2. Operation Chicken
"What!?"
Seria's mouth fell open. Causing trouble? That phrase would never exist in her dictionary, but it wasn't my problem.
"Come on."
I grabbed her wrist without waiting for a reply. Seria panicked. "Y-Young Master? The cleaning isn't done yet!"
But she couldn't defy the stubbornness of the baron's five-year-old son.
We arrived at the empty kitchen.
"Alright, today's goal is cooking." I climbed onto the counter and puffed out my chest.
The food here wasn't bad. But just five years ago, I'd been a modern guy. Greasy, crunchy, salty stuff. Chicken, pizza, pork feet, mala tang, and more. I was craving those intense flavors.
So today...
"We're making chicken."
"Chi... chicken?"
"Yeah. Deep-frying a chicken in oil."
"Eek!" Seria recoiled in horror. "P-Putting a chicken in oil will kill it!"
"It's a dead chicken, dummy." I pulled a dressed raw chicken from the ingredient storeroom. The cold northern climate made preservation easy.
Seria paced anxiously around me. "Young Master, you can't do this. The head chef will scold us. And fire is dangerous..."
"It's fine, it's fine. I'll take responsibility. You just be my assistant."
I proudly reached for the flour sack. But...
"Hup, hupcha!"
My arms were too short. Damn. I'd overestimated a five-year-old's specs. The shelf was too high.
I glanced at Seria. She was giving me the look: Please just go back to your room.
"Seria."
"Y-Yes! Shall we go back?"
"No. I'll bend over, so can you grab the flour up there?"
"...Pardon?"
"Can't reach. You're tall, so it should be perfect."
Seria's red eyes shook like there was an earthquake. She couldn't dare step on a noble young master. But she couldn't disobey an order either.
In the end...
"I-I'll bend over... Sob."
"Oh, you sure?"
Seria lay flat on the floor with a teary face. I felt a gram of guilt, but how heavy could a five-year-old be? And I wanted chicken now.
"Hupcha. Got the flour!"
I hopped down, spilling a bit. Beside me, Seria was covered head to toe in flour, standing there dazed, not even brushing off her white-dusted clothes.
"Ah, sorry, Seria."
"...It's fine."
And so the cooking began in earnest. My mental recipe was perfect: brining, battering, temperature control. I'd worked at plenty of chicken joints back in the day.
But isekai reality was different.
"Young Master! The oil's splashing! Kyaa!"
"Shield! Block with the pot lid!"
"I-Is this right? The chicken's exploding!!"
"It's getting tasty! Hang in there!"
The kitchen turned into chaos. Knowledge meant nothing against the combined physical limits of a five- and seven-year-old. Flour flew like snow, and two kids shielded against oil splatters with pot lids at the boiling cauldron.
Thirty minutes later...
"......"
"......"
A single plate sat before us. On it, a mysterious black lump steamed.
"Young Master." Seria's voice trembled. "Is this black thing... a monster summoned from hell?"
"...No. It's chicken cursed by dark magic."
It was pitch black. I'd flailed with my short arms trying to fish it out—that was the culprit.
"Failed."
I muttered.
"We failed."
Seria agreed.
Then—
Creeeak. The mansion door opened. A familiar voice followed.
"Kalian? Dad's home. Hm? What's that burning smell?"
"!!!"
Seria and I locked eyes. Her face went from pale to transparent.
"Y-Young Master. The baron..."
"Destroy the evidence! Hide it!"
I frantically lifted the black chicken. But where? Trash? The smell?
As we flailed, the kitchen door burst open.
"There you are! What in the...?"
Dad's eyes bulged. Wrecked kitchen. Flour-covered kids. Charred lump in my hand.
Caught red-handed.
Seria dropped to her knees. "I-I'm sorry! I should've stopped him... Kill me!"
She looked ready to offer her neck.
I blocked her and shouted, "Dad! This was my idea! Seria's innocent!"
"......"
Dad was silent. The pause felt eternal. I swallowed hard. I was prepared for the scolding.
"Hmm."
He strode over and took the black lump from my hand.
"Son, what's this?"
"...Chicken."
"Chicken? What's that? Hah, did my son learn black magic!?"
"No, it's a chicken dish. I read about it in a book."
"Oh? Is that so?"
Dad eyed it curiously, like My boy's only five, but how clever. Do all kids do this nowadays? Then, without hesitation, he took a bite.
Crunch. No—crackle. It sounded burnt as hell.
"Ah, my lord! Don't eat it! It's poison!"
Seria screamed. I thought the same.
But...
"Mm, delicious."
"Pardon?"
Dad smiled kindly, black char on his lips. "A bit crispy, but juicy inside. Best chicken dish I've ever had."
"Liar. It's all burnt."
"No, really. My son made it for me—how could it not be tasty?"
He chomped the rest. His face screamed awful, but he thumbs-upped till the end.
"Thanks for the meal, Kalian. And good work, Seria."
He patted her stiff head with his big hand. "Next time, ask the head chef for help. Don't get hurt."
With that, he left. I swear I heard "Water... water..." behind him, but I pretended not.
Silence returned. Seria stared blankly at the door.
"...We didn't get scolded."
She whispered.
"Told ya. My dad's nice." I grinned and nudged her shoulder.
Finally, relief bloomed on her flour-caked face—a real smile.
"Yeah... Thank goodness."
"Right? So next time, we'll nail it. Fire control's key."
"...Again?"
Her face twisted. I giggled and stood.
"Obviously. Can't give up on chicken. Let's clean up before the maids come."
"Sigh... Yes, Young Master."
"Oh, you sigh now too?"
"Ah... N-No, not like that!"
"Sure, sure. I'll let it slide."
Seria pouted. She was getting the hang of it.
We cleaned the mess together, laughing whenever we bumped into each other and saw our floury faces.
—
A month had passed since Seria joined us. Things were going great. Eating well, sleeping well, washing up—she'd gotten fair-skinned, and her skinny limbs had filled out nicely.
Especially at meals, when her cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. Kids were kids, after all. (Though I was a five-year-old too.)
Anyway, one problem cropped up.
"Young Master! No running! You'll fall!"
"Young Master! That's dirt! Filthy!"
"Young Master! It's chilly! You'll catch a cold!"
She treated me like a hyper goldfish. Any jog, and she'd freak like I was having a heart attack. Total mother-in-law vibes.
"Seria."
"Yes! Young Master. Are you unwell? Tummy ache?"
"Nah. I'm bored."
I slumped over the desk, chin in hands. The tutor had marveled at my genius until she got fed up and ended class early.
"Bored? Shall I read you a book?"
"Boring. I read better than you."
"Ah..."
Fact. Seria was still learning letters; she'd stutter on fairy tales: "Once upon a time, a tiger... Huh? What's this word?"
"I wanna move."
I jumped up. My body itched with energy. Five-year-old stamina overflowed.
And this world? Rumors screamed sword-and-sorcery fantasy. Empire's sword saints, mana stone trains crossing continents.
Time to live the dream.
"Let's go out, Seria."
"Pardon? It's cold outside."
"Not cold. We'll sweat and warm up."
I ignored her and headed to the garden. Winter wind howled, but sun was warm.
I grabbed two suitable sticks from a firewood pile in the corner.
"Here."
"What's this?"
Seria took it hesitantly.
"Swords."
"Swords...? It's firewood."
"See with your heart's eye. This is the legendary holy sword, Excalibur."
"Ex... what?"
"Doesn't matter, it's awesome. We're playing knights now. I'm the hero, you're the demon king."
"I'm the demon king?"
Her eyes widened.
I pointed my stick at her. "Come at me, Demon King Seria! Today I snap your horns!"
"I don't have horns."
"Argh, c'mon! Play along!"
Darn perceptive kids ruin the fun.
"Just block my attacks with your stick. Got it? I'll go easy, no fear."
"But if you get hurt..."
"That's an order."
That fixed everything. Seria gripped her stick reluctantly. "Understood. But please, really go easy?"
"Don't worry. I was pretty athletic back— Hyah!"
Bicker, then surprise attack while talking!