My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 271: The Negotiation

"I’ll make this quick," Greaves said, the cleaver catching morning light. "The mandoline has taught me efficiency. You won’t suffer long."

Aldric stood his ground, knife shaking in his hand. "I told you. You’re not getting the Blade."

"Yes, I heard your conviction. It was admirable." Greaves took another step forward. "But conviction doesn’t stop cleavers. Sentiment doesn’t win against practical violence. The mandoline taught me that too."

He was five feet away now. Four. Three.

"Last chance," Greaves said, his tone almost kind. "Give me the Blade. Walk away. Live. Continue your research, write your reports, save your friend. All you have to do is step aside and let me take what I came for."

"No."

Greaves sighed. "Pity. You seemed intelligent. I would have processed you quickly, respectfully. Now—"

"Wait!" Marron’s voice cracked across the clearing. She was struggling in her chains, but not to reach the Blade anymore. Struggling to sit up, to see Greaves clearly. "Wait. I’ll... I’ll give it to you. The Blade. Just let Aldric go."

Aldric spun toward her. "Marron, no—"

"She’s being practical," Greaves observed, lowering the cleaver slightly. "Good. Sentiment aside, this is the logical solution. The Blade is mine by right of need. Its sibling wants reunion. Your friend wants to give it to me—the joy has shown her what she truly desires. Everyone gets what they want."

"Except me dead," Aldric said flatly.

"You’d be alive. That’s what you want, yes?" Greaves tilted his head. "I’m not interested in killing for sport. Only when necessary for business or defense. You’re neither. Give me the Blade, and I leave. Simple transaction."

Marron was crying again, but her voice was steady. "Unlock my chains. Let me give it to you. Then you go. You leave and you never come back."

"Marron, what are you doing—" Aldric started.

"Surviving," she said, her eyes fixed on Greaves. "I can’t fight this anymore, Aldric. The joy—it’s too strong. The medicine’s gone. The tools are exhausted. And he’s right—he’ll kill you if we don’t give him what he wants." Her voice broke. "I can’t watch you die for me. I can’t."

Greaves studied her. The mandoline pulsed at his hip, sharing impressions, reading the truth of her words through the resonance with the Blade.

"She means it," he said finally. "The joy has convinced her. Or—" He smiled slightly. "—she’s smart enough to recognize when she’s lost."

He moved toward Marron slowly, cautiously. Aldric started to intercept, but Greaves raised the cleaver in warning. "Stay there. Let her make her choice."

Aldric’s face was anguished. "Marron, please. You refused Champion Sienna’s trade. You refused to let the Blade be buried in a mountain. This is worse—this is giving it to a monster—"

"I know." Marron’s voice was barely a whisper. "But you’re alive. And you’ll stay alive. That’s worth it."

Greaves reached her, knelt beside her chains. Up close, she could see his eyes—empty of everything except calculation. Looking at her and seeing measurements. Yield percentages.

She was going to be sick.

"The keys are in Aldric’s pack," she said. "For the chains. And the box—three locks. Keys on a ring."

"Marron—" Aldric’s voice broke.

"Do it," she said. "Please. I can’t—I can’t watch him kill you. Please, Aldric. Let me do this."

Greaves kept the cleaver ready while Aldric, moving like a man in a nightmare, retrieved the keys. His hands shook so badly it took three tries to fit the key in the first lock.

The chains fell away from Marron’s wrists. Then her ankles. Then her torso.

She stood slowly, wobbling. The joy surged immediately—no chains holding her back, no restraints, just the open path between her and the Blade, between the Blade and the Slicer, between separation and completion—

"The box," Greaves said, watching her carefully. "Unlock it."

Marron walked toward the chained box. Each step felt like walking through fire. The joy was singing, burning, erasing everything except the desperate need to complete this, to help the Blade reach its sibling, to make them whole—

She reached the box. Her hands moved to the first lock.

No, a small voice whispered from deep inside her. No, this is wrong. This isn’t what I want. This is the joy. This is—

But the joy was too strong. Her hands didn’t shake as she turned the first key. The lock clicked open.

"Good," Greaves said encouragingly. "Two more. Then we’re done. Then everyone gets what they want."

Second lock. The key slid in. Turned. Clicked.

Aldric was crying. "Marron, please. You don’t have to do this. We’ll find another way. We’ll—"

"There is no other way." Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. Mechanical. Not hers anymore. "This is how it has to be."

Third lock. Last lock. The key trembled in her hand—not from her will, but from the Blade pulsing inside the box, vibrating with joy so intense it made the wood shake.

Almost there. Almost free. Almost complete. Almost home. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

She turned the key.

The lock opened.

The chains fell away.

Marron lifted the lid.

The Precision Blade lay inside, scarlet light pulsing from its edge like a heartbeat. When her hand touched the handle, the joy exploded through her with such force she gasped.

YES. FINALLY. TAKE ME. TAKE ME TO MY SIBLING. COMPLETE US. MAKE US WHOLE.

"Bring it here," Greaves said. He was smiling now, that terrible professional smile. The mandoline on his hip was screaming with joy, red light so bright it hurt to look at.

Marron’s legs moved without her permission. Carrying her toward Greaves. Carrying the Blade toward the Slicer. Reunion. Completion. Everything the tools had wanted for seven hundred years.

"Marron!" Aldric’s scream was distant. Meaningless.

She was three steps away from Greaves. Two steps. One step.

She held out the Blade, handle first. An offering.

Greaves reached for it, his scarred hand extending.

And Marron, through the joy burning her alive from the inside, through the desperate singing need to complete this trade, through seven hundred years of the Blade’s longing—

—felt the Blade’s terror.

Not just emotion now. Not just impressions through their connection. She felt it as clearly as she felt the joy: NO. DON’T WANT THIS. DON’T WANT HIM. DON’T WANT TO BECOME WHAT THE SLICER HAS BECOME.

PLEASE.

MARRON, PLEASE.

I’M BEGGING YOU.

Marron’s hand stopped moving. Inches from Greaves’s reaching fingers, she froze.

"What are you doing?" Greaves’s voice was sharp. "Give it to me."

"It’s—" Marron’s voice was strangled. "It’s afraid."

"It’s a tool. Tools don’t feel fear."

"You’re wrong." Marron was shaking now, the Blade trembling in her grip. "It’s terrified. I can feel it. Under all the joy, all the need for reunion—it’s screaming at me to stop."

The Blade pulsed, and suddenly Marron could see—really see—what it was trying to show her.

Memories. The Blade’s memories from before the Cataclysm. Working with the Slicer. The two of them together, precision and uniformity combined. Cutting through anything, everything, reducing whatever they touched to perfectly uniform, precisely measured pieces.

They’d been unstoppable. Beautiful. Terrifying.

They’d cut through forests in minutes, reducing ancient trees to identical planks.

They’d cut through mountains, creating passages with walls so smooth they reflected like mirrors.

They’d cut through armies.

They’d cut through cities.

They’d cut through anything their wielders pointed them at, because precision and uniformity together meant nothing could resist, nothing could remain whole, nothing could escape being reduced to component parts.

And they’d never questioned. Never hesitated. Never cared what they were cutting.

That was why they’d been separated. Why the Slicer had been sealed. Why the Blade had spent seven hundred years learning to teach instead of just to cut.

Because together, they were destruction without wisdom. Efficiency without mercy. Purpose without soul.

"I can’t," Marron whispered. The joy was still burning through her, demanding she complete the trade, but she held firm. "I can’t give you the Blade. It doesn’t want this. I don’t want this. And you—"

She looked at Greaves’s empty eyes, at the mandoline’s red glow.

"You’re already gone. The Slicer hollowed you out years ago. If I give you the Blade, if I let them teach each other—there won’t be anything left that’s human. Just cutting. Just efficiency. Just—"

"Perfect purpose," Greaves finished. His patience was wearing thin. "Yes. That’s what I want. What the mandoline has shown me is possible. Give me the Blade. Now."

"No."

The word came out clear and strong despite the joy trying to choke it.

"No," Marron said again. "The Blade is afraid. My tools chose to stop their sibling. And I—" She stepped backward, pulling the Blade away from Greaves’s reaching hand. "I choose to honor that. I choose to keep them apart. Even if it kills me. Even if the joy never stops. I won’t let you have it."

Greaves’s professional mask cracked. Real anger showed through—the first genuine emotion she’d seen from him besides efficiency.

"You’re making a mistake," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I gave you a chance. Clean trade. Everyone survives. But if you refuse—"

He raised the cleaver.

"Then I’ll take it."