My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 237: Making a Miracle Cure

Marron measured honey into the pot—the jar the village had given her that morning, thick and golden and smelling faintly of wildflowers. Her hand shook slightly as she poured.

The Copper Pot had always regulated its own temperature before. Had never let anything burn or overcook. But now it was just a pot over heat, subject to the normal rules of physics and fire.

She’d have to watch it. Manage it. Pay attention every second.

"Stir constantly," the Champion said, grinding something in the Verdant Mortar with smooth, practiced motions. "Honey scorches fast once it gets hot."

Marron stirred, watching the honey begin to thin and bubble. How hot was it? A hundred degrees? One twenty? She had no idea, no magical feedback telling her the exact temperature—

The Copper Pot pulsed once.

Not warm. Not friendly. But... communicating.

A sensation pressed against Marron’s awareness: not yet.

She kept stirring, kept watching the honey transform from thick syrup to liquid gold.

Another pulse: closer.

The honey began to steam slightly, releasing that distinct sweet scent that meant it was getting close to its breaking point.

One more pulse: now.

Marron pulled the pot from the fire plate immediately, her instincts trusting what the pot was telling her even though their partnership was still fractured.

The Champion glanced over and nodded approval. "Good timing. Add the charcoal."

Mokko burst back through the door with an armful of supplies—clay wrapped in cloth, bundles of yarrow, a gnarled piece of ginger root. Behind him, Aldric carried more herbs and a bucket of river water.

"Gray clay from the south bank," Mokko said, setting everything down. "The herbalist said this yarrow is fresh from last week."

"Good." The Champion had reduced whatever she’d been grinding in the Verdant Mortar to a fine powder—something that smelled sharp and green and alive. She added it to a second container, then began mixing in oils with precise, measured movements.

Marron added charcoal to her honey—measuring by eye, trusting her training, feeling for the right consistency. The mixture darkened, became something that looked medicinal rather than edible.

"Now the clay," the Champion said. "Three parts honey to one part clay. But sift the clay first—any pebbles or debris will irritate the wound."

Marron’s hands moved to follow instructions, but they were shaking again. Three to one. That meant... how much exactly? The Generous Ladle would have known. Would have measured the perfect amount without her needing to think about it.

But the ladle was still mostly silent, still withdrawn.

She picked it up anyway, needing something familiar in her hands.

The ladle pulsed—faint, questioning.

I don’t know how much, Marron thought toward it. I’m scared I’ll measure wrong.

The ladle pulsed again: trust yourself.

Not helpful. Not guiding her. Just... encouraging her to use her own judgment.

Marron scooped clay into the honey mixture, eyeing the proportions. Too much? Not enough? She added another scoop, then another, watching the consistency change.

The Champion glanced over. "That’s good. Stop there."

Relief flooded through Marron. She’d gotten it right. Or close enough, anyway.

They worked in synchronization—the Champion preparing her own mixture while Marron finished the poultice, both moving with the focused intensity of people who understood that seconds mattered.

"Yarrow now," the Champion instructed. "Ground fine. It’ll help draw out inflammation while the honey works on the venom."

Marron reached for the Precision Blade to chop the yarrow, and the knife practically leapt into her hand—eager, ready, finally given permission to do what it was made for.

The blade didn’t guide her cuts this time. Didn’t whisper perfect angles or optimal pressure. But it was sharp and balanced and true, and Marron’s own skill—rusty but present—was enough to reduce the yarrow to fine pieces suitable for mixing.

You’re doing it, the blade seemed to whisper. You’re actually doing it yourself.

Pride, maybe. Or relief that she hadn’t become completely dependent after all.

The yarrow went into the poultice, and Marron stirred it all together until she had a thick, dark paste that steamed gently with heat and smelled of honey and earth and medicine.

"Ready," she said.

The Champion looked up from her own preparation—a pale green salve that glowed faintly in the dim light. "Good. We’ll apply yours first to draw out the venom, then mine to support his immune response. He’ll need both working together."

She moved to the boy’s side and gently pulled back the blanket. The bite looked worse than before—the swelling had spread, the dark lines reaching almost to his knee.

"Hold him steady," the Champion told the mother. "This will hurt."

The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face, and gripped her son’s shoulders.

The Champion applied Marron’s poultice directly to the bite, pressing it firmly against the swollen flesh. The boy jerked and cried out weakly, still mostly unconscious but aware enough to feel pain.

"Shh," his mother murmured. "Shh, it’s okay. They’re helping you."

Marron knelt on the boy’s other side and helped hold him still while the Champion worked. The poultice began to... pull. Not visibly, but Marron could feel it—a drawing sensation, like the medicine was actively extracting poison from the wound.

The Champion moved quickly, covering the bite completely and wrapping it with clean cloth to hold the poultice in place. Then she began applying her own green salve in a ring around the bite, moving in precise spirals that seemed to follow some pattern Marron couldn’t quite discern.

"This one fortifies," the Champion explained as she worked. "Gives his body the strength to fight what the poultice can’t draw out on its own."

She placed both hands over the wrapped wound, and the Verdant Mortar at her hip blazed green—so bright Marron had to squint against it. The light flowed down the Champion’s arms, into her hands, into the wound itself.

The boy gasped, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Mom?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The mother sobbed—half relief, half fear. "I’m here. I’m here, baby."

"I don’t feel good."

"I know. But these people are helping you. Just rest."

The Champion pulled her hands back, and the green light faded. She was breathing slightly harder, a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"The poultice needs to stay on for at least two hours," she said. "Then we remove it, clean the wound, and apply fresh. He’ll need three applications total, probably. And he’ll need simple, nourishing food—broth, soft grains, nothing that will tax his system while it fights."

She looked at Marron. "Can you prepare that?"

"Yes," Marron said immediately.