Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: The Song of Tomato Sauce
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*Meanwhile, at the Empire Army's 3rd Infantry Division garrison.*
The bell signaling dinner time rang out heavily.
Squad leader Sergeant Klaus was leaning against the barracks wall with a bored expression.
For over two years in uniform, the only tastes his tongue remembered from mess hall grub were two: greasy and sodden, or watery and bland.
"Squad leader, sir, we need to head to dinner."
Standing timidly at the barracks entrance, speaking up hesitantly, was Richter—a fresh recruit who hadn't even been at the unit for a full week.
His boyish face, still seeming smaller than his uniform, was filled with tension and clear fear of upsetting his squad leader.
Klaus let out a sigh without even glancing at the rookie.
"Ah, chow time again? Tch, can't even be bothered to eat. Weekends fly by pointlessly. All the guys are on leave."
His voice carried the deep resignation of a man who found no joy in life whatsoever.
Chow. To Klaus, that word for army meals meant nothing more than the bare minimum fuel injection to sustain life—nothing more, nothing less.
Expecting flavor was a luxury; it was simply an obligation to fill the belly and endure tomorrow's hellish training.
"Come on, move it. Dawdle too long and the supply sergeant will mark you for kitchen cleanup duty."
Klaus dragged himself up and stepped out of the barracks.
Richter followed behind like a duckling trailing its mother, trotting along.
Crossing the parade ground toward the mess hall, the procession of hundreds of soldiers resembled a massive steel caterpillar wriggling along.
All the same expressions, all the same gaits. Their destination, as always, was the gray building awaiting only disappointment.
"Squad leader, sir, what do you think tonight's menu is?"
Richter asked cautiously. Klaus smirked at the naive question.
"Menu? You think there's such a thing, kid? If they toss some beans in yesterday's watery slop instead of potatoes, that's a new item. Add a few sausage scraps tomorrow, and it's special rations. I ditched any expectations on my first leave."
He wasn't joking.
Whenever they approached the mess hall, the nose-stinging stench was always boiled grease mixed with rancid vegetables.
But today felt off.
As they drew nearer, riding the wind came not the usual smell, but something entirely different.
"Huh...?"
Klaus's steps faltered unconsciously.
This wasn't the army smell he knew.
Tangy yet sweet, laced with a deep, rich meaty aroma—an appetite-stimulating scent he'd never encountered before.
Richter beside him was already sniffing eagerly, eyes wide round.
"Squad leader, sir, this smell... it's gotta be something insanely delicious."
"Quiet. Probably some special dish in the officers' mess. Got nothing to do with us."
Klaus tried to play it cool, but his heart was starting to race.
Could it be? That flicker of hope he'd thought buried years ago was peeking out from a dusty corner of his mind.
At the mess hall entrance, the soldiers' murmurs were different from usual.
Flushed faces full of anticipation.
And in front of the hall, potbellied Supply Officer stood atop a wooden crate, clearing his throat to draw attention.
"Attention! All of you, quiet down!"
The supply officer's voice boomed, and the clamor died. He scanned the troops with a smug look before speaking.
"Tonight's dinner is different from the usual! His benevolent Majesty the Emperor, in recognition of your hard service to the Empire and to boost morale, has graciously bestowed 'this' as part of a special meal!"
The supply officer bellowed proudly, as if he'd invented it himself. Low gasps of awe rippled through the ranks.
Klaus snorted inwardly.
Emperor's grace, huh? Just fancy words for the same old crap.
But his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward the mess hall interior.
Finally, serving began. The long line seemed to crawl slower than usual.
When Klaus and Richter's turn came, Klaus mechanically held out his tray.
And the moment food was ladled onto it, he doubted his eyes.
"...?!"
On the tray wasn't drab gray or brown mush, but a stew so vividly red it hurt the eyes.
Chunky meat and potatoes asserted their presence in the deep crimson broth, steam rising with an explosion of that ecstatic aroma from the parade ground.
Beside it, not hard black bread, but a soft white slice—and a pat of dreamlike yellow butter, neatly placed.
"Th-this is..."
Richter trailed off in awe. Klaus was speechless too. He just stared blankly at his tray.
Overwhelming color and scent. This was food—something he'd never experienced in the army.
He sat down as if entranced.
The hall was eerily quiet. Everyone buried their noses in their trays, shoveling food ravenously without a word.
"...!"
Klaus swallowed dryly and scooped a spoonful of stew.
Red broth with a big chunk of meat went into his mouth. And time stopped.
The tangy, deep tomato flavor burst on his tongue. Then soft meat juices enveloped it, followed by sweet mashed potato.
Ingredients that once fought separately harmonized perfectly in the red sauce, playing a symphony.
This wasn't the chow he knew. It was proper food. No—beyond that.
Gods above...
Klaus was speechless. He just kept spooning.
He tore bread, soaked it in the red broth. The usual rock-hard army bread turned soft and moist like fine restaurant bread.
A bite with a dab of butter filled his mouth with nutty bliss, dizzying happiness.
Beside him, Richter mumbled in a near-tearful voice.
"Squad leader, sir... it's too good... really... so good..."
Klaus didn't reply. Couldn't. He couldn't put down his spoon.
He wolfed it down. Scraped every last drop with bread.
Had it ever been like this? A tray this spotless?
He stared blankly at the empty tray.
His belly was warm and full. But an emotion beyond that welled up from his ash-gray heart.
Not mere satiety. A sense of being alive, a tiny hope that tomorrow might be worth it.
Something inside him had changed.
The hall remained quiet. But this silence was worlds apart from before dinner.
Not resignation and complaint, but awe and satisfaction—a sacred hush.
Soft gasps here and there. Soldiers exchanged nods of disbelief.
In that moment, over two hundred men united perfectly by one flavor. Klaus looked at Richter.
The kid who'd scarf moldy bread when hungry, enduring homesick rookie hell away from family.
Now, he'd ditched dignity and was licking his tray.
Klaus poked his side and grumbled offhandedly.
"Hey, kid, good stuff?"
At the gruff question, the boy snapped his head up.
His youthful eyes shone with wonder, fear gone.
"Yes, squad leader, sir! It's delicious!"
The boy nearly shouted. Excitement and joy overflowed uncontrollably.
"M-my mom's stew is great too... but this... this is a taste I've never had. Something this good... really...!"
Richter trailed off, ducking back to his tray.
No broth left to lick, he gazed at it like precious treasure, regretfully.
Klaus recalled days ago: the kid entering barracks, missing mom, hiding under blankets sobbing quietly.
That same kid now sparkled at an empty tray.
Meanwhile, Richter stared blankly into space.
Far from the capital, his rural village. Leaving for the army, he'd regretted everything.
Brutal rookie training, nightly homesickness, endless gray army life ahead.
For a week, he'd cursed his past self nightly before sleep.
But now, this moment.
Warm fullness in his belly, lingering ecstatic aftertaste.
And the supply officer's words: 'His Majesty recognizes your service.'
Even if formal rhetoric, the taste was real.
From the Empire's heights, this flavor sent to lowly soldiers like him.
His grueling training and labor weren't meaningless drudgery, but noble devotion to the Empire—recognized by someone. An intense belonging and pride, felt for the first time.
Foolish rookie Richter clenched his fist unconsciously.
Enlisting... was the right call.
For the first time, no regrets about his choice.
Proud, even, to wear this uniform.
Tomorrow's training still scared him, he still missed family—but now he could endure.
No—he had to. For the day he'd taste this again.
Klaus silently watched Richter's changing expression.
The sacred silence filling the hall had turned to soft murmurs.
But not the usual gripes and curses.
"Hey, this is the real deal, huh?"
"Can't we have this for breakfast tomorrow too? Damn, I won't leave scraps now."
"I miss Mom. Gotta treat her to this on leave."
Soldiers from different squads, different backgrounds, united for the first time by the topic of taste.
A miracle: the mess hall air, once thick with resentment and apathy, now warm and vibrant.
Klaus stood. Patted Richter's shoulder.
"Done eating? Up, kid. Cleanup time soon."
Still gruff, but something new laced his tone.
Richter sprang up like a spring, replying brightly.
"Yes, squad leader, sir!"
Heading back to barracks, the western sky glowed red with sunset.
Just like the stew that made them happy tonight.
Klaus gazed at it, muttering softly.
Tomorrow's training will suck. And the day after too.
But a faint smile tugged his lips.
Still... chow time might be something to look forward to now.
It was a tiny, certain hope in life—forgotten for over two years.
.
.
.
"Fresh tomato sauce is the best~ 'Cause it's tasty, tomato sauce is the best~ With tomato sauce, we become lions!"
"But no tomato sauce for those pencil-pushers, no tomato sauce for those bastards!"
"We love the tomato sauce in the stew, 'cause it's tasty, we love the tomato sauce!"
This peculiar military ditty emerging—and even officers and commanders singing it—wouldn't be far in the future.