CHAPTER 80: THE SALT TRAP

Marron locked the door to her room at the mimic inn and pulled out her hidden rice ball stash. She counted them twice—only eight left, split between the safe ones for herself and the deadly salty ones for the mimics.

Not nearly enough for what she had planned.

And while she had marked both kinds of rice balls, the diner’s lighting was still dim. During a rush hour, she wouldn’t be able to tell them apart, and the last thing she wanted was to eat a super salty rice ball.

I think it’s time to upgrade my food stash.

She opened her System interface and checked her gold.

[Gold: 1,050]

Fifty gold would buy her the ingredients she needed. A steep price, but these rice balls were her weapons now. She unwrapped one of her personal rice balls, and ate as she selected her fillings and seasonings.

Let’s see...pickled vegetables, some cheese, and maybe some beef?

She made her choice and watched as each filling appeared on the table.

+

Working quickly, she crafted twenty-four rice balls in total. The safe ones held normal fillings—pickled vegetables, seasoned tofu, a touch of sesame oil. The deadly ones looked identical but hid centers packed with enough salt to kill a mimic in minutes. She added strips of beef and mushrooms to mask the taste, making them irresistible.

[Gold: –50 → 1,000]

She wrapped the deadly rice balls in red cloth and the safe ones in white, then tucked them into her apron. One wrong grab and she’d poison herself, but the risk was worth it.

Time to cook.

The communal kitchen buzzed with activity when Marron arrived. Several mimics were already there, their stolen faces flickering with anticipation.

"New chef!" one called, wearing the face of a young woman. "What do we eat today?"

Marron smiled and pulled ingredients from the pantry. "Cave salt flatbread. Something special."

She worked methodically, mixing flour with water and a careful measure of cave salt. Not enough to kill—not yet. Just enough to make them drowsy and talkative. The dough came together under her hands, smooth and pliable.

When the flatbread baked in the ovens, the aroma filled the kitchen: rich, yeasty bread with a mineral tang from the salt. The mimics pressed closer, nostrils flaring.

"Smells good," the bartender mimic said, appearing at her elbow. "Different from yesterday."

"Better ingredients," Marron replied. She pulled the first batch from the oven, golden-brown and steaming. "Eat while it’s warm."

The mimics tore into the bread eagerly. Within minutes, their movements grew sluggish. Their borrowed faces softened, twitchy edges blurring into hazy satisfaction.

Perfect.

"This is incredible," one mimic mumbled, swaying. "Makes me feel... peaceful."

Marron leaned against the counter casually. "Glad you like it. I want to cook for everyone in the dungeon. How many floors are we talking about?"

"Eight now," the bartender mimic said dreamily. "Used to be six, but we’ve grown. Growing fast."

Eight. The dungeon had expanded since her arrival. Her cart’s energy was feeding it.

"Impressive," she said smoothly. "Where do you keep the really good ingredients? The deep storage?"

"Fourth floor," another mimic slurred. "Right near the prisoner cells. That’s where they put the food cart too."

Marron’s heart jumped, but her face stayed neutral. "Food cart?"

"Some human’s thing. Captain’s keeping it safe for later," the mimic giggled. "Says it’s got good energy. Makes the walls brighter."

So that’s where her cart was—fourth floor, near the cells. She filed it away.

"What about the Captain? Which floor do they stay on?"

"Seventh," the bartender mimic said, blinking slowly. "Wait. Should I be telling you this?"

"We’re all on the same side," Marron said quickly. "I just want my cooking to reach everyone."

The mimic nodded, satisfied. "Captain likes the view from seven. Can see the whole core chamber from there."

The core chamber—eighth floor, then. Guards rotating every six hours. Piece by piece, she was building the map.

"The guards must get hungry on their long shifts," she said. "How often do they change?"

"Every six hours," a guard mimic muttered. "Though Lieutenant might change that. They’re always adjusting things."

As if summoned, a messenger mimic burst into the kitchen. Its face shifted rapidly before settling on that of a middle-aged dwarf.

"Emergency announcement!" it declared.

"Lieutenant is coming to inspect the new chef! They’ll be here within the hour!"

The kitchen went silent. Even drowsy, the mimics stiffened at the news.

Marron’s mind raced. A Lieutenant—perfect. Higher rank meant better access. And if they were coming here...

"An honor," she said aloud. "I’ll prepare something special."

She moved to the stove and set rice to cook, fragrant with ginger and garlic. Enough herbs to perfume the air, enough garnish to mask what mattered most. Because this batch carried salt—a killing dose.

The kitchen filled with the aroma of perfectly cooked rice, each grain glistening. She spooned it into an elegant bowl and topped it with fresh herbs.

"Now to make sure the meat is cut and cooked properly."

She went to work, chopping beef and pork into small cubes, perfect for spooning into one’s mouth with some hot garlic rice.

Keep everything neat.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Heavy, measured, precise.

"That’s the Lieutenant," someone whispered.

Marron set the bowl on a tray and positioned herself near the entrance. Her fingers brushed against the red-wrapped rice balls hidden in her apron. Soon she’d have a new face, a new rank, and access she could only dream of as "the chef."

Still, something inside her said this was all too easy.

The footsteps stopped.

The door opened.

The Lieutenant entered, wearing the stern face of a human soldier scarred across one cheek. Cold blue eyes swept the kitchen, dissecting everything.

"So," the Lieutenant said, voice like steel, "you’re the chef who’s been causing such a stir."

She already knew he was supposed to be intimidating, but actually seeing him in person was a different experience altogether.

"Yes," she replied, and decided to add her special ingredient when he had his back turned. "I like food with more flavor."

Instead, he sat down at a table near her station.

"I see. Well, I can’t wait to judge what you’ve made."

That gave Marron pause. "From...scratch?"

The Lieutenant nodded. "How else can I make sure you made it yourself? Should be no problem for a great chef, right?"

She chuckled. "Yep, no problem. The kitchen is fully stocked to handle a surprise inspection."

Marron’s stomach growled just then. "Sorry," she told the Lieutenant. "I feed people first before me."

"Ah," he said in understanding. His gaze flickered for a moment.

"Make cook snack first, then me. I can hold out longer than other mimics."