Chapter 82
Chapter 82
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 82
Chapter Title: The Taste of Gula
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The Merelrof Count scowled as he glared at the table. An old, small pouch sat there with its mouth wide open, filled with thick Gula seeds. All told, there might have been fifty of them, give or take.
"These are worth a whole fifteen gold coins?"
The count mentally calculated out of habit, as always.
Clark was a slave his wife Rien had bought from a slave caravan passing through the territory, just like her. Young and strong slaves were in short supply, so they had paid fifteen gold coins to acquire him at the time.
But slaves depreciated over time, so from a long-term perspective, trading him for Gula was absolutely profitable. Especially in these hungry times.
"They said they never trade a sack for less than fifty coins. But out of humanitarian concern, they handed this over first to put out the immediate fire."
"What nonsense."
What was the nonsense? The small quantity, or the purchase of Gula itself? The steward bowed his head, unable to gauge his master's intent. Either way, it was blood money flowing out. No wonder he wasn't pleased.
The Merelrof Countess lifted the tip of her pipe to her mouth.
"Did you get the slave contract?"
"Just a simple signature. The matter was urgent, so we agreed to notarize it later when there's time."
"Hmph. As expected of a child—such a fool. Who postpones a contract transfer? As if you know how things will turn out."
"But we got the Gula out of it, so it's good for us."
The count made no reply, just examined the Gula seeds this way and that. He'd always just been aware of their existence before, never inspected them this closely. Not in his decades of life.
"So, how do you eat this stuff?"
"Raw, boiled, grilled, steamed, stir-fried. The possibilities are endless, they say. Shall I send it to the kitchen?"
It was worth a whopping fifteen gold coins. No matter that it was weed trash, now that they'd paid for it, they couldn't just let the lowly servants have it all.
"Cook two, and plant the rest in the garden."
"Yes, my lord."
Two meant shares for the count and his wife. The steward bowed and took the pouch. The Merelrof Countess exhaled cigarette smoke and sidled up close to her husband.
"But I hear they're already eating a lot of Gula in the central region?"
"All lies. Rumors Ian spread to feed his territory's people."
"You think so? That Romandro fellow didn't seem to mind it much either."
Rumors were already rampant in the territory. But the surest one was that it tasted incredibly good. Why else would the Bratz territory's people go mad planting it and eating it three meals a day?
Knock knock.
"Simple Gula dishes, served."
"Come in. Hm. What's that smell?"
"I used a recipe I picked up in Bratz. Not sure if it'll suit your tastes."
"If it doesn't suit, you'll suit it instead."
Even to the servant's polite words, the count's reply was ice-cold. The servant gulped dryly and tensed as he backed away.
"Looks pretty good."
"Right? You wouldn't know it was a weed."
The grilled ones, glazed with sugar sauce, gave off a sweet, savory aroma, their edges golden and crisp.
And the boiled ones? Taut like pudding, melting smoothly in the mouth at a glance.
The servant sliced them thinly with a knife and offered pieces to the count and countess. They were smaller than eggs anyway, so slicing was mostly symbolic.
"Dear, try it."
The count was reluctant but cautiously brought a piece to his lips. His ingrained image of Gula made him want to gag, but what could he do? Fifteen gold coins! Since they'd paid, he had to at least taste it.
"Hm?"
The count, who had been chewing with a frown, paused. A new flavor slid smoothly down his tongue, one he'd never experienced before. His wife smiled with crinkled eyes, as if she'd expected it.
"Not bad, is it?"
"...Better than expected."
"See? The central trend isn't just empty talk. I can't wait for a proper meal in a month."
As the countess neatly speared a piece with her fork, the count stroked his mustache. He hated to admit it, but he had no choice. A rare delicacy, the first of its kind in his life. He cleared his throat a few times and turned to the steward.
"Keep this completely hushed—no rumors. And set rotating guards in the garden."
"Yes, my lord."
Someone was bound to covet it. Even the lady of the house had fallen for the rumors—what would the uneducated rabble think? Fifteen gold coins' worth of crop demanded strict management.
"And steward."
"Yes, my lord."
The count wiped his mouth and gave orders.
"Bring two more tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"Gula."
"Ah. Yes, understood."
At the count's request to try a different recipe this time, the steward paled. With so few in the sack, they'd run out in no time—but worse, he feared a whipping if it didn't suit.
Creak.
The steward sighed as he exited to the hall, and the servants withdrew as well. A suffocating silence hung between the count and his wife.
"Shall I pour wine?"
"What did you talk about?"
"As you saw, a very enlightening conversation."
The countess rose, fetched her husband's empty glass, and uncorked the wine. A servant approached, but she waved him off with a glance. Pouring herself, she shared the Bratz events in detail.
"...So we checked Lady Mary's room too. Nothing there. It makes sense it'd be lost in all the commotion."
"Why bring belongings of a dead traitor?"
"It was mine originally, after all."
The count was bothered by her unusually beaming smile but supposed the Gula made up for it. Before her return, he'd wanted to snap her neck on sight; now he calmly savored his wine.
Clink.
"Ah, my apologies."
"Tch."
A servant entered to clear dishes, apologized amid their close proximity, and retreated. As the Merelrof Count's gaze turned to the door, his wife swiftly sprinkled powder into his wine.
"Rien."
"Yes. Speak."
"But no second time. Come home at sunset again, and I'll break your ankle."
"...Will there be a next time? I have no reason to go to Bratz now. And if I do, it'll be with you."
'And you'll be a corpse by then.'
"Answer."
"Understood."
The count nodded in satisfaction and raised his glass. His wife did the same. They clinked lightly and smiled.
* * *
"Hm......"
"How's the condition?"
Ian had called a doctor to check Berik. He muttered in his sleep occasionally, but strangely showed no signs of waking. Even shaking him did nothing.
The doctor examined Berik and replied.
"He's asleep, that's for sure. With all that accumulated fatigue, he might just not wake easily. What was the drug?"
"It's a new narcotic circulating in Hwan. Don't know the exact components. But it seemed like a sleep-inducing hallucinogen. Overuse for a month leads to respiratory failure and death, they say. Berik just sniffed the powder and passed out."
"Some constitutions resist drugs. This is severe, but since he didn't ingest it, no need to worry. Though as a sleep hallucinogen, be cautious of..."
The doctor muttered while inserting an IV into Berik's hand.
"its anesthetic effects."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"Until he fully wakes, he might talk in his sleep, have sleep habits, or in worst cases, act like a sleepwalker."
Romandro, listening quietly, jumped up in alarm. Anyone else, fine—but Berik with sleepwalking? A nightmare. Tough personality, stamina—no handling that.
"Ian, uh, shouldn't we get chains and tie him down?"
"Good idea, but not sure it'll work."
"Better than nothing. And no matter how wild Berik gets, he's human. Can't break chains with his hands."
Romandro bolted out without hearing more, summoning servants. His shouts for large, sturdy chains echoed back.
"Heh, hehehe......"
Oblivious, Berik dreamed on, chuckling idiotically and smacking his lips. The doctor taped the IV site and stood.
"This IV boosts stamina. If he doesn't wake by lunch tomorrow, call me again."
"What about the side wound?"
"Ah, the wound?"
Ian prompted, and the doctor chuckled wryly, shaking his head.
"It's healing beautifully. But internals might lag, so always be careful."
"He won't listen to 'be careful.'"
"Still. Call me."
"Thanks. Out."
Creak.
With the doctor gone, Ian sat at his desk and opened documents. Fireplace crackling, Berik's breaths the only sound in the quiet room. Deep in focus, Ian sensed an odd vibe and looked at Berik.
"Ah."
Nearly startled.
Berik stared back, eyes wide and clear. Ian flinched and grimaced.
"IV worked well."
"...Why am I lying here?"
"Sniffed Lady Rien's powder and fainted. Need to call the doctor again. Any bad feelings?"
Berik sat up slowly, expression blank, and walked to the window. He sighed lowly, cursing.
"Haa, fuck, really."
"Berik?"
"Am I dreaming now?"
"No. Seems awake."
Blinking slow, eyes dull. Sleepwalking symptom? Berik pressed his forehead to the cold window, trying to shake off sleep.
"Berik. What's wrong? Problem?"
"Ah, seeing weird shit."
"Weird? Drug might cause hallucinations. Calm down, breathe deep."
Just then, Romandro should've been back with chains. Fearing Berik might rampage, Ian approached slowly and grabbed his arm.
"If you can't distinguish reality from hallucination, better sleep more. I'll get the doctor..."
"No. I can distinguish."
Berik irritably pressed his temples.
No big issue, really. Just his long-dead family—reduced to dust—standing blankly. Silent, exactly as in memory.
Berik sighed, muttering.
"Feels shitty."
Clink.
Then Romandro entered with servants and chains. But seeing Berik upright and fine, he backpedaled.
"You're awake?"
"What."
Asking about the chains, but Romandro paled, stammering.
"Y-you, don't recognize me?"
"What?"
"Ian, Ian! Do something about that!"
"Calm down, Lord Romandro."
Ian meant to say he was fine, but Berik grasped the situation and smirked. Playfully twisting his wrist, he approached Romandro.
"Look, a pig rolled in."
"Eek! Lord Ian! Ian!"
"Gotta catch and eat! Hungry, gotta roast!"
"Wa-warriors! Cheonryeo warriors! Where?!"
His playful antics confirmed quick recovery. Romandro dropped the chains and fled; Berik half-heartedly chased.
"Oink oink! Where you going? Pig king!"
"U-uaaa! Wa-warriors...!"
Thud! Boom!
Crash!
"Lord Ian, is Lord Berik truly alright?"
"Yeah? Seems so."
He saw illusions but knew they were fake—good enough. Mental fortitude top-notch.
'No wonder he's a sword-mage physique.'
The clueless servant just fiddled with the useless chains.