The Elf Who Wants Pudding (3)
“Here! Over here, Professor!”
From off in the distance, Parus waved enthusiastically atop her broom, which shook up and down in resonance with her mana. For some reason, the sight struck Luikus as utterly vulgar.
“Parus. I told you not to make a fuss.”
Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Luikus approached at a leisurely flight pace.
The Black Flame Witch has appeared? What nonsense...
He was already swamped preparing for an academic lecture and managing his private mercenary band. Then Parus had burst into his lab, claiming she was heading out for her graduation project, only to declare she'd found the Black Flame Witch. At first, he'd been baffled; later, outright furious. It had been twenty years since the Black Flame Witch vanished—what kind of drivel was this? But the conviction shining in Parus's eyes was genuine, unfeigned. Unable to resist his curiosity, Luikus had followed her... and now, reconsidering, it all sounded absurd.
She couldn't have reappeared without any warning.
It had been a decade since the council elders concluded she must be dead. These days, most witches treated the Black Flame Witch as if she were already in the grave—except for a few oddballs like Dremes, the Moonless Combination leader. Luikus wasn't one of those outliers; he too believed she was gone. He didn't know the exact cause of death, but witches often passed suddenly and inexplicably when their lifespan ran out.
That's just how witches are.
Witches maintained healthy bodies and youthful appearances right up to the end—a cruel irony, since they never knew when their time would come. Bound by their unique magic through the Seal Curse, or the so-called Ring of Fate, they dropped dead like puppets with cut strings the instant their allotted lifespan ended. In the extreme, a lover they shared passionate nights with could turn up a corpse the next morning.
Retribution for defying causality, no doubt.
Unable to know or escape their fated demise, witches were mere marionettes of destiny. No matter how immense her power, even the Black Flame Witch couldn't have resisted that fate.
And yet...
“Huh?”
The clearing Parus pointed to. Luikus's pupils dilated in shock as he gazed at the ground below.
“How... how is this possible...”
A dignified mana aura rose from the black spear embedded in the minotaur's massive corpse. Towering even over the dense canopy of mountain trees, the spear was unmistakably the Black Wind Black Slaughter Spear.
“See? I told you! I met the Black Flame Witch!”
Luikus nodded dazedly at Parus's triumphant words.
“...It seems you're right. The Black Flame Witch is alive and well.”
Whether she'd triumphed over fate or simply hidden away before resurfacing, he couldn't say—but this was monumental news that would send shockwaves through witch society...
*
Back at the mansion, the Elf changed into her maid uniform and entered the dining hall. Partly to eat her pudding, but also because dinnertime was approaching and she needed to assist the head chef.
She set the pudding box on the dining table and stepped into the adjacent kitchen, where the head chef stood stroking his chin in thought. It was obvious he was pondering the evening menu.
“Head chef.”
The startled chef turned to her. The Elf blinked innocently, and he broke into a warm smile.
“Oh, it's you. Here to help with dinner again?”
“If you'd like.”
“Heh heh. No need, kiddo. You're a fine cook, but if I keep relying on you, my skills'll rust. Take it easy tonight.”
“If you say so... Have you decided on tonight's menu?”
“Nah. That's what I'm agonizing over. What to serve that would please the family head...”
It was needless worry. Kind-hearted Theorad would declare any dish delicious. Still, his dedication to honing his craft wasn't a bad trait.
Shall I offer some advice? The thought crossed her mind, and she spoke up.
“How about cream pasta?”
“Cream pasta?”
Hmm. Tapping his chin, the chef shook his head.
“Cream pasta lives or dies by the milk, but we don't have any fresh.”
“We have milk.”
To be precise, it's breast milk. Oblivious to the truth, the chef's eyes widened.
“Huh? We do?”
“Yes. I put some in a bucket deep in the freezer. Did you not see it?”
“Oh... Come to think of it, I might've glimpsed a bucket. When did you prepare the milk?”
“A few days ago... with Master.”
“With the family head? You two must've stopped by a dairy farm.”
He meant nothing by it, but it felt oddly risqué.
“Y-yeah... that's right.”
“Why's your face suddenly red...? Anyway, got it. I'll whip up some cream pasta with your milk.”
“Okay. I'll rest a bit then.”
“Go ahead.”
Bowing her head, the Elf left the kitchen and approached the dining table—to enjoy her hard-earned pudding.
She sat, peeled back the packaging on the box, and revealed the pudding, its glossy surface gleaming invitingly. It was perfect, mouthwatering in form.
Bet it tastes amazing.
Her hand paused with the included spoon just before scooping a bite. Why not indulge a little? She'd earned it.
With some black tea, maybe.
A slave drinking tea was unheard of, but the head chef—thanks to their growing rapport from kitchen work—might allow it.
Decision made, she rose and headed back to the kitchen. She wanted to savor this treat properly.
*
In the carriage heading back to the mansion, Esilly and I—back in our regular clothes—sat at a careful distance. In this cramped space, “careful” meant opposite ends.
We hadn't fought. It was just... awkward.
—Don't look at other men. It pisses me off when you gaze at anyone but me.
I must've lost my mind for a moment. No sane person would say that so casually...
I still couldn't fathom why. After taking the supplement from Esilly, a strange haze had settled over me, making me feel unlike myself. Intoxicated by that haze, I'd blurted out whatever came to mind—and now shame burned my cheeks. I couldn't face her.
Evidently, Esilly felt the same; she deliberately avoided my eyes.
I hated this silence. We'd part soon, and I didn't want to send her off in awkward quiet.
“Ahem.”
Clearing my throat to break the ice, I asked casually,
“Esilly, any issues at the family estate?”
“Pardon? Oh...”
She fidgeted before answering awkwardly.
“Nothing major, aside from Brother Fred suddenly leaving the castle without a word.”
“Young Master Fred?”
“Yes. He hasn't returned, and Father's quite angry. No idea what he's up to or where...”
A bitter smile crossed Esilly's face. I felt like dying.
You idiot...!
Why bring up family and make her gloomy? If I could turn back time, I'd stop before asking.
But time marched on relentlessly. Jolt—before I could recover, the carriage arrived at the mansion.
Now I had to score points before the coachman opened the door. Hands trembling anxiously, I forced words out.
“Um, Esilly. What I said earlier, I mean...”
“Lord Theorad.”
She leaned forward slightly toward my fluster. Her slender hand touched the back of mine.
“Don't give in.”
The meaning was crystal clear. But I lacked confidence.
“You know I can't resist.”
“I'm not saying resist. I'm saying don't yield. There's a world of difference.”
Her earnest blue eyes comforted me. I nodded silently, and she released my hand with a faint smile.
Just then, the coachman opened the door.
“We've arrived, Viscount Theorad!”
“Right...”
Time was merciless, but unavoidable. I stepped out; the coachman shut the door, climbed up, cracked the whip, and drove off with Esilly aboard.
Only after watching the carriage vanish did I turn toward the mansion.
Happy times ended; facing the Elf again loomed dreadfully—but it was my duty to bear.
Come on. You can do this!
Slapping my cheeks, I psyched myself up and entered. Dinnertime neared, so I headed to the dining hall—and spotted a mysterious pudding on the table.
Pudding?
Where'd this come from? A special treat from the head chef?
No.
Pudding was dessert; it wouldn't be out before the meal. That left the Elf. Besides the chef, only she frequented the kitchen.
What's her angle?
Leaving a lone pudding on the table and vanishing... Baffling, but as an Elf studies expert, analyzing her motives was child's play.
Obviously. She wants me to trash it.
This was her assignment: devour her handmade pudding and declare it awful. Perfect score if I played along.
Satisfied with my deduction, I sat, spoon in hand. A light scoop melted sweetly and smoothly on my tongue, enrapturing my senses.
Whoa. What is this?
Even I, no pudding fan, had to gasp. Silky, sweet, with a rich, lingering depth—it was no mere dessert, but a masterpiece.
“Mmm...”
Savoring bites, the pudding vanished in moments. Lips smacking in regret, I heard the kitchen door open as the Elf approached, carrying a teapot and cup in both hands.
“Ah.”
Spotting me, she beamed brightly.
“You're back, Master?”
“Yes. But your pudding was utterly wretched.”
Pudding? She murmured softly, checking the empty container before me—scraped clean, only traces remained.
“...”
Rare confusion crossed her face. Assuming it was an act, I sneered exaggeratedly.
“Making trash like this and calling it dessert? A lowly sow like you can't do anything righ—”
“Right now.”
Her expression darkened, cutting me off. Unfathomable killing intent leaked from her crimson glare.
“What did you do?”
Eh...?
I didn't know what, exactly, but she was genuinely furious. The problem: no clue why.
“Right now.”
My silence prompted her to repeat deliberately.
“What. Did you. Do?”
Still speechless, the air froze solid. Terror crawled up my spine, devouring me whole.
God help me.
That pudding might've been my last supper...