Moss Boar Skewer Barbecue Mid-Retreat (2)

As if wild game could ever taste good.

Let’s be honest—there’s no way. That notion is nothing more than a frame built around the idea that anything “natural” must be superior. Of course, rare exceptions existed now and then. Europa was no different.

How could free-roaming beasts possibly outshine livestock raised under constant care in a limited space, fed select fodder and hay, left to graze at leisure? The less a body moves, the softer its muscle becomes. And the less it moves, the more fat it packs on—rich and oily.

Hunting targets were almost always the same: wild animals or monsters that spent more than half of every day in vigorous motion. Muscle like that was never going to be tender. You were lucky if your teeth even sank into it once it hit the fire. Meat from creatures that had lived on the razor’s edge of life and death, nerves wound tight, was never something you could just slaughter on the spot and eat as-is.

Even with proper cooking, barriers remained. The smell, for one—an element that split palates to extremes and still claimed its corner of flavor. People twisted themselves into knots inventing ways around it. Draining blood and guts as fast as possible was the bare minimum. To soften that iron-hard flesh, the butchered meat was usually left alone for days so the muscle could relax; they called the process aging. Spices of every kind went in to mask the odor, and special techniques had to be devised. Some even developed methods to kill livestock without letting them feel the threat of death, convinced that tensed muscle was the real culprit.

That was why nobles who hunted for social reasons and then roasted their catch over an open fire on the spot did so purely for the “activity” itself—never because it tasted good.

“Mmm—”

Crunch. Sizzle—snap!

Iona let out a nasal hum as he chewed the meat in his mouth without pause. He was a gourmet. Why would a man of his station ever eat plain? Eating was the only luxury Iona allowed himself. Strip away the bare necessities of maintaining dignity and he was widely regarded as one of the most frugal nobles around. The massive knowledge-pouch—or experience-pouch—of a belly hanging from him was proof enough.

“Ohhh. Yes—”

Chomp. Crunch. Sizzle—chomp.

This wasn’t decades ago when even nobles went hungry at the drop of a hat. In present-day Iceland, even the poorest ate two meals a day—never full, but they ate. So why wouldn’t ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a man of Iona’s power and rank indulge? Objectively speaking, the mushroom-and-moss-boar skewer he was tearing into could never be called delicious.

Yet some chef once said it best: an empty stomach is the finest seasoning of all.

Under normal circumstances Iona would have taken a polite bite or two and left the rest. Even if he had joined a hunt hosted by his own lord, Alfred, nothing would have changed. The fierce wild scent and the ironclad texture of game were simply not to his taste. Right now, though, they only sharpened his appetite. That piercing, aggressive aroma tangled with the woodsmoke and became a spice that stabbed straight at the nose and woke the hunger. The meat was so tough you had to wonder if it was meat at all—yet compared to the hardtack and jerky of the last few days it felt soft as down. Relatively speaking, of course.

Still, the dry, flavorless flesh began to transform the moment Iona started chewing in earnest. The powerful fragrance that had shrunk into itself met the salt on the surface and exploded across his tongue. The deep savor that only wood-fire could coax out—something no pasture-raised livestock could ever imitate—met the black pepper and revealed itself even stronger.

“Huuuuhhh.”

In the modern world the sight would have racked up a million views without breaking a sweat. Gordon and Haifon stared at Iona, utterly lost. No—everyone in the camp was doing the same.

“Hm? Why are you all staring at this old man like that?”

“I-Is it really that good?”

“Gordon. You’ll understand once you try it yourself.”

“In that case—”

Turning his attention away from the secondary assault on ears and eyes, Gordon immediately grabbed a skewer. Mushrooms the servants and soldiers had gathered, alternating with neat cubes of meat, threaded onto sticks that looked almost painted. An empty stomach was a serious problem for a Sword Master. Knights, mercenaries, soldiers—all of them ate more than ordinary folk. People who ate more than them were rare. And the amount of fuel required to cut down an ogre single-handed and split boulders? Gordon had survived the past few days on the barest preserved rations. Confronted now with meat heavy with fire-scent, and with Iona tearing into a massive steak-skewer as if deliberately stoking everyone’s hunger, Gordon could hold back no longer.

He followed Haifon’s example—Haifon already had a skewer in hand and was biting down—and stuffed mushroom and meat into his mouth at once.

“Mmm…?!”

He flinched at the unexpected sensation.

“What’s wrong? Burn your mouth?”

“As if something this mild could burn me.”

“Then what’s with the violent reaction?”

“The juice just exploded out of the mushroom.”

Exactly as Gordon said. The appetizingly roasted mushroom, under pressure, burst with moisture. Not ordinary moisture. Mushrooms always release water when heated; the empty spaces left behind had been deep-fried in the fat and juices running from the moss-boar meat, then absorbed them. Soft inside, chewy outside—and carrying the fierce flavor of the boar itself. Iona’s sudden mukbang had let the meat cool a little, but that was no reason for Gordon to stop eating. A man who could chew raw hardtack and tear jerky with his bare teeth found this level of toughness nothing more than a new spice for the palate. Not something he’d want every day—but once in a while the texture wasn’t bad at all.

“Soft is good, sure, but this kind of chew is nice every now and then.”

Haifon, still chewing steadily, wordlessly agreed. Cooking wasn’t only for the tongue. Sight, sound, smell, the feel of teeth and tongue and throat and fingertips—all five senses together. In that sense the skewers before them were an outstanding dish that struck every sense at once. Hunger only amplified it. Not the kind of eating done to flaunt power or status, but a deep satisfaction rising from the heart. The three of them, each capable of out-eating most ordinary people, demolished the skewers in the blink of an eye. Servants hurried over with fresh ones by the armload.

The worst of the hunger had been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blunted. With his reason somewhat restored, Gordon took his time savoring the next bite.

“So ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what’s our actual goal? We can’t just keep dragging this many people around forever dodging the pursuit, can we?”

“That’s already decided.”

Iona took a huge bite of skewer.

“By now a unit will have been formed after receiving the dispatch rider’s report, ready to come out and rescue me and the escort.”

“Then we can afford to take it a bit easier.”

“Hah. You’ve been running hardest these past few days. Getting tired, are you?”

“I’m a person before I’m a Sword Master. And I’ll be collecting proper compensation for this, you know.”

“Hah. Who do you think I am?”

Gordon hadn’t asked because he truly didn’t know. It was more of a just-in-case question. Iona was no ordinary noble. Direct retainer to a great house, Chief Seneschal, and an elder of a faith that, while neither major nor minor, was still venerated across Europa.

“Of course I know. You’ll take good care of me and my temporary subordinates, won’t you?”

“Absolutely! Our destination is Blackwood Village, on a Felwinter family estate nearby. The rescue force will head there first as well. Now, where’s that map…”

“Ah, I know the place.”

Gordon had stopped there himself after entering Iceland.

“In that case, allow me to make a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“How about you pay a visit to my lord?”

Iona was pure-blooded Iceland stock. He saw no reason to dress things up and simply laid it out.

“The ability to charge a monster horde easily numbering in the hundreds, shrug off every interference, and cut down only the leaders—plus the raw force of a Sword Master. Doesn’t it seem strange for someone like you to remain an ordinary mercenary? Honestly, the stranger thing is that you aren’t an S-rank adventurer.”

“Ah, S-rank mercenaries end up with movement restrictions even without that. Too much interference.”

“True enough. Half the world wants to latch onto you, the other half envies you. I suppose that makes sense.”

“Hmmmmm.”

Chomp.

Gordon bit into the meat with a lightness that somehow felt heavier than before. Everyone who saw his true skill assumed he must be carrying some heavy burden, yet Gordon himself had no such deep worries. He was simply a mercenary who liked money a little more than most. Some claimed that switching to the adventurer profession would let him rake in cash, but that was knowing one thing and missing two. Of course, if he walked into an adventurer guild tomorrow, S-rank was guaranteed. But S-rank adventurers were customarily treated as nobles without a title—and newly minted nobles always drew scrutiny. Being a living target of jealousy was also a monumental pain.

“Just asking, but there won’t be any of that new-noble hazing, right?”

“Iceland prioritizes ability over bloodline. The only ones allowed the reverse are the Felwinter family.”

“Ah, just checking.”

Gordon waved it off as idle talk.

“I think I know what you’re worried about.”

Haifon swallowed the last of what was in his mouth and chuckled.

“If anyone gets rude, just challenge them to a duel and split their skull.”

“That’s an impressively straightforward solution.”

“Testing the waters with half-hearted probes is a culture raised by knights and nobles who grew up soft in the warm lands. Iceland has none of that nonsense.”

“Hmmmmm.”

Hearing it put that way, it was only natural for Gordon’s interest to stir. Iona smiled faintly at him.

“With skill like yours you’d skip every intermediate step and land a territorial title for certain. Probably start as a baron, wouldn’t you?”

“Hah. Plenty of people would say that’s far too much for a mercenary who used to be a serf.”

“As I said, in Iceland ability is enough. And anyone who complains—”

“Beat them down in a duel, right? I heard the man next to you.”

“Well, some will challenge you, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Picking a fight first is some—”

Whooooosh.

“—thing?”

A heavy, sweet scent brushed past the inside of his body. If Karem—who still remembered his previous life—had been present, his eyes would have rolled back and he would have gone berserk on the spot. The sweet scent was identical to vanilla. But Gordon’s face hardened at that irresistible, seductive aroma. Someone might have hidden dessert or sugar, but Gordon could swear that wasn’t it. Ordinarily the smell would have been faint enough to overlook, yet right now the camp was dominated by woodsmoke, pepper, and the fragrant mushrooms. Under those conditions, ignoring such a tempting odor was difficult. Especially when its source belonged to the monster pack that had been hunting them until recently.

Gordon swept the camp with his eyes alone. Those who had been deep in their meal now stood frozen. Not only them—the mercenaries who had been rolling dice, the soldiers on watch, the servants turning skewers over the fire, the laborers carrying them, even Haifon and Iona. If he alone had smelled it, fine—but everyone present caught the same scent. And Gordon grasped the situation faster than anyone.

The monster pack had drawn near. The only mercy was that the distance was still sufficient; the very faintness of the scent he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had almost ignored proved it. He locked eyes with a few mercenaries and gave a hand signal. The mercenaries passed it to the soldiers, who in turn calmed the others: there was still time. Yet the bad news drained the earlier liveliness from the camp. People simply chewed and swallowed mushroom and moss-boar meat as fast and mechanically as they could.

“You said we had a full day of leeway, didn’t you?”

“Maybe the pack has a shaman among them, or maybe they’re tracking us with a vengeance after we killed one of their leaders.”

“Either way, it’s not a good situation.”

“Judging by the scent… half a day, not a full day…”

There was no time to digest. The party finished off an entire boar as if they couldn’t possibly eat any faster, abandoned the camp as it stood, and retreated. Half a day later a pack of shaggy monsters the size of bears, each sporting a broad oar-like tail, swept through the campsite and continued the pursuit.

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.