Crisis Comes When You Least Expect It
I woke up feeling peckish, so I led Kalia out of the barracks. Off to one side of the outdoor area, soldiers were already gathered, busily preparing dinner. Two cooks and one regular soldier hovered around a massive pot, stirring the soup with fervor, while the rest of the off-duty men sat in clusters, chatting idly as they waited for the food to be ready.
I found a spot for us a polite distance away. As their superior, I didn't want to barge in and ruin their cozy downtime. Besides, the soldiers were far more intimidated by Kalia standing behind me than by me. Forcing them to eat under the chill aura she exuded would be torture.
Let them rest easy when it's time to rest.
Considering their plight, I opted for a spot a little removed. Kalia, meanwhile, gathered an armful of firewood and began prepping the bonfire. In the biting northern cold, warmth wasn't optional—it was essential.
She stacked the logs neatly, then pulled a small magic tool from her bosom. It was called a "lighter" in this world too. I'd learned over the past week living with her why a squire like Kalia relied on something even commoners rarely used.
She couldn't wield mana.
A knight who couldn't handle mana, the bread and butter of any squire.
Probably because of her unique ability.
Kalia flicked the lighter with a practiced, impassive motion, unable to even spark the simplest flame magic. With a click, a tiny flame leaped to the wood pile.
I was curious about the exact reason she couldn't use mana, but I didn't pry. In a world where mana was as natural as air, being unable to manipulate it was treated like a disability. A casual question from me could unwittingly reopen old wounds.
No matter how stoic and dry Kalia seemed, she was human too.
And the clincher? She was someone who held genuine goodwill toward me. No need to poke at the sore spots of the woman who stood guard by my side all night to protect me. That was basic decency—the line I'd drawn for myself.
I perched on a log and patted the spot beside me. "Sit. No arguments."
Knowing her personality, I tacked on the firm note. Kalia dipped her head slightly, then quietly settled her hips next to mine.
That was Kalia to a T. She'd hesitate forever out of excessive politeness unless you added that pushy edge, at which point she'd pretend to resist before complying sweetly. A tiring personality in some ways, easy to handle in others.
The bonfire's glow enveloped us in the gathering dusk. Kalia sat motionless beside me, same as always. An awkward vibe, but not uncomfortable—just this weird, oddly comfortable strangeness.
I soaked in the crackling warmth, waiting for food. It didn't take long. Ron, helping the cook distribute rations, appeared in my view. They stopped right in front of me.
Ron flashed his usual warm, affable smile and handed me a bowl of soup. "Thanks. Looks good."
"Enjoy your meal, young master!"
Ron replied brightly, then offered the second bowl to Kalia. But instead of taking it, she just stared blankly at the offering.
Puzzled, Ron tilted his head before smiling faintly. "This is yours, Lady Crisia. Here you go."
"...Ah, right. Thanks."
Only then did realization dawn on her, and she accepted the bowl. I glanced sideways, took the meat skewer from the cook, and Kalia promptly grabbed hers too this time.
With plenty more to serve, Ron and the cook hurried off to their duties. I watched their retreating backs for a moment, then focused on the steaming meal before me.
"Dig in."
Kalia nodded at my brief greeting. "Yes. You too, young master."
The bonfire crackled, mingling with the distant murmur of soldiers. We sat side by side, skewering fresh-grilled meat.
The warmth and juices couldn't compare to the mansion's chef specialties, but the romantic camp vibe made it taste damn good. Surprisingly, my modern palate meshed well with this world's cuisine—especially since nobility meant they fussed over presentation too, ramping up the satisfaction. Like three squares a day at a fancy fine-dining spot. Felt luxurious for a commoner like my old self.
Coming to a romance fantasy, the biggest perk might've been meals like this. Though, having that as the sole upside was kinda meh.
Come to think of it, ancient Korean ancestors treated underlings the same way—whipping up tasty, pretty food. Seemed no different here.
Something about balancing yin-yang and the five elements...?
Believed it kept you healthy or whatever. Anyway, the food was solid; only downside was no soda or fried chicken. That factored into my itch to get back home ASAP.
No matter how romantic fantasy camping dinners seemed, the novelty wore off with repetition. Familiarity bred contempt, after all.
But this wild dining was ending soon. We'd head back to the mansion tomorrow morning—civilization's flavors and cushy chairs awaited.
I was scooping soup when Kalia suddenly hurled something with a clatter and shot to her feet.
Startled, my eyes snapped to her. Her soup bowl lay spilled on the ground—the source of that crash.
Taste not to her liking? Or something up?
The questions flashed, but froze at her expression. Her usually stoic face was twisted in a deep frown, glaring murderously into the forest beyond.
Only tree shadows rippled in the darkness her gaze pierced.
A prickling unease hit me. I called her name cautiously. "...Kalia?"
Her hand went to her sword hilt; she glanced at me, then bellowed, "Everyone, battle stations!"
The soldiers, mid-meal, looked baffled. But hesitation lasted a heartbeat. They leaped up, gripped their swords, and formed ranks.
Strictly speaking, Kalia had no command authority here. But as my bodyguard and the second-in-command, she outranked them all. And when the strongest squire issued a warning, bodies reacted before doubts could form.
That was textbook northern soldier protocol. In these battlefields, a split-second question could mean death. Valenvalt's battle-hardened troops, forged by experience and drills, knew instinctively: drawing steel trumped asking why.
I shoved down my own doubts, rose, drew my sword from my belt, and sidled close to Kalia. "That bad?"
"Unclear. But not low-level like goblins."
Kalia couldn't use mana, so no "scouting" via mana waves like typical knights. Yet she was a full-fledged squire. Something else filled the gap.
So I trusted her.
But this time, I desperately hoped her senses were wrong. Anything above goblin was beyond my league—and might cost soldier lives. On the eve of returning home, I didn't want more ugliness.
Just a false alarm from her sharp instincts.
Gut feeling said otherwise.
It's a romance fantasy. This should end with her flub, us all laughing it off, me reassuring her so she doesn't feel bad. Right?
My hopes shattered.
This body's talent was exceptional. Even as my mind rebelled, my senses picked up the enemy's pressure first.
From the shadowed forest depths where her eyes locked—something heavy, humid pressed in.
Not a feeling. Real.
The chill killing intent squeezing my lungs was no illusion. My dread was spot-on.
Soon, the enemy revealed itself.
"Fuck. It's a romance fantasy. Why me...?"
A wyvern.
Power levels varied wildly across fantasy worlds, but here, its status was unique. Mocked as "dragon scraps" or "sub-par trash" by mercenaries.
Ironically, that was their way of conquering fear.
Wyverns were strong.
The archive explained it too—every wyvern sighting brought massive casualties.
A feral killing intent beyond mere beasts, dragonkin mana crushing the air—it pierced the forest gloom, needling my skin. Comparing it to goblins was an insult.