Chapter 68
Chapter 68
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Coconut Curry, Pu Pat Pong Curry, Tom Yum Sauce (2)
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One of the trolls, who looked quite elderly, scooped up a spoonful of the bright red tom yum broth and shoved it into his mouth. He immediately broke into a fit of coughing.
"Cough! So sour... so spicy! What the hell is this...!"
His empty stomach, starved for so long, convulsed for the first time under the assault of such intense sourness and heat.
He frantically looked around. Was this poison-like broth some kind of torture reserved just for them, the spies?
But what caught his eye were the imperial soldiers casually slurping down the same red broth without a care.
They grimaced a bit, sure, but they were chatting away as if it somehow cleared the palate.
"Ugh, my tongue's numb. But damn, it's the first thing in days that's woken up my taste buds."
"Agreed. This muggy weather had me too lazy to even chew bread, but that sour broth and curry make it bearable now."
The old troll couldn't believe his ears.
'No... taste buds?'
Right then, a soldier who had just finished his watch on the ramparts came down, removing his helmet.
A veteran about to take over shift offered him a plate, but the soldier waved it off.
"Nah, I'm good. I'm stuffed to bursting from earlier. Still sitting heavy in my gut."
"Take it anyway. You'll get hungry."
"I'm fine. Worst case, the mess hall's open twenty-four hours, or I can just gnaw on some combat rations rolling around the barracks. I'm off to bed."
The soldier yawned and vanished into the barracks.
Watching the scene, the old troll dropped his spoon in shock.
They weren't starving—they were so stuffed that they'd lost their appetites, and to get them back, they were willingly torturing their stomachs with this sour, spicy stuff.
Even those grain bricks that had tasted like honey to them were mere lazy snacks for these folks.
Bloodshot veins bulged in the old troll's eyes.
He pictured Chief Juk Sun, who had starved the soldiers while secretly hoarding meat for themselves.
The sour twist of tom yum in his gut had morphed into pure revulsion and resentment toward the chief.
The old troll turned his gaze aside.
Beside him, the craftsman Malik was already dipping bread into coconut curry and wolfing it down.
The other defectors were the same.
They weren't just eating food—they were swallowing years of pent-up sorrow, tears streaming down their faces.
When every plate had been scraped clean, the old troll and Malik, along with dozens of other defectors, set down their crude weapons on the ground.
The warriors of Rak Jin's tribe led them before me.
"Holy One."
Dozens of trolls knelt in unison before me.
Malik was the first to slam his forehead into the dirt.
"Holy One...! How can we ever repay this grace..."
The other defectors bowed their heads too, shoulders heaving.
It wasn't fear—it was relief from hunger and terror, mixed with awe at this incomprehensible mercy.
I approached Malik, helmet in hand.
"Rise, Malik."
At my words, they hesitated and lifted their heads.
"I do not punish the hungry. Nor is there any need to repay this grace just yet."
I turned to Rak Jin and gave the order.
"Rak Jin. Escort them to the barracks."
Rak Jin's eyes widened.
"Commander, but these are..."
"They need washing first."
I scanned the defectors' ragged, filthy forms.
"The water here's clean—let them bathe as much as they want. Provide hot water, fresh clothes, beds."
I called over the quartermaster.
"Give them a few bottles of wine too. They rest easy tonight."
"Yes, sir!"
The defectors' eyes widened in disbelief once more.
Healing, food, even baths and booze.
I watched Rak Jin lead them toward the barracks.
As he passed, I added softly,
"But."
Rak Jin halted.
"Keep them away from the armory and gates. Station Rak Talri warriors around their barracks—protect them, and watch them closely."
Rak Jin nodded firmly and melted into the darkness.
Malik followed Rak Jin's soldiers into the darkness.
His back had been healed by the saintess's miracle, but his mind was still in turmoil.
Images of starving comrades outside the walls and Chief Juk Sun ordering floggings clashed with the scene before him, churning his thoughts.
They arrived at a makeshift camp on the edge of the barracks.
Several tents stood there, and massive wooden tubs inside steamed invitingly.
"Wash up."
Rak Jin's subordinate jerked his chin curtly.
Malik and the defectors hesitated.
For swamp trolls, bathing meant wallowing in mud puddles that reeked of earth.
Hot springs or good water were privileges for the chief and the powerful.
But these weren't puddles.
The tubs brimmed with impossibly clear, clean water—warm steam rising from it.
"Th-this water...?"
Malik dipped a cautious hand and flinched at the cozy warmth.
His eyes traced to the source.
A huge water tank. Murky swamp water poured in from above, but from the faucet below poured crystal-clear water.
The filtered sediment flowed down a connected pipe toward the lowlands.
"Magic tool. A purifier supplied by the Holy One."
A watching Rak Talri warrior stated flatly.
"That one stone linked to the land's mana veins turns swamp rot into spring water. We drink it, bathe in it. Got a problem?"
Malik and the defectors were stunned.
Drinking rotten water and dying of disease was the jungle's fate.
Yet they solved it with a single stone.
They gingerly slipped into the tubs and began washing.
Sweat and grime from days of hunger, fear, and whip lashes sloughed off their wounds.
Warm water soothed their skin, melting away tension, leaving them languid.
After bathing, they received new clothes.
Not stiff, stinking hides, but soft imperial cotton tunics that wicked away sweat.
Inside the barracks, promised wine and bread awaited.
Of course, the combat rations soldiers had discarded were piled high on the table, free for the taking.
Soon, he bypassed the soft bread and fragrant wine, picking up a brick of compressed grain and egg white instead.
'...Sweet. Nutty. And packed with calories.'
He eyed the mountain of bricks on the table.
Wiping his mouth with his hand instead of a napkin, he approached a watching Rak Talri warrior.
Though fellow trolls, they looked like another species in clean cotton tunics emblazoned with Rak Talri insignia, fine imperial steel weapons at hand—unlike their own sweat-crusted rags.
"Hey, warrior of the rock."
"...What."
The Rak Talri warrior replied curtly, vigilance unbroken.
"Do you... really eat like this every day?"
The warrior nodded toward the supply crates stacked like a hill in the square corner, as if the question was absurd.
"All food. The Holy One never taught us hunger."
Malik swallowed hard, recalling the overpowering red broth from before.
"That... sour, spicy broth earlier."
"Tom yum?"
"What is that stuff? You're so abundant—why eat something that twists your tongue?"
The Rak Talri warrior looked at Malik like he was incomprehensible.
"That? When we've eaten too much rich, tasty stuff and lost our appetites, the commander made it special to whet them. One bowl and I could down two more bowls of rice."
"...!"
Malik froze in place.
His head rang like it'd been hammered.
No appetite...?
They were revolted by the stench of rot beyond mere hunger, while these folks had eaten so much they lost taste—and ate that broth to regain it.
We can't win.
This wasn't about weapons. It was a difference in very existence.
Juk Sun preached tradition and pride, but the Holy One showed abundance and survival.
Silent for a moment, Malik asked the warrior again.
"Warrior. I have a question."
The Rak Talri warrior eyed him warily.
"Is all this real? Clean water, abundant food. Even refugees joined the feast. Is every day like this?"
The warrior paused, then grunted.
"As you see."
Unbelieving, the craftsman pressed with a trembling voice.
"But... why? We're enemies. I was a spy. No matter how plentiful, why heal us, feed us, let us bathe?"
The Rak Talri warrior studied Malik. No contempt in his eyes—just faint pity.
"Because the Holy One commanded it."
"Why would Saint Jonathan...?"
"Dunno."
The warrior shrugged.
"But he said, 'The hungry are not enemies.' He saved our chief, gave our tribe non-perishing food and clean water."
"Those imperial soldiers atop the walls too. They say they didn't come to steal our land—they came to trade with us."
The warrior added, listening to the merry soldier songs drifting from outside.
"The forest tyrant Juk Sun calls us traitors. But if giving starving children clean water over rot, fresh seasoned meat over spoiled, makes me a traitor—then I'll gladly be one."
Malik reeled from the warrior's matter-of-fact words, like another hammer blow.
He glanced at his fellow defectors inside the barracks, weeping in joy over bread and wine.
Juk Sun spoke of tradition and pride, delivering only whips, hunger, discrimination.
But Saint Jonathan spoke of survival and sustenance, bringing healing and plenty.
Malik realized the fate he must bear—and the path he must take.
Soon, the troll once called the craftsman asked the warrior before him.
"I want to meet the Holy One—the commander leading the Rak Talri and imperial soldiers!"