Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Triumph of the King of Winter
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Breakfast time.
The air in the dining room was thick with an unusual tension. ◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Yesterday, I had screwed up big time.
A monstrosity born from the madness of my college days and my gamer otaku passion.
I'd hurled King of Winter at my father.
Once sanity returned, regret crashed over me like a tidal wave.
In a country dominated by noble, refined literature, my tale of patricide and undead hordes was obviously headed straight for the kindling pile.
Clink.
The sound of knife and fork clattering against the plate echoed unusually loudly.
I shoved a piece of bread into my mouth and cautiously glanced at my father, Count Del BlackStone.
Dark circles shadowed Father's eyes.
The man who normally retired sharply at ten last night had apparently pulled an all-nighter.
'No way... Did the irreverent content keep him up fuming all night?'
The prince murders his father and usurps the throne.
Thinking about it again, for a sitting noble and the king's close aide like Father, it was content that warranted a noose.
I subtly straightened my posture, ready to drop to my knees the moment Father's roar came down.
That's when Father spoke.
"...I read it all."
Eh?
"I had no idea you had this kind of talent."
Father's voice was hoarse, but the emotion within burned more with excitement than anger.
A thrilled tone, like someone who'd witnessed something extraordinary.
At that moment, Mother, seated beside him, jumped in with sparkling eyes, as if she'd been waiting.
"Leban, Mom loved it too. Oh my, when the prince drew the demon sword, I thought my heart would stop!"
Mother clasped her hands like a schoolgirl and gazed at me.
"So, when can we see the next part? Does that poor prince really... fall completely into corruption?"
I stared at them blankly for a moment.
Wait, hold on.
That's just the game story I grinded through thousands of times in my past life until my sanity snapped.
But the atmosphere was anything but ordinary.
Even my usually quiet brother and little sister, focused on their meals, had eyes gleaming with curiosity.
They seemed fascinated that the family slacker had written a novel.
I cleared my throat, deciding not to let this chance slip.
"Ahem. Actually... I've already planned out the rest."
"Ooh!"
Father and Mother's exclamations burst out in unison.
I put on a grave expression and drove the nail home into their admiration.
"However, if you want to see more of this story... there's a condition. Please retract your order to kick me out now that I'm an adult."
Father cleared his throat and averted his gaze.
"Ahem. Fine. If you wrap it up satisfactorily... I won't throw you out."
"You promise!"
"Yes, I promise. On the family head's name."
Survival secured.
I holed up in my room and frantically wielded the pen.
A perfect blueprint already existed in my head.
After sinking nearly 10,000 hours into that game... the memories of pouring my life into it were vivid.
"An unending winter approaches... Heh, iconic line."
I delved into past-life memories, elevating every quest and cinematic scene I'd seen into novel form.
The guardian who blocks his path banished, the part two ending where he ascends as the King of Winter.
And the long-awaited part three.
After trials and tribulations, the allied forces of the entire continent gather.
To defeat the King of Winter and safeguard world peace.
Translating the game guide into prose was grueling, but it couldn't help but feel vivid.
"Ah, shit, full party wipe again."
"Let's go again."
"If the mage steps in the puddle again, I'm out."
Ah...
Those agonizing, intense days.
How many keyboards did I smash trying to down that boss!
Those memories lingered in my mind as clearly as if I'd played just days ago.
The problem? My fingers translating it to words weren't nearly as sharp.
"Argh, damn... How many times is 'gravely' now? Keeps falling back on the same words."
I banged my head on the desk.
Prose skills didn't matter. The narrative was key... I told myself, but honestly, this was an intelligence issue.
My paltry vocabulary kept tripping me up.
Thanks to that, I kept a brick-thick dictionary open, hunting synonyms and revising endlessly.
The silver lining? My greatest weapon wasn't vocabulary or prose finesse.
Combat.
It was the language I'd memorized through thousands of wipes.
"Okay. In this scene, the tanker... no, can't say tanker. The knight order holds the front, the filthy flankers... no, shock troops hit the rear, the healer... no, the saintess sings the hymn of healing..."
My head throbbed translating game terms to this world's lingo, but oddly, the words flowed steadily.
The clash of blades, the scent of freezing blood, the battlefield where screams, prayers, and laughter mingled at once.
Memories of that brutal raid I could never forget, no matter how much time passed!
And finally.
The King of Winter falls after a fierce, desperate bloodbath.
Before his kneeling form, phantoms of those he'd slain multiply endlessly.
As his groping eyes grow dim in the void.
One particularly vast, radiant phantom approaches and whispers to him.
[...Now is the time to enter eternal rest. No winter lasts forever...]
With those words, the man who drenched the world in terror crumbled onto the frigid ice floor. ◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ "...Done! Perfect!"
The moment I dotted the final period, I flung the pen and flopped onto the bed.
A dopamine bomb lobbed into this dull world.
This story couldn't possibly fail!
The moment my dream of extended lifespan came true perfectly. ◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The reaction far exceeded my expectations—practically explosive.
"A grand literary master has emerged from our family!!"
Even the usually composed Father burst out of his study, bellowing it.
"Waaah... It's so sad...!"
Little sister Marlin was sprawled on my room floor, sobbing her heart out, and even the notoriously strict brother Lucius patted my shoulder with reddened eyes.
"Leban... I never knew your vacant stares hid such profound philosophy. As your brother, I feel ashamed."
"Ah, yeah. Something like that."
"However."
Lucius fixed me with a sharp gaze and added gravely.
"The spelling's a mess, and the prose is too colloquial. Full of grammatical errors. I'll proofread it. A book bearing our family name can't go out unfinished."
"...Huh? Book? You're publishing it?"
"Of course. We can't keep a masterpiece like this to ourselves."
Brother's lost it.
Or am I?
Publishing this drivel? Where the son kills his father and seizes the throne?
Tainting—no, shitting on—the BlackStone name?
But that mad atmosphere soon became reality.
Father summoned a publisher to the mansion.
Contracts followed, revisions, cover design, typesetting.
And days later, before the assembled family and retainers, Father declared:
"King of Winter will soon be published. And... the BlackStone name will grace the cover prominently, elevating our house's prestige."
That was Father's most resounding endorsement.
The result...
"A chronicle of such raw tragedy—unlike anything before!"
"Patricidal and immoral, yet it delivers strange catharsis."
"The author must have lived through war! No other way to describe it so vividly!"
The public went wild.
Pretentious literary critics, meanwhile, foamed at the mouth.
"Leban BlackStone, heretic of the literary world!"
"Prose as crude as it gets."
"Disorganized, sloppy writing. A disgrace to literature."
"Imagination shines, but needs training to craft it into words."
Praise and scorn deadlocked evenly.
And as we all know, nothing markets like noise.
Thanks to that, my book sold like hotcakes, gold coins piling up in the vault.
"Heh heh heh..."
Ah, royalties.
Royalties... are beautiful.
I grinned, picturing the vault brimming with gleaming coins.
Whatever the currency, watching the balance grow is a dopamine festival anywhere.
That's when Marlin burst through the door.
"Bro! Slacking again? Stop playing around and write another story!"
"Sigh..."
The old me would've taken a solid hit from her blunt straight ball.
But... who am I now?
"The BlackStone grand literary master."
Saying it aloud even lifted my mood.
This must be what they mean by position making the man.
I pointed my index finger at my sister, wagging it side to side, and declared proudly.
"Bro's not slacking. I'm officially in Father's recognized 'inspiration recharge period.' You wouldn't get it yet, little Marlin..."
"What're you on about."
In the end, to dodge her pitiful glare, I had no choice but to roughly adapt and recount my past life's 'Snow White' tale. ◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ But didn't they say human greed knows no bounds and repeats the same mistakes?
With survival threats gone, boredom swooped in to fill the void.
'...So boring.'
Boredom.
For a modern dopamine addict, this smartphone-less medieval peace was hellish.
And I had money but nowhere to spend it. No fun to be had!
I needed something more stimulating, something to really spike my dopamine.
After rolling around in bed, I strolled out leisurely, hoping for something interesting.
There, in the garden center, stood Father with hands behind his back, sighing deeply.
"Haa..."
Normally, I'd have ignored him.
Getting caught would've just meant unwanted nagging.
But our father-son rapport had warmed lately...
And above all, I was bored anyway.
"Father, what's troubling you? Wrinkles deep between your brows."
"Ah, Leban."
Father halted his pacing and looked at me.
The old him would've snapped, 'What would you do about it?' But his gaze toward his bestseller author son had definitely softened.
Father sighed with a serious face.
"Whew... Yes, better to confide in you. Truth is, there's trouble in the royal kitchen."
"The kitchen?"
"Grand Chef Sir James is retiring at year's end. After fifty years, can't hold him back."
Ah, James.
The chef hailed for elevating this kingdom's cuisine a notch.
Even knighted by the king for his merits.
"The issue is his successor. No one to match the royal palates accustomed to Sir James's cooking. Plenty of recommendations, but all dubious skills or shady backgrounds..."
Father looked genuinely pained.
Makes sense. As Court Count overseeing royal household affairs, finding the king's table chef was major business.
Plus, with Father's strict, fair nature, he couldn't stomach some unskilled parachute ruining the king's meals.
He'd select rigorously... but that's no easy task.
"Hmm... Instead of just recommendations, why not widen the net? Even outside noble kitchens, there must be gems."
I tossed it out casually.
This world is vast; some hidden culinary prodigy in the boonies, right?
But Father slowly shook his head.
"James isn't just a great chef. He understands royal dignity, handles thousands of ingredients masterfully, commands subordinates superbly. Grand Chef of the royal kitchen isn't a post you climb by cooking well alone."
'Hmm... Yeah, royal head chef isn't for just anyone.'
That instant.
A lightbulb 'pinged' in my head.
Nationwide open recruitment.
Rigorous judging.
Thousands of challengers.
Past-life memories flashed panoramic.
Sizzling steaks, tyrannical chefs hurling plates, blindfolded judges tasting, frantic contestants with one minute left!
[This chicken's so raw, a good vet could revive it!]
[Get the hell out of my kitchen!!]
'Wait, I can just make this myself?'
No TV station? Record with magic orbs and distribute.
No editing tech? I'll do it.
Subtitles? Magic overlays.
Money? Royalties stacking in the vault—what worry?
My dopamine sensors went haywire.
A chance to inject the 'stimulation' I'd craved into this dull world.
Solve Father's woes, have fun, make bank—perfect item!
My lips curled slyly.
"Father."
"Hm? Struck by inspiration?"
"Post a public notice, recruit chefs nationwide. But... interviews alone won't reveal true talent, right?"
I stepped closer, whispering sweetly like a devil's temptation.
"So, host a competition."
"Competition?"
"Yes. Utterly fair, missions testing every Grand Chef quality. And... spice it with some entertainment."
A massive plan already sketched in my mind.
Enter: Royal Chef Survival.
"Let's make it big. I'll deliver a show the whole nation raves about."
The launch of a colossal project to save my boring life... no, plunge this kingdom into a dopamine sea.