Blackwood Village (1)
It was a full day later that Catherine, the mages under her command, and Karem finally learned their destination.
Blackwood Village.
A place that had lived for generations by logging the nearby Blackwood Forest—so thoroughly devoted to the trade that you could call the entire village a lumber mill and no one would argue.
The reason was surprisingly simple.
Iona’s first dispatch to Winterhome had named the location.
The reason the place had been missing from the orders Catherine handed Karem was just as simple.
Things had been so urgent that the orders had been written in haste, and some of the copies had simply left out parts of the content.
Which meant even Alfred himself—the one issuing the commands—had been rattled.
And of course Alfred had every right to be rattled.
Iona’s position was no small thing; the man never traveled with a careless escort.
The knights and soldiers assigned to him, combat strength alone, could butcher any ordinary monster without breaking a sweat.
And now that same Iona was on the run?
Faced with a situation so far outside expectations, Alfred’s panic was only natural.
So the rescue force that was cobbled together grew larger with every manor and territory it passed.
That, too, had a simple explanation.
“Tutatis almighty! To threaten an Elder of the Three Gods Sect! The Stonefist family will send support to crush those worthless monsters!”
“His Grace the Duke must be beside himself. Knight Malberd will lead his men to aid in the rescue of the survivors.”
“When our tribe was at its lowest, the Great Elder himself sent us food. At last the time has come to repay that debt! Men of the Fleet Tribe—raise your axes!”
“Ahem. I only just saw the commission. What’s the daily rate, and what’s the bonus looking like?”
Some came for faith.
Some came to repay a debt of gratitude.
Some came out of loyalty.
And some simply wanted to look good for the ducal house and snag whatever scraps fell their way.
Then merchants who had caught the scent of money began to trail along, and before anyone knew it the so-called “rescue force” had become an army that could roll over a mid-sized territory without difficulty.
Crowds grow more chaotic the larger they get—that is the natural order of things.
With this many people suddenly jammed together, it would have been stranger if problems hadn’t appeared.
But the moment they reached Blackwood Village, those problems resolved themselves with almost insulting ease.
“Wow… is that guy even human?”
In a broad temporary clearing that served as a dueling ground, Karem muttered, half out of his mind.
And he was far from alone.
Knights, soldiers, mercenaries, adventurers, even nobles ringing the clearing—everyone except Catherine and a bare handful of others stared at the center with the exact same expression.
“Th-this can’t be real!”
“You think you can force your opinion on me with persuasion this flimsy?!”
Lightning Pound!
A shockingly one-sided spectacle was unfolding.
The star of the dueling ground was a massive middle-aged man whose mustache completely hid his upper lip.
Over clothes dyed in every gaudy color imaginable he wore heavy plate, yet his hands held no weapon at all.
Only two arms, two legs, and a body.
And the raw strength that came with them.
“Haaap! Knights these days are soft!”
With pure physical power he grabbed a knight charging at full gallop, horse and all, and flung them both aside like a riding crop.
Beside him, the other knights and mounts that had charged earlier still flopped about in the dirt, dazed from the impact.
A grizzly bear poured into human shape.
No—Karem immediately corrected himself.
“Uh, Lady Atanita? Counting those knights, how many is that total?”
“Adventurers, mercenaries, soldiers, tribesmen, nobles, and knights… twenty? No—add the three he just flattened and it’s twenty-three.”
“Is that man—is that person actually human?”
Karem started to say one thing and hastily corrected himself.
Even if the man looked more like an ogre sculpted into human form, he was still the commander of this entire rescue force and a Sword Master: Sir Giant Churchill.
It sounded like a nickname, but Karem had been told that “Giant” was genuinely part of the man’s name.
“He said if anyone had complaints they should settle them with force.”
“Well, it’s a little weird, but it was a proper duel. Anyone still whining after this will shut up.”
“But there were nobles and knights mixed in. Is that okay?”
“Hm? What about it?”
“I mean… noble dignity, honor, that sort of thing.”
Nobles and knights lived and died by form and honor.
Watching them get steamrolled like this, Karem worried the humiliation might breed resentment that hadn’t existed before.
Catherine wordlessly jerked her chin toward the center of the clearing.
His worry was wasted.
Sir Churchill, wearing a fierce grin that showed even through the thick lion’s mane of his beard, was already helping the knights and horses to their feet and chatting with them like old friends.
It was exactly the sort of scene you saw in boys’ comics—kids who fight end up as friends—and the onlookers erupted in noisy cheers.
“Ugh, so loud.”
“Iceland respects and reveres the strong. The ones who stepped forward earlier weren’t truly dissatisfied.”
“Then what was it?”
“They just wanted a chance to trade blows with the famous Sword Master who serves the Duke of Iceland.”
“So they picked a fight on purpose?”
“Mm.”
Catherine nodded as if that settled the matter.
“As expected, the Giant of House Felwinter lives up to the stories!”
“My horse is no ordinary steed, yet its legs are still trembling!”
“So this is what a true Master looks like. I feel like I can finally see the path ahead!”
Indeed, the very people who had been trading hostile words with Sir Churchill moments earlier now looked like devoted fans who had finally met their world-class idol.
Even as the crowd began to disperse they kept clapping and cheering in open admiration.
“A Sword Master, though… reminds me of that damn mercenary.”
“A mercenary, out of nowhere?”
“You know the one. That freeloader who was with me the first time you and I met.”
“Oh—ah. Gordon?”
Why bring Gordon up in the middle of a conversation about Sword Masters?
Catherine clicked her tongue softly.
“Some wandering knight he turned out to be. What could a Sword Master possibly lack that he’d go rolling around as a mercenary?”
“Wait—Gordon’s a Sword Master? I thought he was only wandering-knight level.”
It had been months ago, but Karem remembered the claim vaguely.
The thought left him briefly confused.
He knew what a Sword Master was. He knew the historical ones from his previous life and the ones that appeared in novels. But how exactly did the title work in this world?
“Well, considering you only ever wander the same few places, I suppose you wouldn’t know.”
“Is there some sub-classification—like ‘user’ and ‘expert’ or something?”
“There are ranks, but every term you just used is wrong.”
Catherine held up her fingers one by one and patiently explained.
The stage of first becoming a knight and learning the basics: page.
Once the foundations were solid and one began learning to handle mana: squire.
Having proven oneself through foundation, mana control, and real combat experience: bachelor.
And the ones who could single-handedly suppress several knights and turn the tide of a battlefield: Sword Master.
“But none of this is an absolute standard, so take it as reference only. Reference only.”
“That’s surprisingly specific. Any particular reason?”
“Because anything below Sword Master is basically meaningless as a classification.”
“Huh?”
“Even a knight goes down if a rock hits him in the head and dies if an arrow finds the wrong spot. It’s just a system borrowed wholesale from the ancient Palatino Empire.”
In any case the little show was wrapping up.
Without fighting the tide of dispersing spectators, Karem followed Catherine toward their lodgings.
“We spent so long watching that lunch is long past.”
“Since the timing’s awkward, want me to whip up something quick and light?”
“If we wait any longer dinner will get awkward too. Make it fast.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
They had barely unloaded their packs before the rescue commander’s strongman show had stolen every free moment; nothing was prepared.
Fortunately a single menu idea rose straight to the surface of Karem’s mind.
Answering Catherine, he immediately sprinted toward the supply officer.
The moment the rescue force arrived and the performance called a “duel” ended, search parties were formed and the forest monsters began to be cleared. Blackwood Village turned into a hive of activity.
None of which had anything to do with a cook.
Karem took one of the two ingredients he had obtained from the supply officer—a whole loaf of Berseingeto-style bread, crust crisp and interior soft, baked especially for the nobles—and began slicing it cleanly in half.
Every stroke of the bread knife left crumbs of crust and soft crumb on the cutting board, releasing a rich, toasty aroma.
On its own, with a little jam, the bread would have made a fine meal or snack.
Fresh milk would have made it even better, but he hadn’t brought the jam for something that ordinary.
He immediately hollowed out the cut halves so that each became a long, arching bread bowl.
“I could cube the insides and toast them into rusks… or grind them into soup.”
In moments the scooped-out loaves had become elongated bread vessels.
Anyone who didn’t know better might scold him for wasting good bread, but anyone who understood sandwiches would never agree.
That empty space was nothing more than preparation for packing in far more filling.
The real stars were waiting elsewhere.
Karem lifted the jar of jam he had received from the supply officer.
Berseingeto grape jam—famous for its grapes and wine—made with sugar poured in without restraint.
He upended the entire jar over one hollowed loaf.
Obeying the laws of physics, the jam slid free with a soft plop and collapsed under its own weight, gleaming a deep amethyst purple of the finest quality.
Anyone watching might have asked whether this was a jam sandwich or simply jam itself, but the recipe Karem remembered from his previous life was exactly this.
He had hollowed the bread in the first place so he could stuff more filling inside.
That filling just happened to be jam.
Yet his outrageous assembly did not stop there.
The next jar he lifted was almond butter he had made himself and packed when they left Winterhome.
Peanut butter would have been ideal, but when you don’t have something you make do.
In that sense nut butter was an excellent substitute for peanut butter.
And because the almonds that reached the ducal house were of a quality that put anything from his previous life to shame, the flavor was already guaranteed.
He repeated the same process, emptying the entire second jar into the remaining bread half.
Now he only had to put the two halves together—except the most important step remained.
In cooking, sweet, salty, and rich formed an unbreakable trinity.
Karem dragged over a plate heaped with bacon he had already fried until it was shatteringly crisp and packed it onto the almond-butter half, pressing every strip down so tightly that not a single gap remained.
An ordinary loaf would have burst long ago, but because he had completely hollowed the bread the bacon packed in until it seemed impossible—and then piled higher still.
It didn’t matter.
The grape-jam half was about to close over the top.
Thus was born the Fool’s Gold Loaf.
Also known as one of the reasons Elvis Presley died young.
Once finished, the sandwich was so absurdly heavy that a single bite looked as if it could keep a man full for two days—exactly the sort of thing only a real fool would eat.
Karem set the Fool’s Gold Loaf on a plate with the bread knife still stuck in it and carried the whole thing out.
“Well, if they can’t finish it we can just keep eating it later. No problem.”
Karem got to watch that fool with his own eyes.
The enormous Fool’s Gold Loaf was vanishing at a spectacular rate right in front of him.
Crunch—crackle!
“Mmm, hmm! Who would have thought—sweet, fragrant grape jam and salty bacon! And the subtle, lingering richness and aroma of almond!”
Sir Giant Churchill, who had dropped by unannounced as a guest, had left only a single slice for Catherine and was devouring the rest of the loaf whole.
A massive sandwich stuffed with grape jam, almond butter, and bacon.
Here’s a picture ChatGPT drew for me.