The One(s) Who Should Have Tasted It First
The moment the words left his mouth, Karem regretted them.
Without thinking, he had floored the accelerator on an experiment that never should have left the starting line.
The air had begun to turn awkward, but thankfully the other chefs piled on in agreement, so nothing came of it.
Still—cheese in brisket doenjang? Absolutely not. Even so, the fact that he had spat out a string of curses did not simply vanish.
Feeling oddly guilty, Karem asked Borgo for the location of the temple, then snatched up the tray and hurried out of the kitchen.
But even if not doenjang, does it go into other kinds of stew?
Stew and cheese.
At first glance the pairing looked wrong, yet as he thought it over he realized he had, surprisingly often, put cheese into stews.
Budae-jjigae—hard to find anyone who disliked it—almost always came with cheese; places that dropped cheddar into kimchi stew were not rare either.
He had simply never paid attention before.
Could cheese and stew actually be a good match?
In truth, once you stopped saying “cheese” and widened the lens to dairy, the number of dishes that rode alongside milk products was larger than expected.
Cheese kimbap was so famous it barely needed mentioning.
The milk that poured into countless franchise and retort seolleongtang.
Spicy short ribs, dakgalbi, jjimdak and more, all happily paired with various cheeses.
Even corn cheese, which almost no one refused.
Carrying the tray—three bowls of brisket doenjang noodles and three plates heaped with brisket—Karem walked the wide corridor and felt the “what if?” and “no way…” thoughts slowly rise.
He shook his head hard, scattering the foam of those ideas.
Even so, cheese in doenjang stew still crossed a line.
“Anyway, more importantly—”
Karem stopped in front of the stairs.
“This is the real problem.”
He turned slightly.
Truth be told, Karem did not like stairs.
More accurately, he hated them.
In apartments: always the elevator.
If stairs and escalator existed side by side: always the escalator.
But humans are creatures of adaptation.
Reborn as a serf and forced to grow used to reality, Karem had eventually accepted the humility of climbing stairs.
Going up and down Winterhome and the Mage’s Tower left no other choice. Even that, however, had its limits.
“Ha, shit. This isn’t all going to turn to mush before I get down, is it?”
The stairs were wide and the slope gentle.
The ceiling height between floors was low as well—low enough that even a child could climb without trouble.
The problem was Afterglow Fortress itself.
That vast, elongated fortress had only this single passage for going up and down.
Everything had to be done by climbing these stairs.
On top of that, the wind moaning through the empty space beside the steps made his calves tremble.
The one mercy was the fortress’s sheer size: makeshift temples had been set up not only in the inner and outer castles but inside the fortress as well.
Originally he had meant to go all the way down to the temple in the inner castle. That intention vanished the instant he saw the stairs.
Of course it did. If he carried everything that far, he would have nothing left to offer. Even he could not commit the sacrilege of presenting fully waterlogged noodles to the gods.
It was definitely not because he simply did not want to climb this height. Absolutely not.
Karem steeled himself and strode downward.
He could not keep flinching forever.
He had no idea how much longer he would remain here.
Fortunately for him, the makeshift temple sat close to the kitchen.
Three floors down, he recognized it at a glance.
The entrance was decorated with stone statues of every kind of animal—atmosphere almost identical to the temples he had seen in Fungusby, Coldon, and Winterhome.
Karem stepped inside at once.
For something called a “makeshift” temple, the place was absurdly vast—easily as wide as the kitchen he had just left.
The interior, too, was so thoroughly appointed that the prefix “makeshift” felt almost insulting.
From walls to floor, extinguished candles stood like ranks of organ pipes; above them hung holy paintings of Tutatis’s deeds. Everywhere lay animal statues of every size and material, along with weapons, whole hides, and stuffed heads. Even a makeshift temple was packed with them.
Windows had been left open, so a faint chill lingered—nothing the fireplace embers scattered throughout the hall could not handle.
For a moment Karem forgot why he had come and simply looked around.
From one side of the temple an old man in deeply pulled-down priestly robes raised his head. Wrinkled hands closed the book he had been reading; he rose from his seat with a bent back.
“Hmm? First time I’ve seen you. I hadn’t heard they’d taken on a new attendant.”
“Ah—I’m the attendant of Lord Atanitas.”
“Lord Atanitas? The Duke’s highest magic advisor?”
The old man let out a soft “Ah” in a creaky voice and clapped his hands lightly.
“Ho, then you must be the Karem who made that fried chicken.”
“Yep. That’s me.”
“Yes. Fried chicken. Certainly tasted fine. At my age the stomach’s delicate, so I only managed one piece, but still.”
Indeed—judging solely by the wrinkles on his hands, the man seemed about the same age as Iona or Sir Hartman, yet he did not look healthy.
“I’m Rowan. I serve as a healer, after a fashion.”
“Uh… you’re wearing priestly robes, though?”
“I retired long ago, but I’m allowed to wear them as a courtesy. Thanks to that, while the current priests are away, this old body is temporarily looking after this little temple.”
“This is little? Isn’t it far too big for someone your age to manage alone?”
“Well, the emptiness is good for reading. Until they return, this makeshift temple has only me.”
Rowan glanced around the hall that was empty to the point of desolation.
“But what brings you here? That food—sacrifice?”
“Ah, we made a new dish in the kitchen and I wanted to offer some as a sacrifice…”
“Hmm? New dish? What time is it, by the way?”
“Uh… lunch just ended, I think?”
“Ah. No wonder.”
Rowan pressed a hand to his stomach and shook his head.
“Has it gotten that late already? I should head to the kitchen. Well then—pray properly.”
“You’re just… leaving?”
“A full corpse still has good color even when it turns undead.”
“No, at least some guidelines—”
“Don’t make a mess, and don’t touch anything that isn’t yours. Beyond that, pray as you like.”
As if hunger had finally won, the old man named Rowan swept out of the makeshift temple with a speed that made his bent back hard to believe.
Karem was left alone.
…Even if he’s not an active priest, is it okay for him to leave the place unattended?
Or maybe because he was a former priest it didn’t matter. In the old stories those types usually had the deepest faith—and the strongest skills.
Something else bothered him more.
Karem drew a deep breath of the air the old priest had stirred as he passed.
Considering Rowan’s age, it was the sort of thing that should have made anyone wrinkle their nose.
He could not help himself.
What is this familiar smell?
At first it seemed like the scent of food burned in a pan.
No—beans scorched just short of burning?
Yet when he inhaled deeply there was no bothersome bitterness, only a captivating softness. A subtle, elegant fragrance mixed with nuttiness brushed his nose like a light breeze—and was gone.
Still half-dazed by that fleeting temptation, Karem shrugged and moved deeper into the temple before the noodles and brisket could cool any further.
“Well, he must have been starving.”
Even the three gods of the Three Gods Sect would not care for followers who prayed while starving. With that thought he stopped before the altar.
The food had cooled a little, but the brisket doenjang noodles on the tray were still steaming.
He worried about the brisket, yet it tasted fine even cold, so it would be all right.
The stone statues behind the altar were simpler than those at Winterhome—more ornate than the ones in Fungusby, though, and far more finely detailed.
Karem set the entire tray on the altar, then arranged one bowl of brisket doenjang noodles and one plate of brisket, complete with utensils, in front of each statue. He stepped back and faced them.
A barbarian warrior gripping an axe, every strand of beard and scrap of fur clothing carved with care.
A woman with closed eyes, wearing a dress embroidered with animals, plants, and snow crystals.
A robed figure whose gender could not be told, a crow perched on one shoulder.
I’ve done this several times, yet I still can’t get used to it.
He had offered sacrifices and prayed at Winterhome’s temple more than once, and every time he saw Iona or the other priests he had asked the same questions—but this part never grew easier.
Is it even all right to pray like this when I’m not actually worshipping them?
In his previous life Karem had believed in gods.
Not that he belonged to any religion; he simply believed they existed.
Even so, because he could never see them with his own eyes, a seed of doubt had always remained.
This life was different.
He still did not follow any particular faith, yet the uncertainty was gone.
He had seen the gods clearly with both eyes—twice.
The proof hung heavy against his chest, announcing its presence with every breath.
So even if he did not worship them, he was prepared to offer genuine respect.
Judging by the deeds recorded in scripture and unofficial history, the three gods certainly deserved it.
Still feels a little wrong, though.
He could not quite settle into the ritual, but he forced himself to move.
The food was cooling and the noodles would turn to mush if he delayed any longer.
Karem sat briefly, set a fork into each bowl, then returned to his place and prostrated himself flat.
“Well… thanks to Lady Skadi I was finally able to make something I’d been thinking about, so today I’m offering the result. It may have cooled and gotten a bit soggy, but I ask for your understanding.”
Crack. Tick. Crack-crack. Tak.
He muttered the words in an awkward tone, yet only the sound of sparks popping in the fireplace answered him.
It felt strange.
At Winterhome’s temple he simply followed the priest’s lead.
There had always been other people praying nearby.
Here the makeshift temple was empty, and that emptiness only made the awkwardness and discomfort sharper.
“Offering by myself like before feels too conspicuous, so I’m offering portions to the others as well—for tasting. The quality itself was good, but it might still fall a little short, so I ask your understanding on that too. Somehow…”
Karem sincerely begged their pardon.
He had packed the stew with every ingredient and every slice of brisket he could spare.
The doenjang was deeper and richer than a century-old paste from any traditional house—perhaps because a god’s own hand had touched it.
Even so, it could not quite defeat MSG.
The taste was good, yet the umami and the lingering finish still felt two percent short.
Moreover, this was food from another world, completely different from whatever the gods of the Three Gods Sect usually took as their daily fare. There was every chance it simply would not suit their palates.
“Still, somehow, for the first time I’ve managed to create a result and offer—”
…Wait. Then the doenjang hadn’t been first, had it?
Thinking back, the reason he had prayed to the Three Gods—specifically to Skadi—had ultimately been for the meju.
And the first thing he had made from that meju was soy sauce.
The first person he had cooked for and served that soy sauce to was…
“Privately, Alicia. Officially, Young Master Godwin…?”
What a blunder—no, no. Surely beings who were actual gods would never nitpick something so small. He chose to believe that.
“Ahem. I’ll offer a proper apology sacrifice later. For now, please accept this, and I hope it brings you both forgiveness and satisfaction…”
Feeling more than a little guilty, Karem paused mid-prayer and cautiously lifted his head to look at the statues.
The two gods were carved in such fine detail that individual features were clear, yet as expected no answer came.
The Nameless Traveler time was something of an exception, then.
They clearly ate every sacrifice he left; whenever he returned for the bowls they were always wiped clean. Still praying, Karem staggered to his feet.
“Ugh… I still can’t get used to the pins and needles in my legs.”
Long squatting had left them numb. He patted his thighs, started to leave, then turned back and gave the statues a quick bow.
Feeling thoroughly awkward, he walked out.
And a little while later—
Caaaaaw—
A low crow’s cry echoed through the makeshift temple.