The colossal brassica shuddered on its fibrous root-ball. Obsidian foliage thrashed against flagstones, gouging deep trenches through mortar and dirt. A low hiss escaped its central maw, slinging trails of phosphor-green fluid. Bistra, however, merely squinted, her head cocked. “Too fibrous,” she declared, tapping her chin with her wooden ruler. “This won’t braise properly unless it’s broken down.” One razor-leaf whipped towards her, aimed squarely at her throat. Bistra didn’t flinch. Instead, she spun on her heel, catching the monstrous leaf stem with her left hand, her grip surprisingly firm. The cabbage shrieked, a sound like tearing silk, as she twisted, using its own momentum against it. With a primal roar that would have made a combat mage blush, Bistra Zoric, legendary chef and current cafeteria manager, executed a perfect suplex. The entire greenhouse shuddered. The sprawling specimen slammed into the earth with a crunch that echoed off high glass arches. Loam and luminescent sap sprayed the lower panes. Before it could even begin to recover, Bistra was on it, straddling its immense, trembling stalk. Its leaves, still twitching with embedded magical energy, were no longer threats. They were tools. “Ah, perfect,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming with culinary intent. “Naturally sharp edges.” She grabbed the tip of one serrated leaf with her free hand, pulling it taut. Then, with a grunt of exertion, she plunged it into the cabbage’s core, twisting and ripping. The plant shrieked, whistling through torn air pockets. She repeated the motion, again and again, using its own weaponry to shred and tenderize its dense, fibrous heart. Each rip was a chef’s calculated cut, breaking down tough cellular structures. “You want to be difficult?” she hissed, yanking another leaf. “I’ll break you down until you’re falling apart, understand?” With a final, decisive twist, Bistra tore open a wider cavity. Inside the pulpy, fluorescent cavity rested something distinctly mammalian. A hand. A pale, slender hand, tangled in pale creepers. Then another. And a flash of familiar, pristine white uniform. “Oh, for the love of fermented fish paste,” Bistra muttered, rolling her eyes. “Don’t tell me.” She plunged her hands in, ignoring the sticky sap, and began to untangle the vines. First one, then another, four figures slowly emerged, blinking in the dim light. They were students, dressed in the pristine white-and-gold tunics of the Sunfire Order, the academy’s elite duelists. Their faces, usually radiating arrogant superiority, were now pale, smudged with green goo, and utterly bewildered. One, a tall youth with a finely braided topknot and a gleaming ceremonial katana strapped to his back, gagged. “By the Sacred Steel! What *is* this putrid abomination? We’ve been trapped in here for a cycle, feeding on nutrient paste! This… this reek!” Bistra straightened, wiping sap on her apron. “This ‘reek,’ as you so eloquently put it, is the aroma of a freshly tenderized cruciferous vegetable, you uncultured plankton. Now, are you going to stand there looking like you’ve been violated by a garden gnome, or are you going to make yourselves useful?” The apprentices, still coated in pulped stem tissue, blinked stupidly. “Useful?” scoffed another, a girl with an elaborately carved saber hilt peeking over her shoulder. “We are duelists of the upper tier! We spar, we take commissions, we defend these halls. We do not scrub grease!” “Oh, you don’t?” Bistra’s voice dropped, becoming dangerously low. “Then perhaps you’d prefer to rejoin your leafy friend here. Or, better yet, I could just leave you to wander the greenhouse until you starve. Which, given your delicate constitutions, won’t take long.” She held up a small, plump, perfectly steamed pork bun that had somehow materialized in her hand, still steaming faintly. Its aroma, rich with savory pork, ginger, and a hint of something sweet, filled the air. The sword-saints’ eyes, previously filled with outrage, now fixated on the bun with a desperate, almost primal hunger. Their mouths gaped slightly. “Or,” Bistra continued, taking a deliberate, slow bite, savoring the soft, yielding dough, “you could come help me prepare the most exquisite meal this blighted institute has ever tasted. Your choice.” The four elite fighters stood pinned by the steam alone. The swordsman with the braid swallowed dryly. “What… what do you need us to do?” “Good. You, braid,” Bistra pointed, “are on tuber peeling. And you,” she indicated the girl with the saber, “are on carrot dicing. The rest of you, pots. Scrub them until they shine. And if I see so much as a speck of grime, or a single uneven cut, no pork buns for anyone.” She tossed a large, heavy sack of root vegetables at Kazimir, who instinctively caught it with a grunt, nearly dropping his katana. “And don’t even think about using that glorified toothpick you call a sword on my vegetables. You’ll dull the blade.” Back in the scoured cookhouse of Seven, the aristocratic combatants peeled with frantic discipline. The braided youth shaved skin after skin into a tub, muttering about symmetry and yield. The saber-wielding girl, Valdis, diced carrots with the precision of a surgeon, her brow furrowed in concentration. The other two stood beside the caldron, watching the broth break into small, amber rings. The scent of her legendary pork buns, fresh out of the bamboo steamers, was torture. They pressed against the steamers, trying to inhale every last wisp of the fragrant steam, their aristocratic dignity utterly shredded. “Chef Bistra, the stock is at a rolling boil!” Valdis called out, practically salivating. Bistra merely hummed, carefully wrapping a fresh batch of pork buns in oiled parchment. “Excellent. Now, where’s that old schemer?” Professor Dragomir slid through the larder entrance, robes swishing. “Ah, my dear Bistra, precisely on time. The aroma is… intoxicating, as always.” He produced a small, silver pouch from his robes. “A minor matter to attend to. A certain… lower board member, you understand. A swing vote for the board hearing, if we are to prevent Zivko from leveling our hearth.” Bistra handed him the wrapped buns. “Make sure he eats them slowly. And don’t let him sneak any extras.” Dragomir nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye, and vanished. Not ten minutes later, a muffled but utterly ecstatic cry echoed from down the hall: “By the Arcane Hearth! What unholy deliciousness is this? My entire existence has been a lie!” A small, portly man in austere robes practically skipped past the kitchen, clutching the empty parchment to his chest as if it were a sacred relic. “Right,” Bistra barked, turning on her crew. “Back to your stations. The panel convenes before sundown.” A shadow fell across the flagstone doorway. Zivko Radovan stood there, immaculate as ever, his pristine white glove resting on the worn doorframe. In his other hand, he held a single, official-looking document with a scarlet seal: her food-service license. He flicked it casually. “Running behind schedule, manager? The hearing convenes in sixty minutes. Without this seal on file, Mess Hall Seven is cleared for demolition. A real pity.” His eyes, however, were not on the permit. They were on the faint traces of pork bun steam clinging to the air, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. “Unless, of course, you wish to accept a generous offer from the Veligrad Alchemical Conglomerate. They’ve supplied a rather unique ingredient for your final meal. A special blend of concentrated nutrient sludge. Guaranteed to meet all regulatory standards. You just need to… incorporate it.” He tilted his head, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “So, Chef Zoric. Forfeit and accept exile, or cook your legendary meal using *this*.” He produced a small vial of viscous, shimmering green goo, its surface bubbling faintly with an unsettling, murky sheen. “Choose.”

Tenderizing the Cabbage