Han Daeri Evolves into Han Guwon (3)
As the worship service, stained with madness and blind faith, drew to a close and lunchtime approached, Guseju turned on his heel and descended from the podium as if nothing had happened. Instead of the usual trite "Enjoy your meals," he said, "Partake of your daily bread today with a reverent heart and grateful spirit."
Even after the service ended, the lingering heat kept people prostrate on the floor, slamming their heads repeatedly or spewing tongues in incomprehensible voices as they offered up fervent, fiery prayers. But the majority of the fanatics hurried off to their assigned posts to honor mealtime. Feeding hundreds required massive manpower—not some slop shoveled out army-style, but proper selection of ingredients, prep, cooking, and serving demanded at least twenty or thirty hands. And no one just sat around waiting their turn to eat. With seating divided into shifts, those not up yet had to handle their duties: cleaning, facility maintenance, tending the hydroponic veggies, and so on. Packing so many into one building created a chaotic rush rivaling Seoul's morning commute.
Park In-ha was led away by other female devotees to learn her tasks. Before leaving, she shot me a cryptic glance and asked, "You're really gonna do this?"
Like hell I'm not, fuck. Did this cult leader look like a joke? The only profession in a free democracy where you could wield Kim Jong-un-level power!
Before I got dragged into pointless manual labor, I approached the guy who clearly looked like my assigned senior. "My specialty's medicinal cuisine. Should I head to the kitchen?"
"Hm? Medicinal cuisine? What's that?" He paused, pondering my assignment, puzzled by the unfamiliar term. It was something civilians rarely heard, tossed around only among specialized chefs researching niche dishes.
"Medicinal cuisine, simply put, is food that's incredibly good for the body. Using natural ingredients straight from nature, it delivers effects like tonics—nourishing vitality, improving constitution, boosting immunity, enhancing stamina, that sort of thing."
"Nourishing vitality and enhancing stamina?" He latched onto that one part, ignoring the rest. Already stacking up that four-drone buildup?
Anyway, I pressed on with my salesman-honed pitch. Good snake oil raises suspicions first, but the right nonsense sparks curiosity instead. "2,000 knights garrisoned in the duke's territory" = obvious bullshit. "2,000 knights garrisoned in the galactic empire's duke's territory" = fucking badass. Knight wars arc incoming. Grabbing popcorn.
I hyped it like a 6kg hunk was the pinnacle of daggers: medicinal cuisine was the superior form of all cooking. "It sounds complicated, but it's not. Soft-shelled turtle soup—great for men—is medicinal cuisine at heart. Even that porridge the Joseon kings ate falls under the broad umbrella. The key is dishes packed with nature's pure essence, not artificial flavors from heaps of sugar or salt. Only nutrient-dense perfection belongs on a exalted person's table. But that's all I know, and here you're cooking for the masses, so I figured I'd mention it upfront."
"I see. That could be a problem. But does this medicinal cuisine show effects right away?"
"Ever had wild eel?"
"...Yeah."
"Eel's amazing, right? But grilling wastes all those precious nutrients. Medicinal cuisine steams or boils to preserve them. Same eel dish: one guy gets an hour of stiffness; another stays rigid all day."
"Ho ho..."
Key to the pitch: build rapport. If he gripes about a bad liver and fatigue, don't push cheap liver pills—that's amateur hour. A true salesman goes bold: bear bile. Trash the alternatives, hype yours to the heavens. "Liver pills? One drop of pure bear-bile extract, and you'll blaze through highways 3 to 8 without a hangover tomorrow!" The wilder it sounds, the more hooked they get, riding your rhythm.
"I had no idea medicinal cuisine was that impressive."
"It's been for the elite's health since ancient times. Good medicine tastes bitter, they say—but medicinal cuisine is healthy and delicious. It's a shame I can't showcase it here, just when I've found my lifelong haven..."
"Can't have that. No, we can't. Name's... Han Guwon, right? Your cuisine belongs on Guseju-nim's table. And if there's any left over... ahem! For lowly folks like me to serve him with even greater devotion, you know?"
"Would I have it any other way? So, where do I work?"
"There's a special kitchen for Guseju-nim's meals and desserts. Straight down that hall, right turn. Say Priest Kim Ho-woo sent you."
"Thank you, Priest Kim Ho-woo."
Kim Ho-woo—what a name. With his endorsement, I bowed and headed to the elite kitchen. Inside, only five people: Korean, Japanese, Western, Chinese cuisine, and a pâtissier. All master chefs.
Makes sense—can't have the cafeteria lady cooking for a cult leader. A Korean-food-obsessed one might hire the knight's mess auntie, but our Guseju-nim craved worldly delicacies from every corner.
"Who the hell're you?"
"Sent by Priest Kim Ho-woo. Starting today as the medicinal cuisine chef."
The guy meticulously plating Korean dishes scowled at "medicinal cuisine"—overlapping his turf from some young punk. I ignored him, changed into chef whites, washed up. I felt their glances but had no fear of exposure.
I had my Google Book.
"Hocus pocus abracadabra."
Drinking this soup temporarily lowers favorability from everyone around you.
Recipe: Add one drop of tears of regret, one drop of tears of dissipation, three drops of tears of obsession to instant soup base. Boil for 4 minutes.
Substitute Recipe: No instant soup? Use dashida and homemade broth instead.
I snatched the Korean chef's dashida packet, dumped it in a pot, added water. Dashida alone's weird, so in went a chicken stock cube. The Korean chef stormed over, bellowing what kind of medicinal bullshit this was. I caught the dissipation in his rage, twisted his jowls—one drop of tears of dissipation scooped quick. Then I grabbed the Japanese chef bolting to call devotees.
"One more step, and you'd have rallied the flock. But you were slow. Caught ya."
"GYAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"
Twist—one drop of tears of regret.
Obsession tears left. I eyed the Chinese, Western chefs, and pâtissier. At the Western chef's pasta, I squirted ketchup. Italian specialist.
"MAMMA MIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Chinese next. He gripped his cleaver in a lame stance; I grinned. "Kimchi and hanbok are Korean."
"Kimchi's paocai, hanbok's hanfu!!!!!!!!!!"
Desserts last. I slathered chocolate cream on fresh mint tea. "Mint choco tea now? Heh heh heh!"
"O."
"What 'O'? You crazy fuck."
Western chef's pasta obsession: one drop. Chinese chef's kimchi/hanbok fixation: one drop. Pâtissier's mint-choco mania: one drop. Three total, into the pot.
Boiled precisely—strong, then medium-low—for four minutes. Ladled into fancy dishware, loaded on a cart.
Now, just serve it to Guseju.