Chapter 4
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: The Old Lord's Incurable Illness (3)
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The room assigned to Dominic wasn't dazzlingly ornate, but it was a tidy guest bedroom with a refined, antique charm.
The spacious bed looked incredibly plush at a glance, yet he had a nagging feeling it would end up as nothing more than a tantalizing picture on the wall.
‘I need to plan out the diet...’
He wasn't without experience crafting patient meals. Right after earning his nutritionist's license and before starting at the school, he'd worked for about a year in the cafeteria of a major hospital. He was pretty confident in the basics of patient food, like low-sodium diets.
‘But I've got zero VIP experience. This is insane.’
That was the problem.
Dominic had always handled mass catering for groups, never personalized nutrition consulting for high-profile clients.
[Does dealing with VIPs work any differently?]
[Of course it does, you idiot. No worrying about ingredient costs—just focus on nutrition balance. Unlike group meals, no fretting over cooking methods either. In a cafeteria, it's all about hitting budgets and keeping the chefs happy. Tough stuff, right?]
[Fair point. Sounds like a sweet gig, then?]
[Not entirely. Expectations for quality are sky-high. If it tastes like school lunch after all that money? You're gone. Living on borrowed time.]
[Yeah, makes sense.]
One of his classmates pulling seven figures doing VIP diet consulting—Dominic regretted not prying for details back then. The thought clawed at his mind.
Still, he couldn't wallow in regret forever.
“No fatty cuts for starters. Alcohol's obviously off-limits... Wonder if he likes veggies? Hmm...”
Sitting at the gleaming mahogany desk, twirling a pen, Dominic decided he needed input and prepared to head out.
“Where to?”
“Ahh! You scared me! You've been here the whole time? ...No way, all along?”
“The Old Lord commanded constant attendance, day and night.”
As he opened the door, a young knight about his age stood like a statue in full armor.
‘This isn't attendance—it's surveillance.’
But he couldn't voice that. The law was distant, but the fist was close.
Pressing his pounding heart with both hands, he spoke up.
“To plan the diet properly, I'll need details on the Old Lord's daily habits and health. Like meeting his personal physician or head chef. Oh, and input from the attending servants...”
“Impossible.”
“...Pardon?”
“Everything you mentioned is top-secret, tied to the Old Lord's personal affairs. An outsider like you has no need—or right—to know.”
“But...”
“If it's no, it's no.”
The guy was utterly inflexible.
His face was idol-center pretty, like he couldn't utter a harsh word, yet his mouth spewed icy disdain. Dominic thought once more: you can't judge people by looks alone.
“He did order me to prepare the diet, though...”
“The Old Lord probably wasn't serious. Just a whim, checking possibilities. You make healthy meals and pass them to the kitchen. That's it.”
“...Understood.”
It left a sour taste, but he couldn't push harder.
With the Old Lord absent, antagonizing this blond knight gained nothing.
‘Fine. If problems arise later, pin it all on him.’
Neatly sorting his thoughts, he turned to retreat—
“As if food could cure illness... Ridiculous...”
Meant as a mutter to himself, but in the empty hall, the knight's words rang clear in Dominic's ears.
A thick vein throbbed on Dominic's forehead.
As a rare male nutritionist in his past life, he'd faced constant belittlement of his profession.
He'd pulled all-nighters in study halls cramming for his food science degree and license, only to hear innocent jabs like, “Isn't that ajumma work?”
Some sneered right to his face: “It's just rotating side dishes. Why bother with a license?”
Treatment was lousy too.
Was it seen as non-essential? Or just anyone-could-do-it?
‘At my last job, they even suggested part-time lunches only.’
He still remembered the department head's condescending pitch, like bestowing a favor amid company woes: “How about re-signing as lunch-hour part-timer?”
‘80k a month—would you take that?’ He wanted to snap back, but rice was precious down the throat. He just bowed: “Yes, sir.”
The knight's offhand remark felt like outright denial of his worth—like touching a reverse scale.
“Sir Knight.”
“...?”
Straightening from his deferential hunch, Dominic met his gaze steadily. The young knight shifted, nodding as if acknowledging him as a proper conversationalist.
His demeanor said: speak if you have something to say.
“If I truly ease the Old Lord's condition with this ‘mere food,’ will you rethink your stance then?”
“What?”
“To some, it's just a meal. To others, it's salvation.”
“...You're right. A crust of bread is priceless to the starving. I wasn't mocking them—just saying food isn't medicine.”
His tone softened a bit, showing he wasn't a total jerk, but it was an apology for downplaying food, not conceding it could heal.
‘Nutrition basics are shaky in this world.’
Thinking back, he'd never heard talk of macros or calories here. He'd chalked it up to low education among locals, but it seemed like common sense across this world was lacking.
“Anyway, I've my orders from the Old Lord. I'll give it my all. Just don't get in my way.”
“Your tone's gotten awfully cheeky.”
“Hasn't.”
“Tch.”
Dominic's politeness had vanished. Still formally polite, but unmistakably prickly.
‘Why grovel? He's a knight—I'm the Old Lord's guest.’
Essentially a 24/7-monitored hostage, but outwardly a guest in the guest room.
“I'm heading to the kitchen.”
“Told you—impossible.”
“Then ask the Old Lord yourself. Confirm if it's truly impossible, or just your call. If it's the latter, I won't obey.”
“What?”
“I follow the Old Lord's command. As I said, my best shot.”
The knight pondered briefly, then nodded, arms crossed, chin high.
“I warned you. No regrets.”
“None at all. Shall we?”
“...?”
“You'll guide me, right? How would I know the layout?”
“...First floor, far left.”
He darted back inside for paper and pen. Ink was a hassle, but necessary.
“Kitchen trip's futile, I tell you.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The chefs won't spill recipes at swordpoint. You'll learn squat.”
“Oh my, what a shame.”
The knight offered veiled concern, but Dominic replied with soulless nonchalance.
‘What's he playing at... Tch, landed a pain.’
Stung slightly by the response, the blond knight inwardly tsked.
Seemed worldly enough, but just a young village chief from some podunk spot.
Hard to believe this guy held the key to curing what famed healers couldn't.
And he'd pinpointed food as the culprit in the lord's illness.
‘Fatty meats, right? Means something's off with the recipes. Poison? Nah, they'd have noticed. So, he's a con artist?’
Dominic would've facepalmed at the knight's thoughts.
The young knight still didn't grasp how perfectly healthy food could wreck a body.
“...Quack peddler?”
“No, no—misunderstanding, Head Chef.”
Leaving the knight's bafflement behind, Dominic faced the chef who'd grilled the beef intestines.
“Knights dragged you off—thought the lord chewed you out.”
“Me surviving proves I'm no quack, right?”
“Hah, fair. So, why're you here?”
Misunderstanding cleared in a flash.
“I've been put in charge of the Old Lord's diet for now.”
The kitchen iced over instantly.
They figured the young punk stole their turf.
“Misunderstanding! Head Chef, your position's secure! I'm just sorting ingredients good and bad for him.”
“...For real?”
“C'mon, don't get duped. I'm your assistant—managing ingredients, yeah?”
“Hmm, under me, then?”
“Let's say so.”
“Sweet—no issues!”
Only then did the chef yank his knife from the board.
‘Kitchen pecking order's universal. Whew!’
As the knight feared, demanding recipes or insisting on cooking himself would've meant a beating.
Lord's orders were one thing; kitchen hierarchy another.
“Ingredients bad for the Old Lord—what're those?”
Dominic grinned.
“Plenty. Everyone's constitution differs.”
The chef perked up; even the arms-crossed blond knight glanced over.