lost its color, replaced by glowing lines of structure. He looked at the ingredients the Goddess had created. They were perfectly normal. No hidden mana. No divine energy. Just standard, everyday food. He looked at the eggs. The yolks were bright, dense, and perfectly round. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Rudra poured the flour onto the wooden board.

He used his fingers to carve out a wide well right in the middle. He cracked the eggs one by one, letting the yolks settle into the center. He grabbed a fork and started whisking the eggs gently, slowly pulling the walls of flour inward. He didn't rush. If he broke the wall too early, the egg would spill everywhere. He kept a steady, scraping rhythm until it formed a shaggy, yellow dough. Rudra rolled up his sleeves. He ditched the fork and pushed his bare hands into the sticky dough.

He didn't use delicate cooking techniques. He used his brawler stats. He poured his raw Strength and Dexterity into his palms. He pushed the dough down hard, folded it over itself, and slammed it against the wooden board. THWACK. THWACK. The sound echoed sharply across the quiet courtyard. He threw his weight into every push. He was actively forcing the gluten networks to align through sheer physical force. A thin layer of sweat formed on his forehead.

It was the good kind of sweat—the kind he got from a heavy sparring session. He kneaded the dough for ten straight minutes. The sticky mess slowly turned into a smooth, elastic yellow ball. He poked it with his thumb. The dough bounced right back instantly.

"Perfect," Rudra muttered. He covered the dough with a clean towel. He let it rest for a few minutes so the gluten could relax. While he waited, he brought a heavy pot of salted spring water to a rolling boil. The steam washed over his face. He grabbed the small block of hard yellow cheese and a grater, scraping the cheese down into a fine, powdery pile.

"Now for the shape," Rudra said. He uncovered the dough. He didn't have a pasta machine, so he used a heavy wooden rolling pin. He pressed down, rolling the dough out, flipping it, and dusting it with extra flour so it wouldn't stick. He flattened it until it was almost paper-thin. He folded the wide sheet of dough over itself a few times. He grabbed his basic iron knife. Tap-tap-tap-tap. His high Dexterity took over. The knife blurred. He sliced the folded dough into perfectly uniform, thin noodles.

He picked up the pile and shook them out. A massive bundle of fresh pasta sat on the board. He tossed them into the boiling water. Fresh pasta cooked fast. He only needed a minute. While he watched the bubbling water, he glanced over at Alex. The silver-eyed half-witch blacksmith was watching him closely. Rudra thought about Alex's life. He thought about the "Cursed Hands." Alex had spent an entire century sitting in a hot forge.

He tried to hit advanced minerals over and over, only to watch them shatter every single time. It was a hundred years of quiet, heavy failure. But Alex never threw his hammer away. He kept trying with basic iron. He refused to quit. It was an unbreakable, stubborn persistence. Rudra closed his eyes. He activated [Empathic Cuisine]. He didn't pour his own feelings into the food this time. He poured Alex's. He channeled that heavy, grinding, 100-year perseverance directly into his hands.

He wanted the dish to taste like survival. He wanted it to taste like the stubborn refusal to stop moving forward.

"Time," Rudra said. He didn't use a strainer. He grabbed a pair of wooden tongs. He pulled the hot, dripping noodles straight out of the pot and dropped them into a hot iron skillet. The wet noodles hissed loudly against the metal. He added a heavy ladle of the starchy, cloudy pasta water. He dumped the grated cheese on top and added a steady splash of olive oil. Rudra grabbed the handle of the skillet. He tossed the pan rapidly. The ingredients flew up and slapped back down. He kept tossing.

The starchy water, the melting cheese, and the oil collided. The heat and friction forced them to rapidly melt together, emulsifying into a perfectly smooth, glossy sauce. The rich, salty smell filled the air. The sauce clung heavily to every single noodle. He gave the pan one last flick and slid the pasta neatly into a wooden bowl. It just looked like a simple yet beautiful bowl of noodles.