Ducks, Wine, and a Sparring Match
The people of the Central Plains are famous for their love of duck.
It's the same in the real world, isn't it? Chinese cuisine has duck dishes down to a science.
Honestly, even by my own reckoning, duck was the finest of all the meat dishes the Central Plains had to offer. Whether it was pork, beef, or chicken, everything else fell so far short of its modern counterpart that the comparison was almost embarrassing. The texture of the meat itself was different.
Whether that was a matter of breed, or simply because they only ever caught wild game, even the most common chicken was astonishingly tough and stringy. The only meat in that world that came close to resembling modern meat, as far as I can remember, was duck.
But while the Central Plains savored their duck, in the Xinjiang region where the Divine Cult was based, lamb reigned supreme. The Cult was such an extravagant place that it lacked for nothing, and of everything on the table, lamb was unequivocally the crown jewel — at least by the Cult's own reckoning. Pork came in second.
The Cult's pork, unlike the Central Plains' version, was actually quite palatable. Which is to say, the Divine Cult didn't think much of duck at all.
And yet, in a sect where everyone else sang the praises of lamb, there was one woman who cried out for duck — and that woman was the Heavenly Demon herself. Our Heavenly Demon, who looked every inch the Western barbarian, loved duck even more than the people of the Central Plains did.
Shotgun Mom, the head chef here at Flame Entertainment, is a veteran with genuine mastery of meat cookery. Pork, beef, chicken — everything she makes becomes an instant sensation. An all-weather meat specialist. Why else do you think I started running the Spirit Body Softening Technique to keep my weight down? There's a reason for everything.
And yet, in all the meals I've shared with her company, I had never once seen Cheon Yua smile so brightly. Even before dishes that drew gasps of admiration — galbijjim worthy of the gods, or dongpo pork precisely measured out Yankee-style — she remained utterly unmoved.
But duck confit? A dish so divisive that half the people find it too rich? That's what gets this reaction out of her.
I can't help but lament her staggeringly extreme duck preference.
"It would be perfect with just a glass of wine on the side."
"...Wine? Do you happen to like wine?"
"Yes, wine is the only alcohol I drink."
"Oh, really? What kind do you usually..."
"Hmm, Château Latour, perhaps?"
"Isn't that a Bordeaux?"
"Yes, that's right."
Damn it. Her taste in wine, too.
Xinjiang — the strategic crossroads between East and West, in other words the Divine Cult's territory — was rich in Western culture and goods. A fair amount of Western wine flowed into the Cult's hands as well.
Our Heavenly Demon, who wouldn't touch Central Plains liquor with a ten-foot pole, enjoyed exactly one drink in this world: wine. She favored wine from the Pleria Empire's Borno region — Bordeaux, by this world's standards — above all. Grapes actually grew in the Xinjiang region too, and she once tried her hand at making her own wine, but gave it up entirely, declaring it wasn't the taste she wanted.
After that, I traded with the Pleria Empire right up until the day I died. After all, if that trade route ever dried up, there would have been nowhere left on earth to find wine to the Heavenly Demon's taste.
And now Cheon Yua turns out to be a wine lover — specifically of Bordeaux — and my chest feels tight.
Could this really be coincidence?
Granted, most women like wine. Confit is hard to pin down, but she seems to enjoy French cuisine in general. Still, when these things keep stacking up one on top of the other, it becomes very hard to write it all off as chance.
Yes — honestly, if it were only this much, fine.
But the truly absurd part is that ever since Cheon Yua appeared, the behavior of everyone at the company has started shifting in the strangest ways.
Today alone proved it. Our Shotgun Mom served a special meal prepared for Cheon Yua and Cheon Yua alone. Yes, Cheon Yua is the face of our company, but a special meal just for her? Shotgun Mom, whose life motto is eat whatever I put in front of you and shut up, making a special meal? And how on earth did she know her palate well enough to prepare something that hit the mark so perfectly?
Then there are the guards.
Until Cheon Yua showed up, our guard friends had been conducting themselves rather leisurely. The pool in particular was quite the spectacle. One of the more free-spirited female guards went so far as to strip off her top entirely and swim that way.
Who knows what kind of organization trains people like this — the male guards seemed so accustomed to such displays that they simply clicked their tongues as if they'd seen nothing at all, without lifting a finger to stop her. Thanks to which I got myself a bit of a show. Sally, the Slavic female guard, has an angular face that counts against her, but her figure is genuinely spectacular. It happened to be during my own swimming time, so I confirmed it firsthand — oh my. The difference in our bloodlines really hit home. And when she winked at me and shot me a grin, I briefly wondered if that was a green light.
In fairness, I understand it to a degree. Most of the guards stationed here on this assignment, I'm told, are elite operators who served in special forces units around the world. Even Sally, stacked as she is, works in a related profession. Thirty of them, no less, crammed into a small building — by their standards, anyway. Dispatched to Korea, of all places, a country where they can't even carry firearms. It couldn't have felt much like actual work.
Bluntly put, the only job this place could give them was stopping the occasional stalker from wandering into the building, and our guards are far too high-caliber personnel for that.
But lo and behold — ever since Cheon Yua took up residence at the company, the guards moved completely differently. Several of them were always lurking in her vicinity, and I could even sense their presence during my acting practice with her. It was especially bad during the dawn workouts; sometimes they'd even send warnings my way, glaring at me like they wanted me to get lost already. I had my own reasons, so I've been stoically ignoring them.
What is going on here? Something is definitely up.
"Hey, friend. Let's have a little chat."
"Hm? With me?"
"Yes. Would you come this way, please?"
Just as my suspicions were deepening, the guards came looking for me. At their head was Rick, the blond middle-aged man who seemed to be their leader, with the rest trailing behind him.
I had no idea what this was about and it caught me off guard, but curiosity about what they wanted got the better of me, so I followed along quietly.
"It's nothing major — we'd just like you to adjust your dawn training schedule."
"Dawn? Why?"
"Hmm, how do I put this. It's a somewhat awkward situation from our standpoint. All we need is for you to avoid that time slot. Would that be a problem?"
Rick, the guards' leader, was the same man who'd shown me around on my first visit here. Taciturn and commanding, with all the guards seeming to follow him out of genuine respect, he seemed like decent people, so I've maintained a reasonably cordial relationship with him. We'd been on informal speaking terms for a while now.
And this was the man's request: change my dawn training hours. So all that glaring was about to turn into action after all.
"Is this because of Yua sunbae?"
"Well... regrettably, yes. We have our own position to consider, you see."
Just as I thought. To be fair, Cheon Yua's dawn workout attire wasn't exactly ideal. There was no overt exposure, but if anything it was more awkward than outright exposure would have been. If the guards were obligated to protect her at close range, then me hovering around her while she exercised in that outfit would have been a persistent thorn in their side.
"I think that's my line. I have my own position to consider too. I'm afraid that won't work for the time being."
I'd have liked to oblige Rick's request under normal circumstances, but I still had more to observe, so I couldn't accommodate him.
Not that I intended to ogle the figure of Cheon Yua, whose very existence is art. I'm a man too — I'm not opposed to a feast for the eyes — but there were more important things at stake right now.
The truth is, I was comparing Cheon Yua's Spirit Body Softening Technique against the version I'd mastered. Of the four two-form sequences in the technique, she repeated only one, which meant I needed to confirm the others. And gauging the situation, I was biding my time, planning to ask the important questions — where she'd learned it, and how far her training had gone. Suddenly being told to change my workout hours put me in a rather difficult spot.
"Ha. I see. That's a problem, then."
At my answer, Rick shook his head, troubled. He seemed to be a man of some discernment, showing no inclination to force the issue with me.
But whenever this many people gather, there are always a few bad apples in the bunch, aren't there?
One of the Black men standing behind Rick piped up with a muttered complaint.
"Boss, why're you wasting time on this crap? Hey, fucking monkey. Cut the shit and do what you're told. Emptying the gym for two hours at dawn — how hard a favor is that? We're already being real patient with you."
"Oh~ how amusing, goddamn Nigga. What if I refuse to be patient?"
"You little @$#%@"
These types, honestly — they never got patched with the whole empathy update.
My head was already aching from all the things weighing on my mind lately, so I supposed I'd have to educate one brotha. Watching these men at work dredged up old memories of guarding the training hall during the Heavenly Demon's habitual nude sparring sessions, and I did feel a little wistful about that — but "fucking monkey" crossed a line.
Then again, these guys were always like this. From what I could see, they didn't even have a concept of racism — in which case, a good beatdown is how manners get naturally instilled.
The Black guard was in a full lather, and the others were scrambling to hold him back. To that crowd, I offered a proposal they'd find hard to refuse.
"All this arguing accomplishes nothing, doesn't it? Hey, let's step in the ring. If you win, I'll clear out of the dawn slot. But if I win, you answer my questions."
"Stop saying Nigga, you son of a bitch!"
"It's not Nigga, it's you-are, you moron. Ha, whatever. So — are we doing this or not?"
At my proposal, the Black guard glanced at Rick. Rick deliberated for a moment, then slowly nodded.
Letting a contracted actor spar with his own guard was obviously problematic — but in Rick's judgment, excluding me from Cheon Yua's dawn workouts mattered more. Well, from a guard's perspective, that's the right call. Worry about the fallout later.
"YOU'RE the son of a bitch, always hunting for monkeys—"
"Gahk."
"You must be—"
"Gruk!"
"—feeling pretty good, huh? Or pretty bad?"
"Kuh-hh..."
"Lately, whenever I see anything black, I break out in hives. So let's keep it civil, shall we?"
"...."
"Your guard team has East Asians on it too, you know. Try thinking before you open your mouth."
True to a squad where everyone was ex–special forces, the man had shown impressively quick movement — but I was far too well-seasoned to be taken down by a mere punk like him. After deflecting his reckless kick attacks with an easy hand, I spent most of the match working over the parts that don't show on the surface — flank to abdomen — with just the right amount of pressure.
I'd been on edge with so much to think about these past few days, and letting off steam like this seemed to clear away a good deal of the frustration.
"Well then, Rick. May I now exercise the victor's rights?"
"Ha... fine. What's your question?"
With his own gamble of letting a contracted actor spar backfiring so bizarrely, Rick looked distinctly awkward. But he seemed intent on keeping his word, and permitted my question. I asked him the most fundamental one — I had no intention of making things difficult for Rick with something too uncomfortable.
"Have the guards known Yua sunbae for a long time?"
"...Yes."
"Then what about Shotgun Mom in the cafeteria — the head chef, I mean?"
"...Yes. That's about all I can give you, I'm afraid."
"No, that's plenty."
"And I apologize for what that boy said earlier. He probably—"
"Forget it. I cursed at him too."
Right — monkey this, Nigga that. None of that matters now.
What mattered was this: the guards had known Cheon Yua long before now.
Because that meant Cheon Yua was never merely the marquee star of our little company.