Chapter 2
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Old Lord's Incurable Disease (1)
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Two days later, Dominic was attending the village chiefs' meeting and barely holding back a yawn.
"Next item on the agenda. The Old Lord's birthday is coming up soon, so shouldn't we discuss making sure the gifts from each village don't overlap?"
"Well said! If they overlap like last year, it'll just be awkward for everyone. Let's settle it in advance this time."
"But the Old Lord has such clear favorites that it's tricky to divvy them up."
"How about drawing lots?"
'I knew it'd be dull, but not this bad.'
The thrill of seeing the lord's castle up close in all its splendor had faded fast. The moment the meeting kicked off with around twenty village chiefs, Dominic got why Uncle Kallon had been so desperate to dump the job on him.
Just look at them now. Bickering for over two hours about nothing important—it was enough to make him snort in disbelief.
"Our village is offering a young lamb. No backing down on that!"
"Hey now! Everyone knows the Old Lord loves lamb—who are you to snag it first?"
"Ahem, ahem. Fine, our village will go with a calf then."
"W-We pigs!"
"You lot! I said we draw lots!"
Watching it all with his arms crossed, Dominic picked up on two things.
First: Village chief meetings were nothing but empty chatter.
Second: The Old Lord was absolutely meat-obsessed.
From what he'd heard, the Old Lord was a knight famous across the nation. Then one day, he abruptly handed the lordship to his son and holed up in the castle, never setting foot outside.
A few busybodies chattered that "He's finally grasped the path to Swordmaster!" but who knew the truth?
"Excuse me, Village Chiefs. Time for the meal—let's resume the meeting after."
At that moment, a maid from the castle announced mealtime.
'Finally, a taste.'
When Uncle Kallon passed the village chief role to him, the one thing he'd truly regretted was the feast served after these meetings.
It was a rural territory, sure, but hardly a poor one.
So what if they laid out generous meat dishes for twenty village chiefs once a month?
'I wonder what spices or sauces the nobles use. Anything familiar? If it's good, I should slyly ask for the recipe.'
Just moments ago, his eyelids had been drooping nonstop, but now they snapped open, his eyes sharpening with anticipation.
He followed the maid to the dining hall.
It wasn't some noble banquet hall—just the communal spot where the servants ate—but Dominic, utterly captivated by the food on the plates, noticed nothing else.
"Wow."
A grin of pure satisfaction spread across his face.
The bread, made from top-quality flour and packed with nuts, released waves of nutty flavor with every chew. The seafood stew was a touch salty, but bursting with shrimp and clams, its umami hit like an explosion.
But the real star was something else entirely.
"Beef intestines!"
On a steaming stone plate, the beef intestines sizzled alongside a few veggies, grilling to perfection.
Gulp. The popping oil sounded just like rain pattering down, and Dominic swallowed hard without realizing it.
No prime cut of lean meat could ever fully match the rich, oily depth of offal. To Dominic, they occupied entirely different, incomparable realms.
"You ever tried beef intestines before?"
The chef, who had been diligently grilling them to just the right doneness, lit up at Dominic's obvious delight and struck up a conversation.
"You kidding? I could eat them every day. Looks like you prepped them perfectly too. Mess up offal cleaning, and the smell ruins it—no one's touching that stuff. Whoever did the butchering must be one skilled hand."
"Hah! This young chief knows his meat!"
Pride beamed across the chef's face.
He must've handled the prep himself.
"Don't let appearances fool you—I'm the best in the territory at meat prep. And with our Old Lord being such a meat lover? That's what honed my skills."
"Had no idea you were this good."
A little flattery and chit-chat, and the pleased chef flicked off the fattiest piece, sliding it onto Dominic's share.
Sweet words netted him a free serving of prime intestines.
"Give it a go. Grilling skill makes all the difference in the taste!"
"Absolutely! Grilling offal right is way tougher than straight meat."
"A man after my own heart! Heh."
"Gotta be someone up in the castle who loves beef intestines, huh? Your technique screams experience."
"You bet! The Old Lord loves meat of all kinds, but offal? He's wild for it."
"Ooh."
"Lions don't eat grass, am I right?"
Another guy spouting the exact same line as Uncle Kallon.
"Come to think of it, isn't this meeting all about fretting over the Old Lord's birthday gift?"
"You heard, eh?"
"What's your village planning?"
"Beats me. Seems like all the lambs, calves, and pigs—the stuff he'd love—are already spoken for."
"Everyone's dying to impress him. Heh."
"Pretty much."
Dominic shrugged.
Then the chef lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"Even a small village like yours has at least one brewery, right?"
"Of course."
Not fancy stuff like fine grape wine or labor-intensive whiskey, but every village had folks brewing grain liquor or fruit wines.
Evergreen, packed with retired mercenaries, was especially full of boozers—enough for a communal beer warehouse.
"We make beer."
"Then offer that. One oak barrel oughta do."
"Nah, it ain't fine enough for the higher-ups."
"True aficionados don't fuss over labels. Our Old Lord's exactly that type. What's that word—pairings? Different drinks call for different bites?"
"Pairing?"
"...Paira-what?"
"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."
Dominic jolted mid-chat with the chef. A drinker who pondered food pairings? In his past life, upscale restaurants built entire courses around them, but this world? No such thing. Even Evergreen's heavy drinkers followed their guts instinctively, chalking it up to personal taste diffs.
"But why hasn't anyone clocked that the Old Lord's a big drinker?"
"Heh, you calling me a liar, young man?"
"Nah, just wanna confirm."
Still, he had to nail it down. Betting on the chef's word alone and offering commoner beer as a "gift" could backfire spectacularly if it pissed him off.
"Simple: He loves meat way more than booze."
"Hmm."
"Don't buy it? Sneak a peek at the kitchen pantry on your way out. Dozens of oak barrels, easy."
"All booze?"
"Every last one! That's just what's out. The aging stuff or rarities are in the basement."
If the chef was telling the truth, the Old Lord was no casual sipper.
"I'll make sure to repay the favor next time."
"Favor, my foot. More intestines?"
"Don't mind if I do."
Dominic crammed his cheeks full of beef intestines, wiped the oily shine from around his mouth, and muttered to himself.
"Stuffing his face like that every day might give him gout."
"...Gout? What's that?"
"Oh, you don't know? It's this disease where even a breeze hurts—starts in the toes usually. Happens when uric acid builds up 'cause it can't flush out, and purine-heavy foods make it worse... Ah, sorry."
Caught rambling to himself, he glanced at the chef—only to see a furrowed brow, like he'd just heard gibberish from another world.
He clamped his mouth shut fast, but the chef's frown didn't budge. The face that had brimmed with warmth and fondness now bristled with suspicion and wariness.
'Held it together for so long... damn it.'
Ever since regaining his past-life memories, he'd slipped up like this before, casually spilling modern knowledge. The fallout was never pretty.
[Who does this shady wanderer think he's fooling! No sale!]
It always ended with him branded a quack peddler.
"Meeting's resuming. Better hustle."
The chef's tone had turned icy already.
'At least I got my fill of intestines.'
No such favors next month, but what could he do?
Water under the bridge.
He trudged back toward the meeting room, where the pointless squabbling would drag on,
Whoosh—
"Mmph!"
Suddenly, a black cloth dropped over his head, and something struck the back of his neck.
Dominic clawed desperately to hold onto consciousness, but it slipped away.
"Hoist him."
"Yes, sir!"
Confirming their target was out cold, three burly men scanned the surroundings before slinging Dominic over their shoulders like a sack—vanishing into the castle's forbidden depths, swift as shadows on the wind.
The sky remained brilliantly clear, as if nothing had happened.