Chapter 49
Chapter 49
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Marinara, Thousand Island
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In the tavern of Marynarra in the Thousand Islands, where pub fried fish met tartar sauce to become a heavenly delight, and the knights' black bread drew vitality from aioli's bold punch—at that very moment.
The miracles wrought by the saint continued unabated in another corner of the empire.
Jonathan's sauce variations infiltrated the lives of the imperial citizens like the distinct notes of a finely composed symphony.
The central commercial city of the empire, Ahen.
Ernst, the owner of the Merhen Merchant House, who had amassed a fortune as a rising wool trader, gazed anxiously down at the table.
Today was the day he had invited Baron Oshirap, a noble from the capital whose influence could make or break his business.
The problem was the table.
He had tried to procure Bolognese sauce, but countless others had snapped up the stock.
He had gone for aioli or tartar next, but those too had been swiftly claimed long ago.
"Damn it all! Am I supposed to just boil these top-grade shrimp and scallops I paid a fortune for and serve them plain?!"
His wife cautiously offered him a small bottle.
"Dear, they say this is another new creation from the Argentis Trading Company by the saint himself. It's called 'Marinara'."
Ernst took the bottle.
It resembled tomato sauce, but the color was clearer, pierced by a fresh herbal aroma.
It wasn't as heavy as Bolognese, nor as stimulating as aioli.
"To hell with it! Head chef! Warm this up, toss it with the shrimp, and serve it!"
Not long after.
The rather portly Baron Oshirap arrived in his black velvet suit, and the ceremonial small talk concluded.
Moments later, plump shrimp and scallops swimming in red sauce graced the table.
The baron, of course, knew this upstart merchant Ernst had arranged the dinner to curry favor.
He had expected something trendy from the capital like Bolognese, but before him lay only a few shrimp drowned in red liquid.
"Hmph. Is this your show of sincerity, Ernst?"
"N-no, Baron! Th-this is the 'Marinara' sauce from the saint himself! Please, just one bite...!"
Ernst's back was drenched in sweat.
Baron Oshirap clicked his tongue and reluctantly picked up his fork. He dipped a shrimp haphazardly in the sauce and brought it to his mouth.
And his arrogant expression froze in place.
'...!'
This wasn't the Bolognese he had tasted before.
Not that heavy flavor smothering the ingredients with meaty weight.
'Refreshing!'
Enveloping his tongue: the bright acidity of rich tomato exploding alongside garlic's nutty aroma. Then, oregano and basil's fragrant embrace filled his nostrils.
This aromatic sauce didn't cover the premium shrimp's inherent sweetness—it elevated it, making it shine brighter.
No, that was just the start.
The shrimp's delicate flavors danced perfectly with the red sauce.
If Bolognese unified all under its imperial heaviness, this Marinara respected each ingredient's essence, drawing out its potential like a sage's wisdom.
The baron's tongue, dulled by butter and cream, awoke before this clear, harmonious purity.
Unconsciously, he speared the next scallop.
The sauce's fresh acidity seeped into the tender, chewy texture, exploding its flavor.
Tomato, garlic, and herbs' crisp harmony erased any fishy trace, leaving only condensed sea freshness and sweetness on his tongue.
When the plate was cleaned, Baron Oshirap finally set down his fork and fixed Ernst with a steady gaze.
The arrogance had vanished from his eyes, replaced by the cool scrutiny of a businessman.
"Ernst."
"Y-yes, Baron!"
"That wool venture you're pushing. I'll give it positive consideration. You've got good taste, after all."
Ernst felt a rush of euphoria like blood surging backward through his veins at those words.
The saint's harmonious flavor had just rewritten one merchant's fate entirely.
While one merchant's fate shifted in the commercial city, the exact opposite crisis unfolded in the capital's most glamorous salon.
Elise Academy, hailed as the empire's premier bride school.
Director Helena, Countess, slammed her sharp riding crop on the table.
"Leftovers again, Lady Mildred! Enduring bitterness is a noble virtue! If you can't even swallow a single weed properly, how will you become a family matriarch?!"
The twelve young ladies at the table stared miserably at their salad bowls.
Before them lay the empire's finest chef's fresh greens, but to young tongues, the bitterness was pure torment.
As Director Helena sighed, the head maid approached cautiously and whispered.
'D-Director, even to correct picky eating, isn't this too harsh...'
The countess snorted dismissively at the head maid.
"Head maid. These girls will lead the empire's future as family matriarchs. If they lack the will to overcome picky eating, how will they support husbands on the battlefield of society, bear children, and raise them?!"
"B-but as they grow older..."
"Even grown, if they're pampered crybabies, they'll shame their houses! With such weak spirits, how?!"
Helena's icy reprimand echoed through the salon.
The head maid tried to intervene, but Helena's convictions were ironclad.
Nobles bore the duty to risk life ahead of others, protecting nation and followers.
Noble women especially guarded homes while men fought on frontlines.
No, more than that.
If men died or were wounded, women led houses and raised children alone.
How trivial the quarrels over tea seemed. She knew true terror—what battlefields meant.
Having lost her husband young, at twenty-three she defended her unborn son and estate from wolfish in-laws. That bitterness dwarfed weeds.
Countess Helena endured, swallowed, overcame it alone to reach her position.
Lifelong chaste widow, raised a fine son, preserved estate—a noble exemplar.
Honored teacher of bride classes, model for future generations.
To her, young ladies weeping over salad bitterness sparked pity turning to rage.
"Our ancestors boiled leather boots in frozen north to defend empire, chose honorable death over treason! Bowing to mere leaf bitterness? Shame on imperial nobles!"
Her fierce scolding made the girls shrink further.
The head maid retreated regretfully; the salon filled with stifled sobs again.
"D-Director! Please quell your anger!"
Helena's cold gaze turned to the head maid.
"Blocking me now? When these weaklings shirk noble duty?"
"N-no! But must duty require such pain...?"
"Hm?"
Before Helena's arched brow, the head maid tremblingly offered a bottle.
"What is this, head maid?"
"It's called 'Thousand Island,' they say. Made by the saint for vegetables."
"The saint... Hah."
Cold scorn from Helena's lips.
She knew the 'saint's' rumors well.
The 'vermilion miracle' cream shaking the empire.
She had tasted its softness, richness.
But to her, it weakened tongues and resolve.
Cheap comfort for bitterness-avoiders. His sauce? Predictably worthless.
"Sweet temptation for children's whims. Fine. Bring it. I'll see if Valantia's saint outranks noble duty with my own eyes."
Helena selected the bitterest leaf, dipped lightly in pink sauce.
She planned scathing critique of its weakness.
But as sauce touched tongue, her steadfast face cracked for the first time.
'...!'
Not mere sweetness.
Mayonnaise's creaminess, nuttiness enveloped tongue.
Followed by tomato's fresh acidity, crisp texture pleasantly tickling, faint spicy finish.
Complex. Mature harmony, not childish sweet.
Most surprising: sauce didn't erase leaf bitterness—it embraced it.
Bitterness remained, but sauce's savoriness and tang transformed it from torment to appetite-whetting flavor.
"Th-this can't be..."
Then, one brave young lady wiped tears, drenched salad in sauce, bit in.
"...Huh?"
Her eyes widened.
"B-bitterness...! Tasty...?"
Signal flare. Others dove in.
Torment bowls emptied swiftly.
Sobs gone, salon rang with cheerful crunching.
"Director! More please!"
"First time veggies tasted this good!"
"Oh! This sauce is marvelous! With it, no more picky eating!"
Helena stared blankly.
Lifetime duty: noble endurance.
Decades' conviction crumbling before pink sauce bowl.
She realized.
Valantia's young saint didn't foster weakness.
He taught harmony with bitterness, not forced swallowing—wisdom.
'Was I wrong...? Endurance not sole path...'
Recalling life's pains, faint warmth softened her icy eyes after ages.
Helena watched girls laugh, emptying bowls.
Bitterness lingered, but they feared it no more.
Pink sauce's generous savor and tang wrapped overwhelming bitterness softly, making it swallowable.
Over innocent laughter, Helena overlaid memory-buried twenty-three-year-old self.
Young widow defending womb-child from kin-wolves alone.
Nights in cold study, clutching ledgers, stomach churning bitterness, swallowing tears.
Vowed fidelity to duty, husband's child to adulthood—refused white bread, chewed dry black.
Bitterness. Dry, tough. Her life itself.
Forbade tears, collapse—forced it down.
Noble duty; cry and lose. Self-flagellation.
If then, that stiff black bread bore pink sauce spoonful.
Or beside life's bitter pains, one teaching harmony.
Her life less agonizing, surely.
'...!'
Memories like dressing's sweet joy brushed eyelids.
First steps, meadow walk; son offering wildflowers, smile.
Late night, exhausted asleep at desk; son crept, rubbed cheek warmly.
Son with wooden sword chased bullies from village girl.
Now grown, commissioning imperial office amid petal-storm sky.
Amid forced bitter swallows, pink sauce-like unexpected harmonies, sweets existed.
Those joys let her endure vast despair.
Helena realized.
Valantia's saint spread no weakness.
To stubborn old-era noble believing solitary endurance virtue, he offered harmony's new answer.
Not denying bitterness, elevating it proudly into better flavor—wisdom.
She relaxed stiff shoulders, called head maid. Voice stern, no longer cold.
"...Head maid."
"Y-yes, Director!"
"Add this 'Thousand Island' dressing to academy regular menu."
She smiled faintly at emptied salad bowls.
"And tomorrow, serve saint's meringue cookies as dessert. They overcame bitterness—due reward."
The saint's harmony miracle reshaped empire's strictest bride school's philosophy.
Finally, steadfast countess added to head maid.
"Head maid. One errand."
"Yes, ma'am! What?"
Pausing, composed, noble voice resonant—highborn lady's dignified tone.
"...To Valantia's young saint. Lord Jonathan, proxy lord of Kandoria and lord of Scarlet Pasture."
"Thank him for awakening this old woman, who believed enduring life's bitterness alone was duty, to harmony embracing even bitterness."
"And for giving young ladies hope—thanks from Elise Academy."