The young worker struggled to pry open the crate, from which a blast of icy air imdiately rushed out.
Inside the box, slabs of frozen at were neatly stacked, hard as stone and dark in color.
The packaging was extrely basic... nothing more than thick, yellowing greaseproof paper likewise stamped with blurry Cyrillic letters and dates.
"What on earth is this? Are they treating like so Japanese food critic or sothing?" Ian's eyesight was exceptionally sharp. Even from a distance, he could clearly make out one of the dates.
'1923'.
The satisfied smile on Ian's face instantly froze.
His mind buzzed.
1923? Soviet-era markings? Frozen at?
Combined with the at's strangely tender yet oddly flavourful texture, a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him...
Zombie at!
And not just any zombie at.
This was the king of all zombie at!
In the current era, the collapse of the Soviet Union had happened only a few decades ago. Yet this restaurant was actually serving at from the early Soviet period?!
"So even wizards do the sa crap as Muggle capitalists?!"
These ats had probably been stored for decades, only preserved from rotting through ultra-low temperatures. Their nutritional value and safety had long since deteriorated; there might even be harmful substances inside them by now!
"Damn it! The magical world's version of counterfeit goods!"
Ian suddenly felt as though the delicious bowl of at soup he had just eaten had turned into a huge lump of ice in his stomach.
Despite having used alchemical instrunts to test the inn's food earlier, he never imagined that he would fall victim to a 'historical issue' inherited from the Muggle world in a magical marketplace like this!
He watched as the worker carried out another crate of the sa frozen at, which the proprietress skillfully accepted and began thawing for the evening al.
Ian was completely dumbfounded and felt as though a dozen Billywig were churning violently inside his stomach.
He stared fixedly at the rusted tal crates and the frozen slabs of at inside them, their packaging clearly marked with the year "1923," his mind going utterly blank.
"This at… might actually be older than my grandmother…" Ian muttered to himself, his complexion rapidly shifting from satisfied redness to deathly pale disbelief.
He quickly calculated the tiline in his head. His grandmother, whom he had never even t, might genuinely not have been born yet when this at was first stored away.
'What was this supposed to be?'
A fresh young man from the future…
Eating a zombie-at king older than his own grandmother?
He had actually savored an entire bowl of historical relics!
A violent wave of nausea rose into his throat, and he hastily gulped down a large mouthful of water to suppress it.
Looking around, he saw that the other diners in the little restaurant continued eating enthusiastically, completely unfazed by the worker hauling around "antique at."
More custors even entered the shop and casually ordered the sa at soup as though it were perfectly normal.
No one cared.
Everyone simply ate while chatting and bonding.
"I heard the 'Thunder Fang' shop just received another shipnt of AK-47s," One wizard whispered. "The Centaur Legion already ordered fifty rifles, each engraved with armor-piercing runes."
"Tch, if they can buy, we can sell," Another sneered. "I've already contacted the Fire Snake tribe. They're paying triple for rocket launchers to blast Centaur camps."
"Three wizards died in Ghost Canyon last month," An elderly woman chid in. "They say a Core Bat scared them to death. Their bodies didn't even have a single wound."
"They deserved it," Soone nearby scoffed. "Who told them to ss with the Ancestral Spirit Seal? Even the Ministry of Magic doesn't dare enter that place casually."
"My cousin works at Silent Tower," a young man said mysteriously. "He said they recently arrested a white wizard carrying a huge suitcase filled with strange birds and flying serpents…"
Ian's ears twitched.
Wasn't that obviously Newt Scamander?
Of course, Ian had absolutely no mood to care about the professor right now.
The fact that everyone here calmly accepted eating zombie at was, frankly, deeply shaking Ian's worldview.
"No way!!!!"
Ian's expression beca indescribably complicated, the corners of his mouth twitching violently.
"They're actually used to this?! Has Africa beco so resource-starved that this kind of… this kind of 'aged delicacy' has beco normal?! No wonder these workers don't even bother hiding it!"
"The custors literally don't care!"
Just as Ian was internally raging with disbelief, the worker and another burly man carried several even older-looking wooden crates through the back door.
So of the corners of the boxes were already rotting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ian noticed the seal on one of the crates.
"1893"
"?????"
This one looked even more absurd.
"Pfft, "
Ian nearly spat out the water he had just swallowed.
1893?!
That was from Queen Victoria's era!
'Was this restaurant operating inside a history museum?!'
Unable to hold himself back any longer, Ian abruptly stood up and strode over to the worker who had just set down the crate.
Suppressing his anger with difficulty, he asked in as calm a tone as possible, though unmistakably laced with accusation:
"You people… actually feed this stuff to custors? at that's been sitting around for who knows how many years?"
The worker froze for a mont, clearly confused by Ian's sudden outburst and emotional reaction. But after looking Ian up and down, especially noticing his obvious foreign appearance and clothing, the man's face imdiately shifted into an expression of sudden understanding.
An expression that plainly said:
"Ohhh… so that's why you're making such a fuss."
The worker not only showed no panic or sha whatsoever, but instead explained proudly in broken English mixed with the local dialect:
"Honored guest, you're from outside, right? No need to worry! Our shop has a unique family technique passed down through generations! We can make this at taste just as delicious as freshly slaughtered at!"
"The quality and freshness are both guaranteed! Look, aren't all the custors enjoying it?"
As he spoke, he pointed toward the surrounding diners, none of whom found anything strange about the situation at all.
As though this were perfectly normal.
"..."
Upon hearing that, Ian's expression no longer showed re speechlessness, it was practically blank with shock.
'A unique technique?'
'Making century-old zombie at taste fresh?'
'What the hell was this, magic or witchcraft?'
'No, wait, this was the magical world… But this was still way too ridiculous!'
Unable to stop himself, he blurted out:
"What, did you people add industrial additives and chemical tricks or sothing? Don't tell your kitchen doesn't even have a proper cook or a real stove! At that point I'd seriously start suspecting that your entire culinary tradition only survived into the next century because of this ancient at!"
Before crossing over, Ian had loved eating at those chain restaurants serving pre-made packaged als, and he had suffered greatly because of them. The trauma remained fresh in his mind, so this situation instantly reminded him of those places.
"Uh… I don't quite understand what you an?"
The worker clearly didn't fully comprehend Ian's rant, especially phrases like "industrial additives and chemical tricks."
But seeing Ian constantly casting suspicious glances toward the kitchen while speaking, the worker roughly understood that the foreigner didn't believe him and wanted to inspect things personally.
The worker's eyes shifted.
Not only did he fail to stop Ian, but he even stepped aside enthusiastically and made a welcoming gesture.
"If the guest doesn't believe , you can personally inspect our kitchen! Our thods are completely clean and transparent!"
That sort of attitude could only co from absolute confidence in one's own establishnt.
…Or perhaps not.
After all, Ian rembered certain restaurant owners from his past life who had displayed exactly this sort of behavior, when in reality it was nothing more than bizarre overconfidence.
Looking at the worker's open and inviting smile, Ian beca even more suspicious.
'Is he really letting into the kitchen this easily?'
'Could there be so kind of trap?'
'Like knocking unconscious the mont I step inside…'
'Then tossing into that 1893 crate as "fresh ingredients"?'
The thought flashed through his mind only briefly.
With his strength, he genuinely wasn't afraid of such petty tricks.
What drove him more was intense curiosity. He truly wanted to see what kind of sche these people were using.
Could there really be so miraculous magic capable of reversing ti itself and giving zombie at a second spring?
Even soone like Ian, a legendary wizard, found the concept unbelievable. After all, to accomplish sothing like that, even he would need to rely on his extraordinary level of Transfiguration.
Not everyone possessed Transfiguration talent as abnormal as his own.
"Fine. Then I'll take a look."
Ian nodded and followed the worker toward the back kitchen.
Passing through a corridor covered by a dirty curtain, the scene inside the kitchen ca into view.
Contrary to Ian's expectations, the place was not greasy, filthy, or crawling with cockroaches.
On the contrary, although the lighting was sowhat dim, with only several floating magical light orbs illuminating the room, the kitchen as a whole was surprisingly clean and orderly.
At the very least, it was far cleaner than many takeout restaurants Ian had seen before crossing over.
Honestly, only people who had personally visited those delivery kitchens could understand just how horrifyingly filthy so restaurants could beco.
But back to the point.
Other areas of Africa might indeed be chaotic and dirty, but it was still far better than certain places in India. anwhile, wizarding hygiene standards had always surpassed those of Muggles by a considerable margin.
Because of that, this tiny restaurant's kitchen could probably outperform more than eighty percent of ordinary restaurants. The walls were made of compacted earth, the floor paved with stone slabs, and every utensil was neatly organized.
However, what surprised Ian the most was that he saw no traditional stoves, open flas, or busy chefs cooking food.
Instead,
Three cauldrons of varying sizes stood side by side in the center of the kitchen.
That's right.
Actual cauldrons of the sort commonly used by wizards for brewing potions.
Only these three looked heavier and far more ancient. They appeared to be forged from so alloy of black iron and bronze, their surfaces engraved with complex magical runes glowing faintly with light.
There was no firewood or gas beneath them.
Instead, magical arrays embedded into the floor continuously provided stable heat.
"So they're cooking the way potion masters brew potions…" Ian suddenly understood why the food had tasted so good.
Potion masters possessed far superior control over heat, temperature, and ingredient properties than ordinary chefs ever could.
Still,
He firmly believed the zombie at was simply too much of a zombie at situation.
Even processing it through potion-brewing thods could never change the fact that it was still zombie at.
"Let's see what kind of secret recipe you people have."
Ian focused his gaze forward.
Three individuals wearing gray wizard robes rather than chef uniforms stood before the cauldrons.
Instead of spatulas, they held long stirring rods likewise engraved with magical runes.
With deliberate rhythm and precise movents, they slowly and intently stirred the thick liquid bubbling inside the cauldrons.
Ian's gaze settled on one of the cauldrons currently in use.
The worker took the chunk of ancient at he had just carried in, the frozen, charcoal-dark slab marked with the year "1893", and casually tossed it into the boiling cauldron.
What happened next caused Ian's eyes to widen in shock.
"What the hell…?"
There was already so liquid inside the cauldron. It looked like plain water, yet faint magical fluctuations radiated from it.
Once the ancient at entered the pot, it did not behave like ordinary at that required long hours of stewing before softening.
Instead,
A bizarre transformation occurred instantly.
The changes happened visibly to the naked eye. The dark color rapidly faded, becoming bright red once more. The shriveled, dried-up flesh expanded as though inflated, regaining plumpness and elasticity.
It even began emitting a faint trace of bloody vitality, almost like freshly slaughtered at.
In less than twenty seconds, that slab of at, which monts earlier looked fit for a historical museum display, had genuinely transford into sothing indistinguishable from a premium cut of fresh beef.
Only then did the wizard remove it from the cauldron, place it onto a cutting board, and begin the subsequent preparation work.
At that mont, Ian completely understood.
This was not so "secret family culinary technique." Nor was it any sort of "industrial additives and chemical tricks."
It was magic.
Alchemy, to be exact.
A field that Ian himself had never truly explored before.
The key lay in those miraculous cauldrons.
They were not ordinary cookware at all, but specially crafted and imnsely powerful alchemical artifacts. Their function was likely to reverse or neutralize the effects of ti erosion upon matter, or, more accurately, to temporarily restore material into an earlier and "fresher" state.
Since he had not examined them up close, Ian could only speculate.
Those complex runes were probably controlling and directing the ti-reversal magical energy.
The "family techniques" ntioned by the workers likely referred to properly operating and maintaining these alchemical cauldrons, as well as mastering the stirring rhythm and magical energy input necessary to ensure the restoration process remained stable and effective.
"No wonder… No wonder they dare to use zombie at so openly…" Ian muttered softly to himself.
The nausea in his stomach had mostly faded away, replaced instead by amazent at this ingenious application of magic.
"This is basically using alchemy in a completely unexpected field… Even if it sounds bizarre, from a magical perspective, at processed this way may genuinely be no different from fresh at… It might even have a unique flavor specifically because of its age?"
Ian recalled the texture of the at he had eaten earlier.
Clearly, the technique still possessed certain flaws, but perhaps so people genuinely loved the peculiar texture caused by those imperfections.
He rembered that many of the custors outside had been children and elderly people.
Who knew whether they ca specifically for that texture?
Looking at the three focused "wizard chefs," then turning back toward the satisfied diners in the restaurant, Ian suddenly felt that this world truly contained endless wonders.
Using priceless alchemical cauldrons to "freshen" century-old zombie at…
This probably counted as a uniquely African magical-world specialty.
At the very least, in terms of food safety, this shop might actually be more trustworthy than many seemingly clean and advanced dining halls.
Ian's mood beca rather complicated.
Though admittedly,
Part of this was simply him comforting himself after realizing he had already eaten the stuff.
Still, compared to worrying about what he had already swallowed, Ian now found himself far more interested in the technology itself.
He could already tell that studying this thod would greatly benefit his alchemical expertise.
The real problem now was figuring out how to obtain a technique treated as such a closely guarded secret.
Ian stared at the workers.
Of course, he knew ordinary employees could never make decisions about sothing this valuable.
However, after glancing around the kitchen and dining area, he failed to spot the owner of the establishnt anywhere.
It seed he would need to ask around first.
Thinking this, Ian's hand naturally drifted toward the inside of his robes.
He was preparing to unleash the power of money.
(End of Chapter)
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