Lose Some Weight, Young Master! (2)

What is the surest way to earn another person's respect?

Some choose knowledge. Others choose character. Still others choose wealth, and so on. The methods are many, yet across the whole of human history—East and West, ancient and modern—the most widely used means has always been strength.

That does not mean simply stabbing someone without cause. Unprovoked assault and murder were punished even in antiquity.

So what is the simplest way to display that strength?

By building one's frame and muscle, flaunting one's masculinity. If you stand a full head taller than the other party, nature itself will force them—no matter how angry they may be—to pause and reassess their situation and attitude. That pause becomes respect.

But scientific physical training that efficiently builds size and muscle only began to take shape in the modern era at the earliest. Before that, the ways of growing stronger were more or less the same: bare-handed combat arts such as wrestling, boxing, and Muay Thai; weapons training of every kind—sword, spear, shield; outdoor pursuits like riding, hunting, and sport; or simply lifting heavy things over and over, or running until you dropped.

There was, however, an even simpler method than any of those.

Eating. Getting fat.

Standards of beauty and style have shifted with every age. Yet until mere decades ago, corpulence itself was a way of advertising one's power, authority, and station. Men therefore believed that the more they ate and drank, the more of a real man they were; those who could not keep up watched them with admiration, envy, and jealousy. The attitude was strongest among those who already held power, and it only faded once a stout frame began to be called obesity, once diets changed, and once medicine advanced.

In short, by Europa's standards Godwin Felwinter was a thoroughly promising specimen of manhood whose future looked bright indeed.

"Godwin? Haven't your clothes multiplied lately?"

"Ah, Mother. I've grown taller and broader, so the old ones got too small."

"That may be, but these look rather tight. Wait—come here a moment."

"What? Hold on. Mother? Wait—Mother!"

"Good heavens. Look at this belly. This isn't a fine figure—you've simply put on weight! This won't do. Until every bit of that fat is gone, or until you've put on real muscle, snacks are forbidden."

"...!"

"And stop eating that oil-slick sauce you call mayonnaise."

"..!!!"

"And eat more vegetables!"

"..!!!!!"

But would Elizabeth Felwinter, Duchess of Iceland and mother of four, see it that way?

Her aesthetic sense was thoroughly modern—eccentric by Europa's usual standards. Watching her eldest son grow rounder by the day, she could bear it no longer and drew her blade.

Phaaaaaah...

The sigh that left him seemed loud enough to shake the world. Across from Karem and Gordon sat Godwin, wearing the face of a man who had taken every hardship under heaven upon his own shoulders.

"Is it really that serious a problem?"

"Of course it is!"

Bang! Godwin slammed the table in a flare of temper.

"The joy of my life is vanishing before my eyes! If that isn't a crisis, what is!?"

Why am I the one who has to answer that?

Karem regarded Godwin—who kept pounding the table—with a look that was equal parts pity and discomfort.

Then again, Godwin had brought a fair share of this on himself. Had anyone held a knife to his throat and forced him to inhale mayonnaise like that? And month by month his appetite had only grown; weight and bulk had followed in perfect proportion. That was hardly the cooks' responsibility. Karem, for one, was firmly convinced none of it was his fault. Cooks cooked. Eating was entirely the eater's choice.

Still... it would be strange if he hadn't gained anything.

Iceland's diet was greasy by nature. The same held true in every land where most of the year was cold and harsh. When that rich fare met a sharp, spicy kick, the result was predictable. There had been pungent spices before Red Witch's Finger, of course, but their heat was milder and their fragrance stronger; the new heat was overwhelming. People already used to Icelandic cooking found their appetites exploding. Those who had once eaten less because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the food felt heavy could now eat without resistance once Firebrand was used. And on top of all that came a constant stream of newly invented desserts. No one refused them.

"Then isn't the answer simple?"

Gordon polished off the egg tart Karem had brought in a single bite, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, and tapped the table with casual indifference.

"Just ask the kitchen in secret."

"I already tried. Every cook in Winterhome has been bought by Mother."

"Then the only one still free—"

"Exactly as you're thinking. The only one left is Karem, who was away!"

He wasn't wrong. Many cooks had been drafted to feed the rescue force. Now that the force had become a punitive expedition and those cooks had stayed behind, the only one who had returned was Karem.

"Why not just exercise, then?"

"It's not that easy."

The answer came without a shred of hesitation. Karem felt a vein throb in his neck.

Then what exactly do you want me to do?

Godwin did have an excuse, though.

"I've had no choice but to increase my sword practice and riding hours, but that only makes me hungrier. And what do the cooks Mother has bribed bring me? The same bread, salad, fruit, and boiled meat with a pinch of salt—every single time!"

"Ah. That I can understand."

Karem could sympathize. In his previous life he too had suffered for a while because of a diet. Action and reaction; the principle of elasticity. Move the body and it demands calories in return. Instinct craves high-energy food to fill the gap, yet surrendering to that instinct means the weight never leaves. So the ordeal continues. After grinding effort he had finally succeeded in dropping the weight—and even so, the memory remained a stretch of pure misery he could never forget.

"Hmm? Wait. Something's coming to me..."

"You are my hope!"

"Could you keep it down for a second? I'm thinking."

The blunt reply was hardly the way one addressed a superior. Ignoring the desperate, clinging look Godwin cast him, Gordon finished the last egg tart and glanced at Karem as if wondering whether this was really all right.

Westerners drop weight just by changing their rice for bread...

Whether Gordon thought so or not, Karem was busy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wringing every last drop from a half-formed idea. Bread or rice—both were refined carbohydrates. Yet for reasons of habitual diet or perhaps differences in digestion, Westerners often shed weight simply by swapping one for the other. The key points, as far as he recalled, were replacing bread with rice and cutting oil from the meals as much as possible.

Unfortunately, there was no rice here. At least, Karem had never seen any even in Winterhome. He could ask Jigmeser and try ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to obtain some, but the absence of rice did not make the whole plan impossible. Other grains existed. If he could just combine the remaining ingredients the right way...

"Young Master Godwin. What bothers you most about your current meals?"

"First of all, everything is far too raw. Even if the goal is to make me lose weight, plain fruit, undressed salad, and plain boiled meat is a bit much, don't you think?"

"So the problem is that it doesn't taste good?"

"Exactly."

Godwin nodded firmly.

That was a relief. If the issue was flavor rather than sheer hunger, Karem had options he could prepare.

"I can't do anything about it this very moment."

The eager light on Godwin's face collapsed in an instant. Gordon, still dabbing pastry crumbs from his plate, spoke up.

"Come on, Young Master, think about it. It's only natural. The kid just got back yesterday. And he only heard about your problem a minute ago."

"Mm. Perhaps I was too impatient."

"Well, since he's saying that much, give him a little time."

"Hah. Yes. That was rude of me."

Looking somewhat relieved, Godwin rose from his seat.

"Still—you really can solve this, right?"

"Yes. But there's one condition you have to keep."

Karem's voice turned serious.

"Mayonnaise is banned for the time being."

"Ghk—kuh. Fine. Mayonnaise... can't be helped."

"And even if it feels strange at first, you have to follow my instructions exactly."

Gordon, who had been tapping the empty plate with a fingertip, suddenly froze. A memory from Blackwood Village he had almost forgotten came rushing back.

Grizzly Beaver... just what is he planning to pull this time?

Gordon eyed Karem's grimly set face with open suspicion.

"Kh—khuhuk—khahahahahahahaha!!!"

Having heard the entire confession, Catherine could no longer maintain the dignity of either employer or archmage. A scion of a ducal house—the heir, no less—had come running in a panic over something like that? It was enough to leave one both astonished and exasperated.

"Hmm. Personally I find a bit of weight rather becoming. I simply cannot understand the tastes of young people these days."

From a short distance away Olivier, who had been listening as well, frowned in a manner that matched his aged appearance perfectly.

"Four hundred years ago, a frame like that at his age would have been considered ideal by anyone who looked at him."

"Old man, four hundred years is long enough for mountains and rivers to change forty times over and be rebuilt. Of course tastes change. The Duchess's preferences are a little unusual, I'll grant you."

"You too, Kitty, and all the young ones these days—you've grown soft. Back when I was a boy—"

Here we go again.

Karem closed his mouth and endured the aftershocks of the spectacular magical duel that always followed their everyday bickering. A moment later the two archmages, as if by unspoken agreement, clicked their tongues and simultaneously dismissed their spells.

"So, Karem. Do you actually have a plan?"

"If you think about it, it isn't all that difficult."

"Oh?"

Olivier fixed him with a gaze full of curiosity. Catherine's expression was much the same, yet Karem simply squared his shoulders with quiet confidence.

He truly was confident. In his previous life he had absorbed every sort of media on the subject and had lived through both direct and indirect experience. Crafting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single diet plan was hardly beyond him. Of course he would never claim professional expertise—Karem might excuse every other talent by calling himself a genius, but even he was not that shameless. In the end a diet came down to two things: increase the exercise, control the food. And since he was a cook, designing the right diet was enough.

An ordinary person glancing at the menu in Karem's head would sneer that it was no diet at all once you set the rice aside. But this was Europa. Bodies and diets closer to—or identical with—those of Westerners. For them, that level of adjustment would be plenty.

"First we cut the butter and the greasy Icelandic staples."

"Ho. True enough—meals in cold country do run heavy on fat."

"Then we feed him plenty of meat and vegetables together."

"Yes, that too—wait. What?"

"And instead of bread, he'll eat oats."

Should we stop him, or shouldn't we?

For once, master and disciple found themselves in rare private agreement. Unaware of their thoughts, Karem continued assembling the menu in his head, gathered the empty dishes, and walked out without a backward glance.