Chapter 33
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Monster Purge and Field Canteen (4)
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Under the southern Great Mountain Range, troops were assembling for the first time in ages.
Each territory had drafted anywhere from fifty to as many as two hundred soldiers, and from afar, the sight of all the camps raising their own banners and sweating bullets to set up their positions made for quite the spectacle.
"Ugh... It's like watching a movie."
Dominic had spread out a spot amid the bustling soldiers and was lounging there, craning his neck this way and that to take it all in.
With the sun shining nicely and a gentle breeze rustling by, it was the perfect day to slack off.
"Village Chief—no, Head Cook! This goes here, right?"
"Yeah, handle it carefully. If the cookware breaks, we can't just airlift replacements on the spot, so it'd be a disaster."
"Got it. We'll come back once the field kitchen's all set up."
"Sure, sure. No need to bother."
Before arriving at the assembly point, they'd already synced up several times with the kitchen hands and drafted soldiers. Now, they moved like a well-oiled machine without Dominic lifting a finger, whipping up food without a hitch. Thanks to that, all he had to do was check the menu, portions, and recipes beforehand, leaving him with basically free time afterward.
'All thanks to my stellar training. Yep! I deserve to kick back. At this rate, I hope the monster purge drags on for a full month.'
Thinking this was the sweetest gig ever, he sprawled out flat and chuckled to himself.
No point sticking his nose in when they had it handled. Nothing beat kicking back while everyone else scrambled.
As Dominic lay there like a total bum, cracking peanuts amid the soldiers, an invisible war of nerves was kicking off in the command tent among the lords.
"I never dreamed Count Sinclair himself would grace us with his presence. With all those fine knights under your command, whatever possessed you to make the arduous journey?"
Viscount Delta, his flesh plump and pudgy, struck first.
In plain terms, it was a jab: You've never properly learned the sword—why drag yourself all the way out here? Just leave it to your knights.
Veins bulged on the Count's forehead, pop, pop.
"Hah, I came to witness my territory's soldiers in action firsthand. And as a bonus, I look forward to seeing the famed swordsmanship of the Viscount with my own eyes. Quite the pleasant trip."
"...Is that so."
"Indeed."
Viscount Delta's face flushed beet red at the counterattack. He'd caught the Count dredging up his academy days, when he'd flunked swordsmanship.
'That guy's for real!'
'Wanna go all the way, huh?'
They got along fine usually, but whenever they teamed up for military ops, this pointless rivalry flared up.
'So childish!'
'What's his deal?'
The onlookers shook their heads or tsked inwardly in unison.
In the end, neither would actually draw a sword.
For all their posturing, both were hopeless with blades.
Yet seeing them puff up their pride like this made you realize these lords harbored the same knightly dreams as any ordinary guy.
Whether Count Sinclair or Viscount Delta, they were unmatched geniuses in administration—their sharpness nowhere in sight now.
Clap.
"Enough chit-chat—let's eat first. You've all come a long way and must be worn out."
Another lord tossed out a new topic to play referee.
But that only puffed Viscount Delta up again.
"I read a military treatise recently."
"A military treatise? Anything juicy?"
A few knights perked up their ears.
"It had a section on winning soldiers' hearts."
"Oh ho. Sounds intriguing. Master that, and loyalty soars."
"Exactly. I devoured that part. It said to capture soldiers' hearts, start by filling their bellies."
"Hrm."
The other lords cleared their throats awkwardly.
They'd wondered why he'd bring up military texts out of nowhere—turns out, just another brag session.
"No lord hates feeding his men well, but money's always the issue, isn't it?"
"Urgh."
"I try to prioritize soldiers' rations, but there's still so much lacking. Truly vexing."
Viscount Delta played his hand transparently. Everyone knew his troops ate like kings, yet here he was whining—some lords openly tsked.
"Count Sinclair's forces are unrivaled in the south, aren't they? Surely you lavish care on their meals too?"
"Naturally. For soldiers to do their duty, full bellies come first—how could I neglect it?"
"Then why not share your wisdom directly?"
A victor's smirk lit Viscount Delta's face.
"Oh dear, oh dear. Showing off our territory's soldier grub like this... so shabby, I don't even know where to hide my shame. Hoho."
Determined to crush the Count's nose this time, Viscount Delta hammed it up with exaggerated gestures.
"Shabby? As expected of Viscount Delta's fertile lands. I hear budgets don't differ much, yet you pull off this spread...!"
Envy flickered in the eyes of the lords and knights as they eyed the dishes the attendants brought.
It was food from Viscount Delta's troops at mealtime—special-occasion fare piled high in every bowl, at a glance.
Thinly sliced, well-pickled raw ham from pork shoulder, a bean stew simmered with white kidney beans, diced tomatoes, onions, and mushrooms, hearty soup packed with potatoes and carrots for that satisfying fullness, and fist-sized wheat rolls—two per man.
"More than enough to boost morale."
"The portions and ingredients are impressive, but cooking this well in the field? Astonishing."
Viscount Kenbane, who'd stayed quiet till now, spoke up. Pure admiration.
The old noble, strategy master and proud knight, gave his praise—and Viscount Delta's shoulders squared proudly.
"Viscount Kenbane's eye can't be fooled. That's where my territory focuses most. Even the best ingredients flop if an unskilled cook botches them—right back to lousy chow for the troops."
"The lord's attention, bountiful harvest from good soil, and skilled cooks—perfect harmony. Morale? Through the roof. Splendid."
"My thanks."
The pride clash over rations looked like Viscount Delta's clean win.
"But even at our best, can we match Count Sinclair's troops? Teach us your ways—we'll learn eagerly."
"You're beyond lessons already, but who am I to refuse?"
Count Sinclair's reply drew an inner sneer from Viscount Delta.
'Clinging to pride to the end? Hmph! Even if it's similar, our costs clinch the victory.'
But something unexpected happened.
Count Sinclair rose and headed for the tent flap.
"You start to speak, then leave?"
"Ah, seeing our troops' chow firsthand will make it clear. A bother, I know, but come along."
Puzzled looks spread across every face in the command tent. Some openly griped, but none dared defy Count Sinclair outright.
Most were just curious, though.
'What'd they prep to act so cocky?'
Word that the lords were coming personally reached Dominic in a flash.
"Ah, come on!"
He'd braced for hassle eventually, but not today.
"Day one, and this? Ugh. Stars shine bright, and it's the grunts who suffer. Why don't brass get that? Tsk tsk."
"Stars? Oh ho, poets now, calling the lord that? Not like you—always so irreverent. Secretly loyal after all?"
"...Uh, yeah. What brings you? Heard the lord's coming and rushed over?"
"Mealtime."
Ian Hanover, who'd been run ragged herding soldiers, was a familiar face—but not a welcome one right now.
Circumstances left no choice.
"Safety first! Brass incoming—no accidents, or it's not just nagging we'll get."
"Yes, sir!"
"Shift that cauldron over there. Don't give 'em ammo to nitpick."
"Got it, Head Cook. Pause soldier chow?"
"Nah. Encourage it."
"Encourage?"
"Yeah. Why else trek here, timed for chow?"
"...?"
"To show: 'Look how well we feed 'em.' Troops scarfing it down—picture perfect. You lot don't have this, right? That's the play. So show troops eating hearty."
"Aha!"
"Park the best eaters up front. Presentation's the game."
"Crystal clear—on it!"
Dominic directed the kitchen crew and drafted soldiers hands-free.
Looked half-assed, but those spot-on calls? Second nature.
'Handles troops like a pro. Why?'
One more mystery for Ian.
'Sigh... Stuck cooking for the army again. What karma is this?'
Dominic griped inwardly—'Swore off military in this life!'—but kept it zipped.
"Swap the chafing dish lamp under the stir-fry."
"Ah, yes! Almost forgot. Thanks, Head Cook."
"Top off the salad too. Empty spots look tacky. Oh, bread! Hands free? Empty the scraps. Overflow with brass around? Disaster."
"Yes, sir!"
The crew sprang into action at his word, refilling dishes.
"All hands, salute!"
Perfect timing—the stars arrived.
Count, viscounts, barons, knights.
"At ease—no salutes. Let the troops finish eating. Hate interrupting a good meal."
Dominic inwardly griped again but kept his polite stance flawless.
"What in the world...?"
"Hoho, never seen chow like this..."
The lords behind the Count peered curiously at the serving line.
Sinclair troops' camp centermost had a setup unlike the rest.
A long table bore rows of unfamiliar tin dishes.
Wide rectangular tins brimmed with food for dozens, each with a small well below holding a lamp—alcohol flame designed to heat the whole base evenly.
'Food's gotta stay hot. Tastes great cold? Satisfaction nosedives.'
Feeding two hundred in the field while keeping it hot to the end? Tricky.
His fix: proto chafing dishes—buffet warmers.
'Nothing beats an all-you-can-eat buffet for hard laborers.'
Per the Count's orders to boost satisfaction, Dominic zeroed in on three things.
One: Keep food hot end to end.
Two: Amp visual appeal.
Three: Let 'em pick favorites.
And his judgment hit dead center.