Chapter 101: Even the One Who Should Die Won't Die (2)
Chapter 101: Even the One Who Should Die Won't Die (2)
“It’s out. Hurry up and stuff your faces, then go to sleep. I don’t know what you Heroes are doing, slacking off instead of working.”
The Old Man emerged from the kitchen holding a frying pan. Simultaneously, the scent of butter that had filled the lodging grew even more pungent, stinging the nose.
“Aren’t we on our way to work right now?”
“I suppose so. Then eat up, get some sleep to recover, and do your jobs well. You ought to do enough work to earn what you eat.”
As he spoke, the Old Man took the Chicken Kiev out of the cast-iron pan, which was still dripping with butter, placed it on our plates, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
It was a rough, unrefined style that gave no thought to plating or cleaning up the grease.
Watching the oil drip from the food, I began to understand why the counter was so filthy. He must have served food this way countless times.
I stopped my critique and looked down at the Chicken Kiev on my plate.
Two pieces of meat sat there lonesomely, without a single side dish. No common vegetables, beans, or even a piece of potato or bread—a dish that looked undeniably greasy.
Normally, one would try to trick the eye by draining the oil during plating to make it seem less heavy, but the Old Man before us seemed far removed from such kindness.
Actually, it didn't matter much to me. Wasn't my daily routine usually buying fried food and chugging beer anyway?
The problem would be Oxymoron.
With that thought, I turned my head to the right and saw exactly what I expected.
Oxymoron looked flustered, her expression visible even through her mask, as if she couldn't believe the lump of grease before her.
If I had to interpret it, it would be something like: ‘Fried food at this time of night? Besides, I’m a light eater, so this is….’
“Haven’t you eaten yet? The brats who live around here usually scarf it down before I’m even finished cooking.”
Oxymoron was so taken aback that she just stared blankly at her plate, even when the Old Man returned to the counter.
“What’s wrong with that woman?”
“She’s probably just surprised that something this greasy came out in the middle of the night.”
The Old Man seemed puzzled by Oxymoron’s reaction as he stirred a pot with a ladle.
“Well, that’s good then.”
I wasn't sure what was so good about it.
The Old Man said that and poured a white sauce over my Chicken Kiev.
It was a thick cream sauce made with a butter base, fresh from the pot.
I didn't mind since I liked rich flavors, but I wondered about Oxymoron, who was already repulsed by the sight of the greasy food.
I thought about saying something, but I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to offend the Old Man who seemed to take pride in his cooking.
“Don’t like greasy food?”
The Old Man left the pot in front of me as if telling me to help myself if I needed more sauce, then moved over to Oxymoron.
“Yes. I appreciate the effort, but it’s a bit much. Especially since it’s night….”
Oxymoron countered his question with blunt honesty. It was as if the word 'consideration' didn't exist in her dictionary.
Well, a girl who goes around sticking syringes into people's heads wouldn't exactly be the considerate type. She’s changed a lot in twenty years.
I didn't feel like intervening, so I focused on the food in front of me.
As the knife passed through the lightly toasted breadcrumbs and cut into the slightly tough meat, the melted butter inside burst out, soaking the meat.
“This spicy mustard sauce will cut through the grease, so give it a try. It won’t be as heavy as you think.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oxymoron receiving a yellow sauce, different from mine. Did he make them differently for each of us?
More importantly, the food in front of me took priority. I stabbed a piece with my fork and took a bite.
The meat, which must have been pounded for a long time, was tender, and the exquisite flavor of the butter spread through my mouth. The moderate saltiness and sweetness of the butter paired perfectly with the meat, and the breadcrumbs on the outside were appropriately crispy, providing a nice texture.
He made this well.
“Do you have any beer here?”
“Just pick up any of those bottles rolling around and drink it.”
Why is he like this to me? He’s so gentle with Oxymoron. Even so, I wasn't about to give up on alcohol.
There was some left in this bottle, and some in that one.
I mixed them together, and it turned into a strange black liquid that didn't look like a proper drink at all, but I was craving alcohol, so I downed it.
A sip of alcohol with a sharp, peculiar taste. A bite of Chicken Kiev filled with salty, greasy goodness.
This is heaven.
It was a sufficient reward for the trouble of wandering around the city late at night, so I stuffed the meat and alcohol into my mouth.
“Oh, it’s not as greasy as I thought?”
“I’m glad to hear that. The meat was prepared with herbs, and the sauce is homemade using mustard seeds, so it’s definitely different.”
Why is the atmosphere so different over there?
Wait, he put herbs in hers? There aren't any in mine.
“Mine doesn't have any herbs. Did you make a mistake?”
“That’s plenty for someone who eats food just as a side for their drinks.”
The way I’m being treated is getting worse and worse.
We haven't even known each other for an hour, and look at this. Well, I’m satisfied, so I don't really care if I get nagged or not.
By the time I finished one piece of meat amidst the nagging.
“You certainly eat well for someone with that body.”
“I could probably empty out a whole warehouse if I really wanted to.”
It was as if everything I ate was converted into energy; I could eat endlessly. In fact, food had become more of a choice than a necessity for me now.
“Hmm, my eyes didn't deceive me. You probably don't even feel like you're eating unless the food is stimulating.”
He’s like a mind reader.
“You know your stuff. That’s why you gave me something so greasy.”
“I’ve made a living out of this for over half a century. Even when the Soviets were running wild, one bite of this and they’d back off, Party or not. My eyes for feeding people and my hands for making food are certain.”
A master? Something like that, I suppose.
I’d been around this area many times, and seeing the regret well up in me that I hadn't stopped by each time, it didn't seem like he was lying.
“But why did you come over here? Why not talk to her?”
As I spoke, I turned my head slightly and saw Oxymoron eating her meat slowly.
The way she was cutting the meat into small pieces with a scalpel and putting them in her mouth—where did the girl who had refused it for being too greasy go?
…A scalpel?
Let’s pretend I didn't see that.
“That young lady seems to prefer eating in silence. You, on the other hand, seem different.”
How can an ordinary person be so sharp? His insight is almost on the level of Macbeth or the Lord of Infinite Castles.
“Well, let’s talk then. Why are you being so prickly with me?”
“The person inside you is an Old Man, isn't it? You’re hiding it with your appearance, but I can see it clearly. You’re no different from the guys who barge in here in the evening and throw drunken tantrums.”
Oh, is that so? Well, I have nothing to say to that. It’s been a while since I’ve been treated like a man.
“Let’s move past that subject. It seems your supplies are coming in better than expected? Using plenty of butter and even sprinkling herbs generously. I’m not asking in a bad way. We’re not Party stooges or anything.”
It was simple curiosity.
In a city where the electricity was cut off, candles were lit at night, and most of the residents had left, such abundant supplies were naturally intriguing.
“It’s thanks to the Management Bureau folks. After they ate my food once, they started diverting supplies this way on their own. They said fixing the electricity would require construction, so that’s a no-go, though.”
Hmm? Isn't that a violation of regulations?
Diverting supplies to civilians?
…Well, whatever. I suppose they can just call him a civilian collaborator or label it as relief supplies.
“Then you must have some goodwill toward the Management Bureau? They’re keeping your shop running.”
“You said you weren't a Party stooge, but are you a Management Bureau stooge? Why are your questions like that?”
To think I’d be called a Management Bureau stooge.
“Hey, I’m just trying to have a conversation. You’re being too much. Forget it. I’ll just eat. Give me some proper alcohol, too.”
“You’re the one who drank whatever was rolling around. Fine. The Management Bureau….”
At my words, the Old Man took a bottle from the back shelf, opened it, and poured the contents into my glass, lost in thought.
He really is like one of those grumpy old restaurant grannies.
“I don't have many good feelings toward the Management Bureau. To begin with, this city wasn't always a dying city like this.”
Uh-oh. I didn't expect such a heavy topic to come up.
“Was it the Gray Plague? Kids these days don't seem to know, but it was a disaster.”
“….”
The moment that term left the Old Man’s mouth, I felt Oxymoron, sitting next to me, tremble slightly.
She was hiding her emotions, but she couldn't help the faint shaking.
“After that incident happened, the Management Bureau moved in a few years later. People thought the Management Bureau would restore and recover the place, but….”
I knew the rest of the story. I was involved in the aftermath, after all.
The Management Bureau suppressed the data and peacefully relocated the surrounding residents. Of course, there were those like the Old Man before me who refused until the end.
“They claimed publicly that it was because they lacked the power, but seeing how they’re still controlling it now, that’s not it. They’re probably hiding something, or we were just an eyesore to them.”
“…I believe the Management Bureau provided relocation compensation.”
They must have given quite a lot. Probably.
The Management Bureau had plenty of money back then, right after its establishment.
“Money? I wanted them to protect my hometown more than that. I’ve lived here for years; what do they mean, relocation? Thanks to that, everyone left, and it’s become something like a ghost town.”
The Old Man poured out his emotions like a waterfall, as if he had been waiting for the day he could say these things. To us, whom he was meeting for the first time.
The conversation continued. It was somewhat amicable, as he revealed his inner thoughts.
And when the food disappeared from the plates, the conversation stopped, and we walked into Room 101.
* * *
The room was old but kept clean without a speck of dust.
Two single-sized beds took up most of the room, but as a lodging, it wasn't bad at all.
It didn't have that musty smell typical of bad accommodations.
Perhaps because it was old, there was a slight scent of mold, but it wasn't enough to be bothersome. In fact, considering the state of the city, it was in good condition.
However, what mattered now wasn't the state of the room, but something else. It was Oxymoron, sprawled out on the bed.
“Did what the owner said bother you? About why the Terminal Plague couldn't be cured.”
“No.”
Oxymoron spoke while wrapping herself in the bed covers, still fully clothed.
“Too much time has passed to dwell on such things. Rather than it being my responsibility, I consider that disease a task I must fulfill.”
Oxymoron spat out that answer in a flat voice.
As if it were no big deal.
As if she had no thoughts on it.
As if she had no emotions.
However, my senses caught the trembling mixed in her voice. Twenty years. Enough time for a child to grow into an adult.
She is still bound by those shackles.
Ever since that moment she reached out her hand in the air.
“Don’t let it get to you too much. There was no way, anyway.”
I left my bed and sat on the edge of the bed where she was lying.
“It’s not that there was no way.”
Right, there was one.
You sacrificing yourself.
I’m still skeptical about that.
“I don't know. Does a Hero, an Awakened, always have to sacrifice themselves?”
These were words that might twist my fundamental definition of things. But I was certain that I had to say this now.
“I’m glad you didn't die back then.”
How many people would have died if she hadn't been there? Would we have been able to hold out until now? Her S-Rank Technique, Operating Room, was exceptionally effective at maintaining the front lines.
Neither an Awakened nor a veteran soldier would ever die all at once.
Even if they suffered enough pain to wish for death, even if they cried out to be killed—as long as their bodies weren't shattered beyond repair, she would save them somehow.
Isn't there a proverb? Even rolling in a field of dog dung is better than The Afterlife.
Therefore, in terms of pure numbers, no one has saved as many people as Oxymoron.
“Strategically speaking?”
Did she read my thoughts?
A subtle, bitter smile appeared on Oxymoron’s lips.
Strategically.
Certainly, my thoughts were leaning toward such sentiments. But was that all?
I turned my head for a moment and looked at Oxymoron behind me.
She, who rejected others and the outside world, wrapping herself up tightly.
She, who didn't reveal a single patch of skin and, as if that weren't enough, tightened her clothes with belts attached here and there.
The Savior of the battlefield, who was still wounded and crying out.
I raised my hand and stroked her head.
“No, personally, I’m glad you didn't die back then.”
This was my honest truth.