"...E-everything was wiped out?"
We were in a merchant guild office on the Third Mining Colony.
The lizard-faced merchant, our cargo's recipient, blinked his nictitating membranes in rapid succession as he pored over the combat logs I’d handed him.
"Yes. All obstacles along the route have been eliminated. As the logs show, all hostile forces—including their medium-sized vessels—were neutralized. We conducted salvage operations immediately afterward," I reported matter-of-factly.
Lucia, standing poised at my side, didn't miss a beat to provide supporting details.
"The engagement was a legitimate act of self-defense during our ship’s 'self-defense combat' protocols. Furthermore, a portion of the salvaged resources has already been liquidated at a fair market price within this colony’s Junk Market."
The merchant placed the tablet on his desk with trembling hands.
A lone transport ship had utterly dominated an entire fleet. More than that, there wasn't so much as a singe on the hull. In his eyes, I was likely a "legendary mercenary" or something equally dramatic.
"...Splendid. No, your skill is truly terrifying." The merchant bowed his head deeply. "The reward, including hazard pay for zero cargo damage, was slated for a thirty percent bonus... but no. As an investment in our future relationship, I will authorize a sixty percent increase instead!"
My handheld terminal vibrated.
The figure displayed on the screen was far more than enough for a transport job handled by a rookie.
"I appreciate the gesture... Now, I have a question for you." I leaned forward slightly. "Do you know where I can find the 'tastiest' food in this colony?"
"Say no more!" The merchant nodded vigorously, looking as if I’d just handed him the easiest task in the world. "For someone with a refined palate like yours, I have just the place. It features one of the most skilled cooks in the sector—well, we call them 'Adjusters' around here—but the staff is top-tier."
"An Adjuster...?"
The term gave me a twinge of unease rather than excitement. An "Adjuster" instead of a "Chef." Did that mean they didn't actually cook ingredients, but rather tweaked industrial parameters like some sort of engineer?
A mental image of a technician in a white lab coat using a dropper to mix mysterious liquids flashed through my mind.
The place I was led to was a restaurant that felt more like a disturbingly clean hospital.
There was no scent of oil, no aroma of smoke. The only thing in the air was the faint, sterile smell of ozone.
"Welcome."
In the private room, there was nothing on the table but a single menu. I couldn't see a kitchen, and I didn't hear the sizzle of a griddle.
"This establishment has implemented the latest Food Printer models," the merchant explained proudly. "I won't claim it’s the absolute pinnacle of the galaxy, but it’s a high-end unit. It reconstructs material data to provide perfect nutritional balance and flavor. Please, try the classic 'Salisbury Steak Set'."
"Right... okay."
It wasn't the kind of restaurant I’d imagined, but I shrugged it off. If even the cup noodles had been that good, the latest technology ought to produce something incredible.
I tapped the order button on the terminal.
A few minutes later, a Serving Drone glided silently into the room and placed a tray on the table.
"Thank you for waiting."
There it was—the Salisbury Steak Set. Or rather, it was the concept of a Salisbury Steak Set.
"...What is this?" I muttered.
In the center of a perfectly circular plate sat a perfectly circular steak, looking as if it had been drawn with a compass. Beside it were perfectly spherical potatoes arranged in a geometric pattern, accompanied by broccoli pieces so uniform they looked like a fractal.
There were "char marks" on the surface of the meat, but they were flat and smooth, as if a texture had simply been pasted onto a 3D model. Steam was rising, and it was certainly warm, but no juices dripped and no fat splattered.
It was like looking at a high-resolution polygon model from an old-school video game. The resolution was high, sure, but it was fundamentally lacking "sizzle."
"Go on, eat up before it gets cold! It's best right after being output," the merchant urged.
I picked up my knife and pressed down.
Slice...
There was zero resistance. It didn't feel like I was cutting through meat fibers; it was the smooth sensation of slicing through high-density sponge. I looked at the cross-section. It was a uniform pink. No juices seeped out because the "juice" was already fixed into the material state of the steak itself.
I took a bite.
"...Yeah."
The taste was good. It didn't have that clay-like tang of a Tasty Cube. It actually tasted like a blend of minced beef and pork. I could detect the aroma of nutmeg and the sweetness of onions. It was warm and soft.
It wasn't bad. In fact, on a purely chemical level, it was undeniably "delicious."
But—
(...There’s not enough information.)
No matter how much I chewed, every bite tasted exactly the same. There was no variation in texture from the sear, no sudden burst of flavor, no "guilty pleasure" of hitting a pocket of fat. From the first bite to the last, it was a 100% standardized, perfect flavor.
It didn't feel like I was eating a meal; it felt like I was having flavored data installed into my system.
"Well? It's wonderful, isn't it?" the merchant asked with a smile. He was happily scarfing down the Polygon Steak on his own plate.
"...Hey." I put down my fork. "Do people in this world really think this is 'the best'?"
"Pardon? Well, of course." The merchant tilted his head in genuine confusion. "It’s a masterpiece where all impurities have been removed and the texture and taste have been optimized at the molecular level. Where else could you find a meal better than this?"
"I mean... isn't there something more... irregular? You know, with burnt bits, or fat dripping off it, or things that aren't perfectly shaped?"
"Burnt? Irregular? Whatever are you saying? Look at this perfect, uniform sear. That is the hallmark of a top-tier printer's precision." The merchant looked at me with a straight face. "And fat dripping? That would be a separation phenomenon caused by a synthesis error. In modern printers, lipids are evenly distributed and held within the proteins. Such an error would never occur here."
"I’ve heard that in the High Sector, people eat different things," I countered. "Natural animal meat, vegetables with actual dirt on them... Is there no such 'real' food here?"
The merchant gave a troubled, wry smile and shrugged.
"The High Sector... Honestly, an ordinary merchant like me can't even begin to imagine what those dwellers above the clouds are eating. I’ve heard rumors of natural ingredients, but they’re more like urban legends." He looked at his Polygon Steak with genuine affection. "But I can guarantee this is the greatest masterpiece within our reach. If you want more than this, you'd have to become a Corporate Executive or something."
"..."
I finally understood.
In this world, "fluctuations" and "noise" were considered errors to be eliminated. The "sizzle" I craved—the irregularity, the excess, the messiness—was either a luxury reserved for the elite or a relic of a lost past.
Even those cup noodles had been made with modern tech, and they were only guarded because they were an expensive luxury. But even they had a certain "appetizing vulgarity" to them. This "perfect meal" at the peak of civilization left no room for the "soul of cooking" I loved.
"...Yeah, it’s good. A very rational, perfect taste," I lied.
I couldn't bring myself to throw his kindness back in his face. I finished the rest of the polygon Salisbury steak like I was performing a chore. My stomach was full, but my heart felt colder than it had when I was eating cup noodles.
When we stepped out of the restaurant, night had fallen over the colony’s Artificial Sky. Lucia, walking beside me, spoke up quietly.
"...Master, your heart rate actually decreased during the meal compared to your baseline. Was the food not to your liking?"
"No, the taste was fine. It was just... too clean." I looked up at the fake sky. "You know, Lucia, I want to eat something 'dirtier.' Something with an ugly shape, with char, with bones... I want to grill the remains of something that was actually alive and eat it."
"...How barbaric," Lucia said, her voice sounding exasperated, yet I caught a faint note of sympathy in her tone. "However, I believe I understand. What you are seeking is not 'nutrition,' but an 'experience.'"
"Calling it the remains of something alive might be a bit much, but yeah, basically."
I was starting to make money. But the path to the "Space KATSU-DON" I dreamed of might mean fighting against the very common sense of this world.
"Let’s head back, Lucia. I think I need to open that synthetic rum to wash the taste out."
"It is synthetic alcohol. Are you sure?"
"As long as I can get drunk, it’ll do. For now."
Turning our backs on the colony’s perfect, sterile light, we headed toward the shadows of the docks.