Plans Never Go as Expected
There's a line from a certain movie.
Anyone can cook.
But not everyone is skilled at it from the start.
The dictionary definition of cooking is the act of processing animal or plant ingredients so they can be eaten—yet making them pleasant to eat demands far greater effort and time.
Texture and flavor shift with the thickness or thinness of the cut; so do cooking time and doneness. Cells and nutrients change according to the techniques used—mixing, fermenting, roasting. Beyond taste alone, cooking must satisfy a whole spectrum of senses: sight, smell, touch. And further still, cooking carries symbolic meaning across countless domains. The custom of hospitality begins with offering food to a guest. Combining ingredients of differing natures is alchemy. Reshaping the original form into a desired recipe is magic. And there are countless other fields that process and combine unlike materials.
Yet one premise precedes them all: the inquisitive drive to satisfy curiosity about what.
Not the grand sort that reaches for the identity of the stars or the existence of cosmic truths. Simply: Can I eat this thing? How can I make it edible? The survival instinct to fill one's belly safely—and, if possible, to make it taste better. That is how humanity became the most prosperous creature on earth, and how cooking expanded into the processing of countless materials by countless methods across every field.
Which is why Karem felt no shame whatsoever.
Bubble-bubble-bubble—
"...You said it was poison?"
"More precisely, something that used to be poison."
Rowan answered Mary's question with a faintly complicated look.
"Alraunes are plant-type monsters that spawn in places where corpses have been dumped and left to rot. The stems, leaves, and roots are so lethally toxic that even a starving bear will turn away in disgust."
"The head and fruit are also deadly, but once processed they become highly useful in many fields. I'm aware of that."
"Then let me ask again."
Still wearing that dubious expression, Rowan pointed at Karem, who was portioning dried Alraune byproducts into medicine pouches and boiling them in a pot.
"Yes, roasting it once removes the toxicity. But that? Like that? Why? Has the boy lost his mind?"
"Of course not. This is the Contractor's own choice—"
She started to declare it with certainty, then let the sentence trail off. There was simply too much prior history for a flat affirmation. Still, it wasn't entirely incomprehensible. Things commonly known as poisons were rediscovered all the time. Experimenting for the sake of cooking made sense. Discovering uses for monster byproducts and putting them into dishes—well, for the sake of taste and health, people would eat far stranger things. The process just looked deeply bizarre.
Even so, feeding oats—the kind once used only as horse feed—to the heir and youngest daughter of a grand ducal house had made Mary's head swim for a moment. It was like doing a tap dance on a dragon's snout. How swollen with nerve could one boy be?
And right now Karem was merrily boiling air freshener in water.
"Just watch quietly, would you?"
"Listen here, miss. No matter how I look at it, this little fellow is not in his right mind."
"You said this has no poison left, correct?"
"Right. Dry it, then heat it, and the toxin vanishes."
"Doesn't this smell good?"
"...The smell is excellent, I'll grant you."
That much... Mary had no choice but to agree. It bruised her pride somehow, but lying was impossible. Every time the pouches bubbled, the liquid darkening toward black-brown filled the air with an irresistible fragrance. A rich, roasted-almond note, yet cleaner than any comparison. An invisible, luxurious, seductive hand seemed to stroke her nose, eyes, and mind, slip down her throat into her lungs, warm the cold pit of her stomach, and vanish—leaving only the afterglow. And threaded through it all was an addictive, sleep-banishing aroma: not burnt, not merely roasted, not simply ripe nuts or caramelized sugar or long-baked butter cookies, yet belonging to none of them exclusively.
"No—good isn't the word. It's magnificent."
"Right?"
"So what do you intend to do with this?"
"You've got the ingredients ready over there, don't you?"
Karem pointed between Mary and Rowan, both of whom had craned their necks over the pot. Following his gesture, Mary looked down at the plates, bowls, and basket of prepared ingredients. One large bowl of richly flavored cream cheese. Another of heavy cream made by folding melted butter into whipped cream. A plate of shortbread cookies heavy with butter. And finally a pouch of finely ground Alraune byproduct that had already been processed.
How on earth was he going to combine all of this into a dessert? Dip and drink? And why so much of everything?
Rowan shook his head, patted his stomach, and stood.
"I'll be off, then."
"I'll put what you gave me to good use."
"Just say the word and I'll bring more. Used to be nothing but potpourri. Let me know when you've got a finished product."
Muttering that he needed something in his belly, Rowan walked toward the cooks who were nearly finished cleaning. All the while the liquid in the pot grew denser. What had once been a coffee-like gradient from black to brown now showed an abyssal concentration that deepened toward the center. The intensified aroma made Mary draw a long breath.
"You were grumbling that it had activated again, yet it seems you've taken a liking to it."
"Do not jump to conclusions."
"Your expression is exactly the same as when you smell freshly baked bread."
"A delusion."
For pride's sake she forced her composure back into place.
Oh? Trying to change the subject? Your true heart doesn't seem to agree. What's wrong with just enjoying the smell?
But this first-time, intoxicating fragrance kept testing her loyalty to milk, butter, and flour. For the first time in her fairy life, Mary found herself flustered by a crisis of the heart.
"Please, if you're going to plan another bizarre stunt, at least give a signal first."
"Why are you suddenly like this?"
"Have you forgotten your track record, junior? I'm half-afraid my wings will grow back from the stress. Speak your intentions to those around you before you act."
"I'll think about it."
When Karem answered with literal sincerity, expressionless Mary closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead, shaking her head as if to say I knew it.
"This should be reduced enough."
"At last we get to see the true form of this mysterious dessert?"
"Yes. Time to make it."
Karem pulled a tray and a deep rectangular pie dish from the lower shelf.
"Once we head back—"
"Kyaaaaaaaaaaah—!!!"
Clatter.
A scream and a crash erupted behind them. Karem and Mary whipped their heads around.
Sizzle—
"Wait—Rowan! Old man!"
"Wh-what—poison, crazy—he was walking around with a load of Alraune—!"
"You said it was dried and roasted! And it wasn't even an acid toxin to begin with!"
The cooks froze in shock, half-starting forward only to flinch away from the screaming Rowan.
"Hkkyaaaaaaaaaah—"
A person was melting.
Literally. Beneath the robe he wore, Rowan was dissolving like mud, bubbling the moment he touched the floor as if he were on fire. His stooped frame sank; the robe's hem pooled outward; thick smoke boiled up from the lumpy fabric. The black sludge that had melted out from under the robe met the leftover doenjang stew on the floor, sizzled, and scorched dry.
The cook holding a ladle shouted.
"Snap out of it! Emergency! Someone fetch the head chef right now!"
"I-I'll go get the fortress guards this instant!"
"Yes! No—yes. Call the guards and the chamberlain as well!"
"From this moment, block anyone trying to enter the kitchen!"
The cook with the mop barked rapid orders, then wiped sweat and approached once he met Karem's and Mary's eyes.
"My apologies, young master Karem. It seems you'll need to return to your rooms at once."
"What on earth just happened? That was Lord Rowan, wasn't it? Just now—"
"We have no idea what's going on either."
He seemed to have recovered enough composure to handle the situation, yet the hand gripping the mop still trembled violently.
"Nothing like this has ever happened in the history of Afterglow Fortress."
"Understood. We'll leave right away."
"Please do. The guards may come by later for questioning. I hope you'll understand."
"Of course."
The fortress's own lord, the Margrave, was away leading the main force, and a man had just melted before their eyes. Treating every suspicious person and associate with caution was only natural. Karem and Mary left the kitchen without protest.
"Hm. Did you know him well?"
"Not really. First met him a few days ago at the temporary shrine, and barely saw him after that."
"Is that so?"
Karem still felt dazed. The whole thing lacked reality. A man had melted away in a cloud of smoke right in front of them. He was clearly dead; otherwise the cooks would never have reacted that way. Which left only one question.
So who was the culprit? And what was the goal?
"...We should head back and report first."
"I'll carry the tray. Please take the basket."
Mary agreed, handed him the basket, and took the tray herself.
Civilization looks upon secret realms, demon lands, and everything outside its so-called civilized world as barbarism—and despises them.
Yet even in such places, life continues to breathe.
Beyond the mountains locked in eternal winter, in a crude and primitive campsite of Grizzly Beavers coiled in secret so near the edge of the civilized world, one of them was emerging from the camp.
A Grizzly Beaver draped in dire-wolf hide and hung with assorted skulls like trophies—its bear-sized bulk matched by a pitifully gaunt frame—leaned on a staff as it crossed the wind-driven snow. Each time the staff struck the snowy ground, the dried corpse of a human warrior hanging from it rattled and swayed.
—Chieftain. Is it time?
When the beaver stopped, a giant—no.
A mountain shaped into the form of a giant stood there. A presence better suited to a golem than a living giant turned corpse-like eyes upon the chieftain.
The chieftain bowed its head and opened its snout.
Squeak! Kiiiiiiik—kick! Piiiii—ik!
A continuous cry with a strange rhythm. No one outside its own kind could understand the sounds, yet the mountain that radiated nothing but death from both eyes gave a slow nod.
—Then there is no further need to wait.
Squeak! Gigiigigik— piiiik?
—Correct. I will go first. Follow after. As planned.
As if saying as you will, the Grizzly Beaver that had prostrated itself rose with the aid of its staff and retraced its steps toward the camp.
—Loathsome creatures—
The giant had never personally seen those who had woken it from death. Yet he was a child of the mountain, the true heir of this land. Though the detestable traitor—the eternal winter of the permafrost—still suppressed him, the power remaining to him, thin as a snowflake, was more than enough to grasp the situation.
Failures who had burned every continent and island only to fail in the end. Mortals whose means had become their ends, thinking they could use him. The notion was absurd, yet the giant chose to forgive them willingly.
—After all, a single speck of dust can accomplish nothing alone.
They had gifted him an army—stolen death.
The giant stretched out an arm and closed his fist. Distinct black energy gathered through the freezing blizzard.
—The rightful successor of this land commands.
No incantation—only a command. For the giant, that alone was enough.
—Rise.
The snow-covered fields, hills, and forest floors before him heaved and surged as one. Snow shot upward like white mist, only to be torn away by the blizzard, revealing the countless undead answering the call. Not undead alone.
Rats, reindeer, horses, wild boars, deer, foxes, twisted tribal warriors, dwarven knights, elven archers, adventurers, orcs, ogres, ice trolls, mammoths, dire wolves, owl bears, Grizzly Beavers, snow runners, ice drakes, lindwurms, wyverns, and, and, and, and, and, and—
Under the law of survival of the fittest, the corpses that had died beyond the mountains rose one by one, then all at once.
A veritable army of the dead.
Yet the giant who had raised them looked dissatisfied.
—Only this much for now, is it?
Even a rotten fish is still a fish, as the saying went. The giant was not without intellect. The power unfolding in his hand was a fragment of the mythic age. He had long since analyzed the memories of the countless monsters and beasts that had died against the Tomb Fortress. A simple corpse legion, even twice this size, could never take the place.
The giant turned.
Beyond the blizzard so thick one could scarcely see a step ahead, under a sky dyed gray, he fixed his gaze on the Tomb Fortress of the traitors' descendants, nestled among the corpses of his own father.
—But what if there were collaborators inside?
The giant looked forward to what came next with keen anticipation.