My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 266: The Butcher’s Philosophy

Greaves the Butcher had been walking for three days, and the mandoline had never been happier.

He could feel its joy through the oiled leather wrapping, through the canvas of his pack—a warmth that pulsed like a living heart, getting stronger with every kilometer west. The tool that had served him with perfect indifference for seven years was suddenly excited. Almost giddy.

After you’ve been quiet and solemn for so long? I am not used to this.

The mandoline didn’t even acknowledge him, as happy as it was. It was slightly disturbing.

Not because he feared the mandoline—fear was an inefficient emotion he’d long since discarded—but because change implied variables, and Greaves had built his entire operation on eliminating variables.

Still, the mandoline’s happiness was... infectious. He found himself humming as he walked, an old tune from his childhood, back when he’d still been capable of nostalgia. The memory was distant now, hollowed out, but the melody remained.

The forest opened into a clearing—perfect. Large enough for his needs, isolated enough for privacy. The eastern road was close enough to hear occasional travelers, but far enough that screams wouldn’t carry. Not that he expected screaming. He rarely did anymore. The mandoline made things quick.

Greaves unslung his pack and began setting up camp with the methodical precision of a man who’d performed these motions a thousand times. Canvas tarp stretched between trees to create a workspace. Smaller tools arranged on a folding table—boning knives, cleavers, hooks, twine. A heavy wooden block for the mandoline’s base. Everything positioned for optimal efficiency.

The mandoline itself he unwrapped carefully, almost reverently.

Seven years. Seven years of partnership. Seven years of learning what true efficiency meant.

The metal gleamed red even in the dappled forest light. Not reflecting—glowing. The adjustable blades, which he maintained with obsessive care, trembled slightly. Eager.

"Soon," Greaves murmured, stroking the mandoline’s frame. "Very soon now. Can you feel it? Your sibling is close."

The mandoline pulsed warmth against his scarred palms. Yes. So close. Almost here.

Greaves set the tool on its wooden base and stepped back to admire his workspace. Clean. Organized. Ready for whatever came.

He pulled a leather journal from his pack—his business ledger—and flipped through the pages. Names, dates, specifications. Client requests and fulfilled orders. The accounting of a successful enterprise.

Lord Vashton: 8kg, premium cuts, aged 22-28, muscular build. Delivered. Payment received.

Undercity Collective: 15kg, variety cuts, any age, standard processing. Delivered. Payment received.

Madame Serrine: 2kg, specific preparation (see attached notes), female, 30-35. Delivered. Premium payment received.

Seven years of entries. Seven years of building something remarkable in the spaces where law didn’t reach and questions weren’t asked. The undercities of Savoria, where the wealthy indulged their peculiar tastes and merchants like Greaves provided peculiar services.

"The mandoline made it possible," he said aloud, his voice conversational. He’d grown comfortable talking to the tool over the years. It never judged. Never objected. Just listened with perfect, understanding silence.

"Before you, I had to be so careful. Every cut mattered. Too rough and the clients complained about the presentation. Too slow and the product deteriorated. I had to think about technique, about efficiency, about avoiding mistakes." He ran his fingers along the mandoline’s frame. "But you taught me. Perfect uniform slices, every time. No variation. No waste."

The mandoline hummed its agreement.

"And more than that," Greaves continued, pulling dried meat from his pack for a simple meal, "you taught me about distinction. Or rather—the lack of necessity for it."

He bit into the meat, chewing thoughtfully. Pork, probably. Or maybe not. The mandoline had taught him that it didn’t really matter. Meat was meat. The clients paid for texture and flavor, not origin. The mandoline treated everything the same—flesh was flesh, bone was bone.

Why should he think differently?

"I used to hesitate," he admitted, his voice softer now. "In the beginning. When I first took the commissions. I’d look at the merchandise and see—" He paused, searching for a word that felt increasingly foreign. "—people. I’d think about their names, their families, their lives."

The mandoline pulsed, a gentle reminder.

"But you showed me how inefficient that was. How sentiment just slowed the work. A pig doesn’t care that it’s being butchered. A cow doesn’t mourn its fate. They’re just animals serving their purpose in the food chain." He smiled. "And really, what makes humans different? We’re all just meat. Some of us are predators, some are prey. The clients understand this. They’ve transcended sentiment."

He finished his meal and cleaned his workspace with meticulous care. Tools wiped down, surfaces sanitized, everything positioned exactly where it needed to be.

"The clients appreciate quality," Greaves said, arranging his knives by size. "They pay extraordinary amounts for perfection. Lord Vashton’s last order—premium young male, specific musculature—he paid enough to fund my operations for six months. All because the cuts were perfect. Uniform thickness, consistent texture, beautiful presentation."

The mandoline glowed brighter, pleased.

"And that’s just with you. Imagine—" Greaves’s voice took on a note of genuine excitement, the first real emotion he’d felt in years besides satisfaction at efficiency. "Imagine with both of you. The mandoline and the blade working together. Uniform perfection AND precision. I could offer custom cuts the clients have only dreamed of. Specific thickness, specific angles, specific portions—all without thinking, without planning. Just perfect, automatic execution."

He knelt before the mandoline, hands pressed against the wooden base.

"I could scale up. Shops in every major city. A network of suppliers, all using perfect tools. The clients wouldn’t just be wealthy eccentrics—they could be anyone. Everyone. We could revolutionize how people think about protein sources." His eyes were bright now, alive with vision. "Why raise livestock when the alternative is so much more efficient? Humans breed like rabbits. The homeless, the criminals, the displaced—they’re wasted resources. We could put them to use. Feed the wealthy, employ the desperate, solve multiple problems with one elegant solution."

The mandoline pulsed rapidly, encouraging this line of thought.

"And with the blade—with both of you together—I wouldn’t even have to think about the moral complications anymore. They slow me down, you know. Sometimes, when I’m working, I still get these... echoes. Memories of when I used to feel guilty." He laughed softly. "Isn’t that absurd? Guilt over efficiency? Guilt over serving a market demand?"

The mandoline’s warmth intensified, soothing away the uncomfortable thoughts.

"You’ve taught me so much. But you still require me to think, to plan, to guide the cuts. With your sibling, with precision to match your perfection..." He stood, looking east through the trees. "I could just be. No thought. No hesitation. No lingering echoes of sentiment. Just pure, beautiful efficiency."

He checked his pocket watch. The blade’s wielder would arrive soon. He could feel it through the mandoline’s increasing joy. An hour, maybe two.

Time to prepare.

Greaves pulled a bottle from his pack—water laced with a mild sedative. Enough to make someone drowsy, compliant. Not enough to affect meat quality. He’d learned the dosages through trial and error over the years.

"I’ll offer to trade," he said, setting the bottle where it would be easily accessible. "The blade for our departure. Clean. Simple. They give me the blade, I leave, no complications." He smiled. "Though if they refuse, well. I’ve handled difficult negotiations before."

His hand moved to the heavy cleaver on his belt. The mandoline was perfect for processing, but sometimes you needed something cruder for the initial... acquisition.

"The wielder is young, from what I can feel through you. Strong enough to carry the blade, but probably not trained in actual combat. And they have companions—I can sense multiple presences through your connection." He began calculating. "The companions might be useful. Three, maybe four additional units. I could process them all if needed, deliver premium orders to multiple clients."

The mandoline pulsed eagerly.

"No waste," Greaves murmured, his businessman’s mantra. "Every part used. Every efficiency captured. That’s what you’ve taught me. That’s what we’ll teach the blade."

He settled down to wait, the mandoline glowing softly beside him. Around the clearing, the forest had gone silent. Birds fled. Small animals vanished. Even insects seemed to avoid the space where Greaves had made his camp.

Only the trees remained, their leaves curling at the edges as if poisoned by proximity to something fundamentally wrong.

Greaves didn’t notice. He was humming again, that cheerful childhood tune, while he sharpened his knives and planned his approach.

The mandoline sang with him, red light pulsing in rhythm with the melody.

There was a leather journal on the table, one page marked with a ribbon.

The Blade’s Wielder: specifications pending, processing timeline TBD, client interest expected to be HIGH...