Threadworld Ramen

"Ramen is the only thing I trust with my feelings. And maybe The Ball. But mostly ramen. Especially the spicy kind. Especially with those swirly fishcake thingies"

— Rika Thunderale

What It Is

Threadworld Ramen is not conjured, manifested, or bound to any divine current. It is cooked—honestly, messily, and with a depth of feeling that fire alone cannot replicate. It is salt and broth and steam and memory. It is a ladle moved by something just shy of love.

It originates, at least narratively, from the Earth-aligned Threadworld—a realm of rituals disguised as adolescence, where magic is absent but consequence is theatrical. From there, it has diffused across the Infinite Elsewhere not through conquest or adaptation, but because it simply belongs.

It is not sacred. But it feels like it should be.

Ramen as Ritual

To eat ramen is not merely to consume—it is to engage in a wordless liturgy.

You do not interrupt someone in the middle of it. You do not mock their slurping. You certainly do not leave the broth unfinished unless you intend to declare a dramatic, possibly irreversible emotional statement.

Each ingredient has weight. Soft-boiled eggs are considered offerings of peace. Bamboo shoots, subtle and overlooked, carry the flavour of long-held apologies. Narutomaki—the iconic pink-swirled fishcake—represents nostalgia so profound that Rika insists on stealing everyone else's if they don't eat it fast enough.

More than one confession has happened over a bowl. Some of them were reciprocated. Most were not. But all of them were remembered.

Known Variants and Their Emotional Echoes

Ramen exists in many forms, each aligned not with region, but with narrative function.

Tonkotsu, the rich, cloudy broth born from pork bones and patience, appears when something heavy must be digested—grief, regret, or the aftermath of a failed duel. It is most commonly ordered by those who do not realise they are healing until the bowl is empty.

Shoyu ramen, clear and braced with soy, carries the sharpness of unspoken truths. It often emerges during moments of restraint: eyes lingering too long, hands brushing once, rooftop monologues interrupted before climax.

Miso ramen, warm and grounded, appears quietly. It is the choice of the recently displaced, the gently abandoned, and anyone who can’t explain why they’re staring at the floor.

Spicy ramen is not subtle. It does not ask if you're ready. It arrives like a slap and burns like a dare. It is a favourite among those attempting to deny their own feelings, particularly Rika, who once described a certain broth as “an uppercut that finally made me feel again.”

And then there is instant ramen. It is cheap. It is shameful. It is savoured in silence and despair, under flickering lights beside unpaid bills. And yet, somehow, it still counts. Perhaps because it never pretends to be more than it is.

Each bowl serves as punctuation: a pause, a full stop, or the ellipsis at the end of an unsent letter.

The Earth Connection

Earth is a realm where magic hides behind structure and emotion wears a uniform. Its students are weighed down not by destiny, but by longing. In such a place, ramen becomes a quiet miracle—never revered, but always there.

Alaric Von Sorrowglen, who arrived at the Inn via a shimmering can of sakura soda and one unfortunate wish, still insists that ramen was the only thing that made sense during his first week. He doesn’t talk about what kind of miso his grandmother used to make. He just eats it, slowly, until the heat drives the memories somewhere quieter.

Earth has no gods worth mentioning. But its ramen shows up on time. That, apparently, is enough.

Made by Hand, Held by Heart

There is no divine origin story. No mythic ladle forged in the fires of culinary Olympus. Ramen begins with hands—flour-dusted, time-weary, often unpaid—and ends in bowls that know how to listen.

Its greatest expressions are not magical, but meticulous. Broths that take days. Eggs timed to the second. Noodles so perfectly firm they draw confessions from the shy and curses from the proud. Even in the most outrageous ramen venues—where spices cause hallucinations and ingredients are thrown like incantations—the dish remains an act of discipline, not miracle.

The resonance is earned. The impact, real.

Narrative Side Effects

Threadworld ramen is not magical by design. But when served in a genre-fractured realm, it has a tendency to behave like it is.

Emotional realignment is common. Many a rival has found themselves accidentally reconciled by shared steam and second helpings. Chopstick collisions have led to full-blown romances. A single bite has been known to reignite old friendships, repair sibling feuds, or awaken terrifying truths about personal preferences.

One ghost found peace mid-noodle and vanished, leaving behind only her gratitude and half a soft egg.

In some cases, the eater begins to tremble—slightly at first, then more deeply—as the broth strikes emotional centres long buried. This is known, semi-jokingly, as the Narrative Quiver. It is often followed by blushes, awkward confessions, or the sudden realisation that one has become the protagonist of something.

A minority of ramen incidents escalate further. Shirts have been known to unfasten themselves. Accessories snap. Ribbons rebel. These occurrences, while technically wardrobe malfunctions, are widely accepted as a natural part of higher-tier ramen experiences.

No one blames the food. Only the unresolved emotions.

Ramen in The Last Home

The Inn has adopted ramen as it has so many things—quietly, thoroughly, and without paperwork.

Mama Jori serves it with her usual blend of practicality and hidden compassion. Her broth does not explode. Her noodles do not transform you. They simply taste like you’ll be okay, even if you aren’t yet. No one who eats her ramen speaks loudly afterwards.

Sylvie once made a bowl that sang. It hummed in a minor key and summoned three moths and a tear from Lars. It was immediately quarantined.

Freya insists she does not care for ramen, then proceeds to devour her bowl in full combat posture while glaring at anyone who watches her eat.

Carmella has publicly declared ramen to be "passable for commoners." She has also, on more than one occasion, requested a second serving with a slightly trembling hand.

Lilith eats it cold. She never explains. No one asks.

Rika, of course, adores ramen without limits. She declares each bowl her favourite until the next arrives. Her personal ramen rating journal includes comments such as:

• “SO SPICY I SAW MY OWN TRAUMA (delicious!)”
• “Bouncy like good feelings. 9/10, no regrets, minor burns.”