My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!-Chapter 243: Jenny’s Grill

The next morning, Marron woke early and went to find Jenny’s grill.

The storage shed was exactly where Jenny said it would be—a small building behind the inn, packed with equipment and supplies. The portable grill sat near the back: cast iron, well-seasoned, with a hinged grate and legs that folded for transport.

Marron ran her hand over the metal and felt something settle in her chest. This wasn’t a Legendary Tool. Wasn’t magical or powerful or capable of feeding hundreds from nothing.

It was just a grill. Honest. Simple. Built to do one job well.

Perfect.

She hauled it out to the street and set up in the same spot where she’d first parked her Food Cart months ago—a wide section of cobblestone near the market district where foot traffic was heavy and the smell of cooking would draw attention.

The Food Cart rolled up beside the grill, and Marron felt it pulse with curiosity. It had never seen her cook like this—directly over fire, char and smoke and the particular alchemy of grilling.

What are we making? it seemed to ask.

"Hot dogs," Marron said aloud, not caring if people thought she was talking to herself. "The way my mother taught me."

She’d bought supplies that morning from the market: good sausages, fresh rolls, onions to caramelize, mustard, relish. Not fancy. Not expensive. Just honest ingredients prepared with care.

The grill heated quickly. Marron had forgotten how different grilling was from pot cooking—the direct heat, the need to constantly watch and turn, the smoke that got in your eyes and made everything taste faintly of fire.

She loved it.

The first sausage went on the grate with a satisfying sizzle. Then another. And another. Marron worked with her bare hands and the Precision Blade for slicing onions, and every motion felt right in a way cooking hadn’t felt since... since before the tools, maybe. Since she was young and learning from her mother, back when food was about survival and love rather than skill and magic.

The sausages began to char. Dark lines appeared on their casings, and the smell—

The smell was everything. Smoke and meat and the particular scent of fat dripping onto hot coals. It smelled like poverty and comfort and home all mixed together.

People began to stop. Drawn by the smell, by curiosity, by the sight of a cook with a Legendary Food Cart choosing to use a simple grill instead.

"What are you making?" someone asked.

"Hot dogs," Marron said, flipping sausages. "Charred, with caramelized onions. Two coppers."

"Just hot dogs?"

"The best hot dogs you’ll ever eat," Marron promised. "My mother’s recipe."

The first customer took a chance—an older man who looked like he worked in the docks, his hands calloused and his expression skeptical. Marron assembled his hot dog carefully: sausage charred exactly right, nestled in a soft roll, topped with golden onions and a stripe of mustard.

He took a bite. Chewed. And his expression transformed.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, this is—this tastes like when I was a kid. When my dad used to—" He stopped, looking almost embarrassed. "This is really good."

"Thank you," Marron said, and meant it.

Word spread the way it always did in cities—mouth to mouth, friend to friend, the invisible network of people who appreciated good food and wanted others to experience it too.

By noon, Marron had a line.

Not a long line—nothing like the crowds she’d drawn when the Food Cart was amplifying her cooking to supernatural levels. But a steady stream of people willing to pay two coppers for something simple and delicious.

She worked steadily, falling into a rhythm. Char the sausages. Caramelize the onions. Assemble with care. Hand over with a smile.

Simple. Repetitive. Satisfying in a way that complex cooking sometimes wasn’t.

The tools in her pack were... content. That was the only word for it. The Copper Pot pulsed warmly. The Generous Ladle seemed to sigh with satisfaction. The Precision Blade hummed a quiet, happy note.

They weren’t needed here. Weren’t doing anything magical or powerful.

And they were perfectly fine with that.

Around mid-afternoon, a familiar voice made Marron look up.

"I heard rumors that Marron the Cook was back," Dren said, grinning. "Didn’t believe it until I smelled the char."

Marron felt her face split into a huge smile. "Dren! You’re still here?"

"Where else would I be? This city’s my home." He studied her with the same assessing gaze she remembered—the look of someone who saw more than most people. "You look different."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it’s true. You left looking lost. You came back looking found." He nodded at the grill. "And you’re cooking hot dogs. Brave choice for someone about to face the Historical Preservation Society."

"You heard about that too?"

"Everyone’s heard about it. You’re famous, Mar. Or infamous, depending on who you ask." He gestured at the grill. "Can I get one? Extra char, like you used to make them."

"Of course."

She made his hot dog with extra care—charred almost to the point of burning, exactly the way he preferred. He took a bite and closed his eyes.

"Perfect," he said. "This tastes exactly like the ones you made when you were just starting out. Before all the..." He gestured vaguely at her pack, the Food Cart. "Before everything got complicated."

"Complicated is one word for it," Marron agreed.

"Are you going to be okay? At the hearing?"

"I don’t know. Maybe. I hope so."

Dren finished his hot dog and pulled out three coppers instead of two. "Keep the extra. And Marron? Whatever happens at that hearing—don’t let them make you forget who you are. You’re not just someone who carries powerful tools. You’re a cook who cares about people. That matters more than any artifact."

He left, and Marron stood holding the extra copper, feeling something warm and complicated in her chest.

The afternoon wore on. The line eventually dwindled as people went home for dinner. Marron served her last hot dog just as the sun started setting, her hands smelling of smoke and her face slightly smudged with char.

She’d made maybe forty hot dogs total. Had earned enough to cover a few days of expenses. Nothing spectacular. Nothing magical.

Just honest work, honestly done.

The Champion appeared as Marron was cleaning the grill, Mokko helping pack up supplies.

"How did it go?" the Champion asked.

"Good. Really good, actually." Marron wiped her hands on her apron. "I’d forgotten what it felt like to cook something simple. Something that didn’t need magic or tools or anything except fire and care." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

"And how do your tools feel about that?"

Marron checked internally, sensing the four artifacts that had been her constant companions for months. They pulsed back with something that felt like... pride? Approval?

You don’t need us to be good, the Food Cart seemed to whisper. We always knew that. We were waiting for you to remember.

"They’re happy," Marron said, surprised by how true it was. "They’re actually happy I cooked without them."

"Because that’s what partnership means," the Champion said. "Knowing when to step forward and when to step back. Trusting each other to do what’s needed without needing to be everything all the time."

She helped Marron fold up the grill. "Tomorrow we start preparing for the hearing. But tonight? Tonight you should rest and remember what you proved today."

"What did I prove?"

"That you’re not defined by what you carry. That you were already whole before you found the first tool. That magic is a gift, not a requirement." The Champion smiled. "Edmund Cross thinks Legendary Tools make people dangerous. You just spent all day proving they make people better—but only because the person was worth improving to begin with."

They carried everything back to the inn, where Jenny had saved them dinner—a simple stew that tasted exactly right after a long day of cooking for others.

Marron ate slowly, savoring each bite, and felt more settled than she had in weeks.

Three days until the hearing. Three days to prepare arguments and gather witnesses and figure out how to convince the Society that her tools belonged with her, not locked in a vault.

But tonight, she’d made hot dogs. Had cooked something her mother taught her. Had reminded herself that she was a cook first and a tool-bearer second.

And that—maybe more than any testimony or argument—would be what saved her when she stood before the Council and fought to keep her partners.

Because she knew, bone-deep, that she didn’t need them to be valuable.

But they made her better.

And together, they could do good work.

That was worth fighting for.