Chapter 93: The Taste of Shadows
Back in her room, Marron spread her newly gathered plants across the wooden table. Silent Cap. Veilpetal Bloom. Cinderlace Mushroom. Moonfern.
Each ingredient shimmered faintly in the mimic-lantern light, as though eager to be transformed.
Her preservation box waited nearby, but she didn’t store them yet. Not these. These were for tonight.
The System chimed softly.
[Prototype Recipe Ready: Stealth Broth]
[Estimated Cook Time: 12 minutes]
[Warning: Overuse may cause dizziness, nausea, or temporary disorientation.]
Marron exhaled slowly. "Guess it’s soup for dinner, then."
She set a small pot on her portable hotplate, the mimic-carved table groaning under its weight.
First went the Moonfern, chopped fine. Its veins released silvery juice that sparkled against her blade, turning the water pale blue and faintly luminous.
Next, the Silent Cap. The moment the slices touched the water, the bubbling went quiet. The usual hiss and simmer died into unnatural silence. Marron’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.
The Cinderlace Mushroom followed, crumbling into ash-dark flecks that dissolved completely, taking with them even the faint butter smell clinging to her clothes. The air turned sterile, scentless.
Finally, the Veilpetal Bloom. She tore the petals gently, letting them flutter into the broth like falling smoke. For a moment, her own hand wavered, as if it couldn’t decide whether it belonged to this world.
The System window flashed.
[Stealth Broth – Cooking Complete]
[Effect: Cloaks user in shadow for 15 minutes. Sound, scent, and outline blurred. Low-light vision enhanced.]
Marron ladled a small portion into a bowl, her hands trembling. The broth glowed faintly blue-white, ghostly steam curling upward.
"Well," she whispered, "bottoms up."
The first sip tasted like liquid moonlight.
Cooler than expected, like drinking melted snow. The flavors warred against each other: earthy mushroom bitterness, cloying floral sweetness, the metallic tang of Moonfern. Not pleasant, but not revolting either.
As the strange warmth slid down her throat, reality shifted around her.
Her hands blurred at the edges. Her footsteps fell silent. Even the soap scent on her sleeve vanished. In the window’s reflection, her outline shimmered like smoke trying to hold human shape.
Ding!
[Effect Activated: Cloak of Shadows]
[Duration: 14:59]
Marron’s pulse quickened. "It actually works."
She didn’t waste precious seconds. This was her chance.
The mimics on the fourth floor usually clustered in the hallways—too quiet, too still—until she passed. Now, cloaked in shadow, she crept into the corridor like a ghost.
The first mimic had taken the shape of a human adventurer: broad-shouldered, heavily armored. But the moment it thought no one was watching, its body convulsed. The armor sagged inward as its torso split open with wet, organic sounds. A second face pressed against its cheek before sinking back into flesh.
Marron bit down hard on her knuckle to stifle a gasp.
Another mimic, shaped like a child, crouched by the wall. Its hands rippled and reformed—spoons, knives, forks—clicking softly as it practiced stolen motions, mimicking gestures it must have absorbed from long-dead cooks.
Further down the corridor, two mimics huddled close, whispering in fractured, overlapping voices:
"Feed us—"
"Stronger, stronger—"
"She made him strong—"
Marron’s stomach clenched. She had wondered what they did in her absence. Now she knew: they obsessed. Over her food. Over the strength it gave them.
Worse—they were learning. Training. Preparing.
Her timer ticked down relentlessly: 04:38 remaining.
She slipped back into her room just as the Cloak faded, her outline snapping back into harsh reality. She slumped against the wall, chest heaving.
"Fifteen minutes isn’t nearly enough."
She returned the pot to the table, jaw set with determination.
If she wanted to tail the Captain safely, she needed more. Longer duration. Stronger concealment.
The System flickered expectantly.
[Prototype Modification Available: Stealth Broth EX]
[Requirement: Double ingredients, rare catalyst.]
[Duration: 40 minutes.]
[Risk: Severe backlash if brewing fails.]
Marron cursed under her breath. "What catalyst?"
The screen shimmered, revealing a new silhouette: a cluster of faintly phosphorescent moss.
[Required Catalyst: Phantasm Moss]
[Location: Sixth Floor Caverns, near a collapsed dwarven shrine.]
[Risk: Mimics report an ant monster wandering in a cave.]
Marron groaned. "So...you’re sending me deeper in the dungeon, and there’s an ant monster crawling around. Great."
The bone shard at her hip pulsed with warmth—a steady, encouraging rhythm. If she were smarter, she would have considered asking the Lieutenant for help. But she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself--and leave herself open to more questions.
So she exhaled slowly and recentered.
"All right. Fine. I’ll do it. But this had better be worth the risk."
For now, she stored the remaining broth in her preservation box, watching the faint steam curl and fade as protective magic sealed it away.
Her hands still trembled. The mimics’ whispers clung to her mind like cobwebs: Stronger, stronger, feed us.
She tightened her apron strings and whispered fiercely to herself:
"No. Not you. Never again."
The broth wasn’t for them.
It was for her.
She was supposed to use it to stalk the Captain and reclaim Comfort & Crunch.
It was her way to end this entire nightmare, of falling into a dungeon--her survival counted on the mimics completely accepting her as one of them.
And in a way, she already was becoming one of them.
Marron was frightened at the prospect. Was it possible to live among the mimics for so long that she didn’t think she could go back?
...I just noticed, I’ve been using my mimicry skill for so long, but...it never leveled up. Should that...be a thing that happens?
She quickly pulled up her System and looked up the mimicry skill.
It felt like she was reading it for the first time.
[Mimicry Skill]
Rank: C (Upgradeable)
Progress: 87% toward next tier.
Her breath caught. Eighty-seven percent?
She’d been wearing it like a second skin for at least two weeks now. Marron felt the skill stretch her smile when the mimics did, and added the glitch effects when they were expected to appear. She also believed that the skill dampened her voice when they spoke in monotone.
All this time, the experience bar had been rising.
Ding!
[System Note: Advancement requires immersive adaptation.]
Reaching rank B requires you to sustain Mimicry under intense scrutiny.
Warning: Overuse carries risk of self-dissociation. Prolonged mimicry may blur the boundary between "self" and "mask."]
Marron’s throat went dry. "Blur the boundary...? You mean if I use it too much, I’ll forget who I am?"
[Reassurance: Your essence remains anchored. The bone shard stabilizes your identity. But be careful. Restrain your use of Mimicry or you might start thinking like them. Craving what they crave. Believing what they believe.]
She wrapped both arms around her middle, holding herself tight. The memory of mimics whispering feed us, stronger, stronger still clung to her ears like smoke. She imagined her own mouth shaping the words without meaning to.
"I don’t want to become one of them," she whispered. "I’m just pretending. Just surviving until I can leave."
The System pulsed gently.
[Then use Mimicry as a tool—not a home. Remember: Skills are borrowed power. Your cooking is your true self.]
Marron let out a shaky laugh that was closer to a sob. She hadn’t realized how desperately she needed that reminder until now.
Her food was what made her her. Not the masks. Not the mimicry.
She pressed her palm to the bone shard at her hip, grounding herself in its steady warmth. "Right. A tool. Not a home."
"But is there a way to minimize backlash?"
Her System chimed once more, more helpful now.
[Planner’s Note: To minimize backlash, prepare grounding meal before EX Brew. Recommendation: Cook dish tied to personal memory.]
Her breath caught. "A dish tied to memory..."
For a moment she thought of her mother. Most of Marron’s comforting meals were because her mom wanted to keep her warm, flavored with patience and love. It was food that reminded her she always had a place at home, no matter how old she got.
She rifled through her supplies and pulled out what she had left: a small bundle of rice, the last of her salt, and a single onion. It wasn’t much, but her mom had always been good at making magic with not enough.
A recipe came back to her: onion rice. It was one of those "clear the fridge" dishes, made when the Louvel Family Diner struggled to get customers in their neighborhood. She remembered her mother crying as she cut the onions, telling Marron their situation was going to get better.
Mostly, Marron was just hungry. But she nodded and believed her mother.
If nothing else, Marron would be fed, and her mom could figure something else out.
If only I knew how hard she actually worked to make the diner a success. As an adult, Marron understood why her mom worked so much on weekends, even after the diner closed. Without her dad to help, and Marron too young, her mom had to hustle hard.
"I wish she told me about some of her struggles." Marron said quietly. Before she cooked, she grabbed some towels and shoved them underneath the front door. This was a meal for herself, and she didn’t want anyone else to ask for some.
Then Marron put chopped onions to the pan, its sizzle a sharp and familiar sensation. The hotplate hummed beneath her hands as the smell filled the room—sweet, savory, grounding.
For a moment, the dungeon receded. There was only the scent of caramelized onion, the rhythmic scrape of her spatula, and the comforting steam rising from a dish that had nothing to do with stealth or shadows.
When she finally scooped the rice into a bowl, she sat at her table, palms pressed to its warmth. Her first bite made her eyes sting.
The flavors weren’t perfect—her mother’s had been richer, softer somehow—but it was enough. Enough to remind her she wasn’t just a chef in a dungeon. She was Marron.
Not a mimic, or a pawn pretending to be a shadow.
Marron.
She swallowed the last bite with a shaky breath and whispered, "Okay. Now I’m ready."
The plan was set: gather the moss, double her ingredients, and brew the Stealth Broth EX. Only then would she be ready to follow the Captain.
But for tonight, onion rice had done what stealth broth never could. It had anchored her.
And that was going to matter.