Multiverse Gourmet Hunter

Tōtōsai picked up a few more slices and tasted them, then nodded approvingly.

”This version is excellent too. Chilled without being icy, fresh without the slightest fishiness. And I have to admit, your knife skills are worthy of a blade like this.”

”Of course they are.”

Haruto answered as though it were obvious, though the smile on his face grew a little wider.

As he spoke, he slowly channeled his Nen into Myriad Worlds.

A soft glow spread across the silver blade. Then the light flowed outward, spilled onto the floor, and gathered into a humanoid shape.

Within moments, the glow faded.

Standing before them was an exact duplicate of Haruto.

Its appearance, build, aura, and even the subtle expression around its eyes were indistinguishable from the original.

The duplicate also held a copy of Myriad Worlds.

At Haruto’s command, it stepped up to the cutting board, picked up another Golden Salmon, and began working.

Scaling, opening the fish, removing the bones and connective tissue, slicing the flesh—every movement flowed seamlessly into the next.

There was no difference whatsoever from Haruto doing it himself.

Even the angle and force of every cut were perfectly reproduced.

Haruto smiled as he watched.

With Myriad Worlds’ replication ability, he now had a duplicate capable of perfectly reproducing every one of his culinary techniques.

From now on, whether he was processing ingredients or preparing entire meals, his efficiency could increase several times over.

And as long as he supplied enough energy, the knife could potentially create several duplicates at once, allowing him to work on dozens of different ingredients simultaneously.

Myriad Worlds had already surpassed everything he had expected from it.

By the time the setting sun poured golden-red light through the workshop window, Haruto finally put the knife away, thoroughly satisfied.

Tōtōsai sat nearby rubbing his swollen stomach, looking equally content.

Over the next two days, Haruto remained at the volcano.

Using the materials left over from forging Myriad Worlds, he and Tōtōsai reinforced Haruto’s staff.

After that, they forged an entire set of top-quality cookware to accompany the knife.

There was a frying pan, a stockpot designed to preserve freshness, a high-temperature grill, and even smaller tools such as a mortar for grinding spices and fine strainers for filtering broth.

Although none of them could compare with Myriad Worlds, into which Tōtōsai had poured everything he had, every piece was still extraordinary.

Tōtōsai complained constantly that Haruto was ”nothing but trouble” and that ”one kitchen knife apparently wasn’t enough for this brat,” but his hands never became sloppy.

Of course, Haruto also cooked a steady stream of dishes for him while they worked.

Tōtōsai spent those two days eating until his mouth shone with oil, so naturally he became increasingly enthusiastic about making the cookware.

Once everything was finally finished, Haruto prepared to leave.

The knife was complete.

His new cookware was ready.

Now it was time to hunt for yōkai ingredients.

After leaving Tōtōsai’s volcano, Haruto began traveling alone through the forests of the Sengoku period.

He spread his En through the surrounding wilderness, searching for traces of scattered yōki.

Along the way, he encountered plenty of isolated yōkai.

There were kappa hiding in rivers, crow tengu lurking among the trees, and even incorporeal creatures formed entirely from accumulated resentment.

During these encounters, Haruto discovered something useful.

His Nen could strike even those yōkai that lacked physical bodies.

That realization made things considerably easier.

He even used the opportunity to work out a method for preserving the bodies of such creatures after defeating them.

That solved the problem of being unable to cook incorporeal yōkai.

One afternoon, Haruto passed a small village built against the foot of a mountain.

There were only a few dozen households, with thatched homes enclosed by earthen walls. An old locust tree stood at the village entrance, its branches spreading wide overhead.

Most of the villagers, however, looked exhausted.

When they noticed Haruto approaching, their expressions carried obvious caution.

Haruto did not mind.

He found one of the villagers and casually asked about the surrounding area.

Seeing that Haruto spoke politely and did not resemble one of the vicious wandering rōnin who sometimes passed through, the man gradually relaxed.

He sighed.

”If you’re traveling through here, sir, you’d be better off taking another road. The mountains nearby haven’t been safe lately.”

”Oh?”

Haruto immediately became interested.

”What happened?”

”There’s a yōkai in the mountains called a White Nyūdō.”

Fear entered the villager’s expression, and his voice dropped.

”Several men from the village went up to gather mushrooms or collect firewood and never came back.”

”Now nobody dares go into those mountains anymore.”

The moment Haruto heard there was a yōkai involved, his eyes lit up.

And he remembered the White Nyūdō particularly well.

It was a mushroom yōkai.

Its mycelium was an exceptional dried ingredient with a deep, concentrated umami.

The strange part was that the mycelium had unusual properties. Once placed in water and boiled, it would grow into a new White Nyūdō.

Even more interestingly, there were countless variations of its mycelium, each capable of developing into a White Nyūdō with a different form and different traits.

Every variation also possessed its own distinctive flavor.

There was no chance Haruto would pass up an ingredient like that.

After thanking the villager, he carefully asked where the White Nyūdō had most often been sighted.

Then he turned and headed straight into the mountains.

Several villagers at the entrance hurriedly tried to stop him, warning him not to throw his life away.

Haruto merely smiled and waved, thanked them for their concern, and continued walking.

Before long, his figure disappeared beneath the forest canopy.

Once he entered the deeper mountains, the light around him dimmed.

Ancient trees towered overhead, their dense crowns almost completely blocking the sky. Thick green moss blanketed the damp, decaying soil, and the air carried the fresh smell of vegetation alongside faint traces of yōki drifting through the forest.

Haruto spread his En.

He caught the weak demonic signatures scattered throughout the mountains and followed them deeper into the wilderness.

Less than half an hour later, he made his first discovery.

Hidden among a dense patch of shrubs was a White Nyūdō variant shaped like a Black Tengu Mushroom.

Not long afterward, in a deep pool along a mountain stream, he found another variant—a Dream White Nyūdō that had taken the form of an enormous fish.

By the time the sun began setting and crimson light filtered through the gaps in the canopy, Haruto had collected all kinds of White Nyūdō variants, along with large bundles of properly processed mycelium.

His hunt for the White Nyūdō also taught him the most efficient way to search for yōkai ingredients in the Sengoku period.

Rather than wandering aimlessly through endless mountains and forests by himself, the villages scattered across the countryside were far better sources of information.

Families who had lived in the same places for generations knew every unusual occurrence in the surrounding wilderness.

They knew which valleys were haunted by man-eating yōkai, which streams were home to deceptive spirits, and which mountains had suddenly become too dangerous to enter.

Those local rumors made it far easier for Haruto to locate promising ingredients.

From then on, whenever he passed an inhabited village, Haruto made a point of stopping to ask about recent yōkai activity in the surrounding area.

Using that method, he collected one unusual yōkai ingredient after another.

At the same time, Myriad Worlds continued growing sharper and more responsive each time it was used to process them.

One afternoon, Haruto arrived at another village nestled between mountains and a river.

The moment he reached the entrance, however, he realized something was unusual.

Most Sengoku-period villages he had passed through carried the same underlying tension.

Even towns protected by samurai had exhausted villagers at their gates. Children rarely wandered far outside the settlement, and farmers usually traveled to their fields in groups for safety.

This village was completely different.

Several children were chasing one another beneath the old locust tree near the entrance, their laughter ringing brightly through the air.

Farmers walked home along the ridges between the fields with hoes over their shoulders, humming local songs with the peaceful expressions of people finishing an ordinary day’s work.

Haruto raised an eyebrow.

That was strange.

This was the Sengoku period, an age crawling with yōkai.

Even prosperous cities could not completely avoid demonic attacks.

For a remote little village like this to enjoy such obvious peace was highly unusual.

Haruto approached an elderly man sitting beneath the locust tree and smiled.

”Sir, your village seems remarkably peaceful. Are there no yōkai causing trouble in the surrounding mountains?”

The old man looked up at him and smiled with obvious relief.

”You must be new to this area.”

”Six months ago, we never would’ve dared live this comfortably. Back then, the yōkai from the nearby mountains came down to cause trouble every few days.”

”What changed?”

Haruto asked curiously.

”It’s all thanks to the priestess!”

The old man’s voice immediately filled with respect and gratitude.

”A while ago, a powerful miko settled in the neighboring village.”

”She’s incredibly strong. One arrow from her can purify a wicked yōkai until there’s nothing left.”

”Most of the yōkai around here were either destroyed by her or frightened so badly they fled deeper into the mountains.”

”That’s why we’ve finally been able to enjoy a few peaceful days.”

Haruto’s expression shifted slightly.

”What is this priestess’s name?”

The old man answered without hesitation.

”Her name is Kikyō.”

Understanding immediately appeared in Haruto’s eyes.

Of course.

In this Sengoku era, there was hardly a second priestess capable of making every yōkai within dozens of miles flee in terror besides Kikyō—the woman burdened by both fate and a sorrow she could never truly escape.

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