Chapter 1
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Village Chief Appointment
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Clink, clink—.
A pony pulled a small handcart along, the bell around its neck jingling leisurely with each step.
"Come on, just a bit faster. Everyone's probably starving by now."
Dominic muttered to himself as if encouraging the pony—or maybe cheering himself on after climbing that uphill stretch—even though there was no one around to hear.
"They sure know good food when they taste it. How did they even survive without me?"
His chuckling words dripped with pride in his cooking skills and genuine affection for the villagers.
Dominic was an outsider.
More precisely, a war refugee. Kind villages that welcomed penniless strangers only existed in fairy tales. Naturally, his life hadn't been easy.
[Get lost! We fed you and let you sleep here, and what? Money? Ungrateful bastard!]
He slaved away twelve hours a day, only to get cold shoulders, scorn, and kicks in return. No one ever paid him the wages they'd promised at the start.
'Should I just give up?'
As his will to live faded, Dominic's wandering feet brought him to a tiny fishing village too small to even appear on maps.
[Can you cook?]
[...Yeah, not like a professional chef, but I'm pretty good.]
[Perfect. Starting tomorrow, help with lunches for our Fishing Cooperative.]
The people of Evergreen Village weren't exactly leisurely, but they were the first decent folk Dominic had met in this life. Formed mainly by retired mercenaries, the villagers weren't refined in their manners, but at least they were straightforward—no pretenses.
"Why'd you take so long? I nearly died waiting for lunch!"
"What if I got here too early and the food got cold? You'd just complain again."
"Fair point."
"What's on the menu today, Dominic?"
At the fishermen's urging, Dominic pulled back the cloth covering the handcart as if to say, See for yourself.
Inside sat two large, deep tin pots and four baskets.
The fishermen, well-practiced, grabbed wooden utensils from one basket, divvied them up, and lined up neatly beside the cart.
"Smells amazing."
"Of course it does. Who made it?"
"Heh. Can't even complain because the food's always spot-on."
The hearty laugh came from a burly middle-aged fisherman with biceps like kids' heads. Now introduced as Evergreen's Village Chief, he'd been a full-fledged mercenary captain just ten years ago.
His bear-like frame holding a round wooden dish looked comical, but no one in line had the luxury to joke about it.
These were men who'd been casting nets since dawn.
Growls of hunger echoed from every direction.
"Hurry up and serve already, Dominic!"
"My stomach's sticking to my spine!"
"No rushing... It's ready. One at a time."
"Woo-hoo—."
Dominic secured the cart, climbed atop it, and opened the tin pots. The aroma wafted everywhere.
"Two buns each—that's portioned for headcount, so no greed!"
The fishermen dove in routinely.
They grabbed two round buns from a basket onto their plates, added stir-fried veggies and plump sausages to one side. The finishing touch: soup. A small wooden bowl atop each plate brimmed with steaming cream soup.
"Dominic's cream soup is always top-notch, no matter when."
Sauté carrots, mushrooms, potatoes, and onions, then thicken with a flour roux and milk, simmering gently. Once ingredients softened, season with salt and herbs.
'Pepper's too pricey, but herbs do the trick.'
A few dried herbs elevated the flavor, perfectly suiting village tastes.
The fishermen's sea-chilled bodies thawed with the first spoonful of rich cream soup.
"Urp!"
Dad-style belches erupted here and there.
Some grinned wide at the sausages.
"These the ones from yesterday?"
"Yep. Loaded with fat—they'll be juicy."
"Let's see... Whoa!"
One fisherman smacked his lips dramatically, bit in—and yelped in shock.
Oily juices burst in his mouth the instant his teeth sank.
Dominic cackled at the sight.
'Some things just need that fat.'
'Fatty's fatty for a reason'—that was his motto.
By now, calling him a sausage master wasn't exaggeration.
Trial and error aplenty at first.
Dry-as-bone without fat; fishy pork stench from poor off-flavor control.
Over-herbed mush you couldn't identify; spoiled batches buried in tears from bad storage.
'But now? I could sell this recipe.'
Confident.
Grind pork fine, mix to thirty percent fat. Add minced veggies for chew, herbs for freshness, stuff tight into cleaned casings. Blanch in salted boiling water, dry lightly, smoke. Done!
"Hey? Village Chief, skipping veggies again? No, you can't do that."
"Tch. You're nagging more than my wife. Lions don't eat grass."
"Lions? How old are you to be picky? Picky! You've got grandkids—imagine them throwing fits because of you?"
"Grr—."
Dominic scolded the grandkid-obsessed chief, then weaved through fishermen, checking plates.
'Three-year habits die hard—they say. Guess past-life ones stick too.'
Dominic stifled a smirk inwardly.
Yes. He remembered his past life.
Not from the start.
Memories hit suddenly one day, no warning.
Like realizing mid-sleep, Oh right, needed milk!—then boom, thirty-five years flooded back.
Han Jeong-min.
A thirties office drone, nutritionist for schools and companies in Korea.
Recalling it changed nothing.
For a homeless war refugee, nutrition knowledge mattered less than any hot meal.
"Hey, Dominic."
The chief's voice snapped him from reverie.
"What've you been up to lately?"
"...Huh? Same as always. Prepping and delivering co-op meals."
"Weekends free then? You don't hit the temple."
"True."
Dominic tilted his head at the odd question.
Chats with the chief were always like this.
Even when he'd first arrived begging residency: straight-up, Can you cook?
"What's up?"
"Nothing big. Starting next week, you're Village Chief."
Clatter—.
A wooden bowl slipped limply from Dominic's hand, rolling away.
Fishermen burst out laughing, clutching bellies.
"Boss—no, Chief! You can't just drop it like that!"
"He's frozen solid. Thinks you're messing with him? Explain properly! Heh heh."
"What the heck? Village Chief? Me?"
Dominic's eyes bulged.
Village Chief.
Even in a tiny hamlet, it meant direct audiences with the lord—a local kingpin with power to control village interests.
Rights came with duties.
Lead in the lord's stead; petition swiftly if trouble brewed. Some chiefs twisted duties for power, sure.
But for a twenty-something refugee settled barely a year? No way.
"No biggie. Just attend the monthly village chiefs' meeting at the lord's castle."
"......"
"Sit there awake. Tiny places like Evergreen get no say anyway. Hell if I know what those nobles babble."
"So... you're foisting it 'cause monthly trips annoy you?"
"Well... uh, not just that... Heh heh."
The muscled chief chuckled sheepishly.
A former vice-captain fisherman shook his head, chiming in.
"Just be honest. Annoying, yeah—but last meeting, they told illiterate chiefs to learn reading in three months or meetings'd be tough. Dominic, you know our chief ain't studying."
"You idiot! Why spill that!"
"Better now than later embarrassment. Dump it upfront—easier."
"Maybe."
"Think: if Dominic later learns you saddled him and bolts or snaps, where'd we snag a literate guy? Kidnap one?"
"Um. I'm right here listening..."
"Ahem. Anyway, it's done. Please, Dominic."
"Seriously? Just for that?"
"Just? I've never cracked a book in my life!"
He boasted like it was a badge.
Dominic glanced around—decision made.
"Just show face and fill a seat?"
"Yep!"
"No agendas or anything?"
"Suckered all your life? No one asks tiny villages. Think: give us all a voice? Meeting'd never end."
"Fair."
"Travel's covered by village funds."
Fine. Monthly nuisance? Doable.
Dominic nodded.
"Alright. Once a month? Sure."
"Heh, smart kid."
"Next month's meeting then?"
"Nah?"
"...Huh?"
"Day after tomorrow's this month's. Heh heh."
Ah, damn it.
He wanted to quit on day one.