Sword Masters Are a Mystery
Gordon came home, collapsed into a nap, and slept straight through.
He stirred briefly at the sound of an explosion, only to roll over and drop right back under, waking up a little past the next morning.
Part of him wanted to sleep longer. That was impossible. An empty stomach twisting his whole body was more than he could ignore.
Answering the command of pure instinct, the Sword Master’s feet carried him straight to the kitchen.
“So.”
And right then, Gordon was thoroughly confused.
A great cauldron bubbling over the hearth, walls crowded with hanging utensils, one end of the table buried under spices, the shelves above and below filling the air with mouth-watering aromas that made the nose wake up and the mouth water—
The kitchen looked exactly the same.
Except for one person.
“You’re saying you’ve been carrying a black-magic curse ever since Afterglow Fortress.”
“Yes. Lord Olivier confirmed it.”
“You should’ve dropped dead on the spot the moment it hit you. But through one thing and another you didn’t die. Then you went into the Greenhouse and had some kind of fit?”
“Lord Olivier knocked me out when he couldn’t stand watching anymore.”
“And thanks to some seed-born green girl and a sacred relic you kept your life, but in exchange—”
Gordon drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing Karem from head to toe again and again with a deeply skeptical look.
“You just shot up overnight like this?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that… but close enough. The curse is gone, but the growth is permanent, apparently.”
Gordon waved a hand and shook his head at the same time.
Black magic, curses, sacred relics, green girls—what the hell had happened while he was asleep?
He watched Karem moving around the kitchen.
Not long ago the boy hadn’t even come up to his waist.
And the figure from only a day earlier had vanished without a trace.
A handsome face with a faintly exotic cast. A build that sat right on the edge of young manhood. And something that felt both familiar and strange… whatever that was.
Gordon knew the infamous reputation of the Curse of Aging and the forbidden nature of black magic well enough. He was a veteran mercenary and a Sword Master on top of that. Unwanted jobs involving that sort of thing had mixed into his commissions often enough.
But the kid standing in front of him was the result of that curse?
Clink—
“Anyway, fill your stomach first. I made plenty.”
Karem slid a bowl in front of Gordon.
The spicy, savory smell made Gordon’s head dip of its own accord.
The rich scent of chicken fat stained a fiery red by witch’s fingers, the thick aroma of green onion, all rising on a cloud of hot steam.
“Oh, the hangover chicken soup we had back in Borderster?”
“Well, strictly speaking it’s a little different. But Mary had a ton of stock ready, so I used that and made something for you while I was at it.”
As if to show it off, Karem gave a solid thump to the oversized pot of spicy hangover chicken soup—otherwise known as dak-gaejang.
To a stomach that had gone past empty and into outright burning, the smell was lethally stimulating.
The rational mind that had been ignoring instinct to study Karem in confusion finally dropped the reins at the spicy aroma that stabbed straight into the brainstem.
The moment Karem set a spoon beside the bowl, Gordon’s hand snatched it up and plunged it into the dak-gaejang.
A big spoonful brought up chicken fat dyed red, tender radish and green onion and onion steeped in rich broth, long slender mushrooms, and chicken shredded into fine strands along the grain.
No need to admire it further.
Gordon ate it at once.
Of course the broth and the solids were scalding hot enough to send steam boiling up. An ordinary person would have had the lining of their mouth peeled clean off.
But Gordon was tough in every direction.
And after sleeping the entire day, his stomach was completely empty.
A little billowing steam was nothing more than a delicious seasoning.
Spicy heat slammed into his mouth.
His tongue went into convulsions as if a fire had broken out, then was soothed by the rush of broth and solids, only to convulse again.
Over that, the dense chicken fat coated his mouth in a single layer while the deep, clean broth—loaded with the sweetness of the vegetables—spread out, and he swallowed it all without thinking.
Only the lingering spicy sting and the solids remained on his tongue.
Gordon’s teeth moved on reflex, and the solids, long-simmered, offered no resistance at all.
Radish and onion that crumbled like wet clay. Green onion that tore with no fight, like cloth rotted for decades. Chicken that scattered like a collapsing sandcastle.
With nothing left to resist, the only thing left to soothe his bored teeth was the mushrooms that had hung on to the end.
Neither too thin nor too thick, the long slender mushrooms made a crisp little crunch with every movement of his teeth, releasing the broth and oil they had soaked up while boiling.
That final burst of broth pushed out the last remnants of chicken like the grains of a fallen sandcastle.
Even so, a few leftover shreds of chicken still bothered him, so Gordon’s spoon headed for the bowl again.
Without even a moment to savor the deep savoriness and clean finish left after the dak-gaejang, he shoved another heaping load of solids and a little broth into his mouth.
And Gordon felt the deep satisfaction that only comes when the mouth is completely full. Normally chewing would have been difficult, but the softened vegetables crumbled without even giving him the chance. Except for the mushrooms.
There was nothing noble or polite about the way Gordon kept shoveling it down.
Karem didn’t care.
He was enjoying it, after all.
Gordon, who hadn’t paused for breath while eating the dak-gaejang, finally set the spoon down at the end, lifted the bowl, and drained every last drop of broth from the bottom.
“Kuheeeeeeeh—”
He let out a long breath heavy with deep satisfaction.
Even in a different world, people seemed similar; the familiar, deeply nostalgic sound of pure contentment caught Karem a little by surprise.
“Oh, soul-stirring satisfaction.”
“Another bowl!”
“There’s plenty, so slow down a little—”
“No, just bring the whole damn pot!”
When the oversized pot brimming with dak-gaejang was set right in front of him as requested, Gordon immediately grabbed the ladle and started scooping and drinking.
“I said eat a little slower.”
“Man. I never knew how sweet a spicy, rich broth could taste in a stomach that burned from starving all day.”
After inhaling dak-gaejang with the ladle for a while, Gordon finally got enough of a fill to have room for questions and looked at Karem.
“Lady Mage is sick, you said?”
“Yes. A cold, apparently. She had a morning snack and is sleeping now.”
“Oh? What was the snack?”
“I cooked pears for her.”
As the description continued, Gordon’s face, still focused on the dak-gaejang, grew more and more curious—then suddenly twisted.
“Ugh, pepper in a dessert? What the hell is that?”
“It’s surprisingly good, you know? Lady Alicia had some too.”
“The young lady came by?”
“Yes. Though she screamed when she bit into a whole peppercorn.”
Even so, she had forced down several bowls of the solids and the drink as well; Gordon’s eyes narrowed.
What country on earth put pepper in a dessert? Even Alicia, who had long since made peace with picky eating, had a soft little-kid tongue; the spice must have been too much.
“Lord Atanitas’s review was that it surprisingly worked and was pretty good.”
“For real? Not just because the cold wrecked her sense of taste?”
“She finished every last bit of the chicken soup I prepared.”
When Karem asked if he wanted to try some later, Gordon nodded silently.
Pears, honey, dates, ginger, various nuts—fine. But pepper?
At least the fact that honey, ginger, and pepper were good for colds came to mind.
“When you put it like that, I am a little curious.”
“Plenty of ingredients, so I’ll make it for you later.”
“Hm? You got somewhere to be?”
“Well… sort of.”
Karem couldn’t hide his unease and looked away.
He had heard it from Catherine. That the Nameless Traveler had come looking for him. And that the god had even looked a little dejected when he wasn’t there.
Why would someone who was an actual god come looking for him? (Setting aside for now the couple who turned out to be surprisingly light on their feet.) After thinking it over, there was only one reason they would seek him out.
The chicken I fed them last time must have hit the spot.
The more he replayed their first meeting, the more certain he became. How much must they have liked it to go past eating the bones and even chew the ones that still had meat clinging to them?
The thought that it might simply be their preference never crossed Karem’s mind; with a slightly guilty conscience he poured oil into a pot in a generous glug-glug-glug.
“Hm? Oil? You frying something?”
“Yes. The person I’m going to meet likes fried chicken.”
“What? Fried chicken?”
At those words Gordon’s eyes changed.
Yeah, he’d figured as much.
But not this time.
“Unfortunately, that pot is the entire share for you.”
“Hey, boiled chicken and fried chicken are different!”
“Still, I don’t have enough for your portion on top of that.”
“How much do you think I’d even eat?”
“Excuse me? Did you eat your conscience along with everything else?”
A greedy glutton filled Karem’s field of view. The glutton had shamelessly already polished off more than half of a pot of dak-gaejang that could easily have fed dozens.
But people were never good at being satisfied with just one thing.
Having finished the dak-gaejang, Gordon wanted more.
Specifically, the chicken Karem was about to make right now.
A mouth that had been stirred by something spicy and bold naturally wanted something greasy and savory next.
In that sense, fried chicken was the perfect choice.
The fried batter, the hot chicken fat, the savory chicken that tore softly along the grain when you pressed with your teeth.
And since the soup he had just eaten was made of chicken and the fried chicken was also made of “chicken,” this was exactly the supreme pairing the elves of Berseingeto spoke of.
Mariage.
Of course, if a proud Berseingeto elf had ever learned of that thought, they would have smashed a wine bottle over Gordon’s head with everything they had.
Gordon cleared the bowl away and grabbed the pot that was beginning to show its bottom.
Then he lifted it and drained it in one long series of gulps.
Clang—
“There! All gone. So just one piece for a palate cleanser.”
“There’s not even broth left. What do you mean, one piece.”
“It’s only one piece, don’t be so stingy—”
Thump—
Karem froze.
What did he just say? Only one piece?
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal—!!!!!!”
“Wh-what? Gal?”
“Properly speaking, chicken only counts as a full, satisfying meal when you eat a whole bird intact, but if you take even one piece out of that, the balance of the pairs—wings, ribs, legs—collapses, and you say one piece?”
“Whoa, calm down. You’re getting worked up.”
“I am being perfectly serious.”
“And if it’s pairs, then give me the breast—”
“You can’t possibly not know that chicken breast only looks like one piece when it’s actually two halves!”
Karem slammed both hands down on the table.
Then he pointed a finger straight at Gordon.
“You were planning to start with one piece and then eat the entire bird, weren’t you!”
“Heh. Caught me.”
“If you’re done eating, get out of here!”
“That pear dessert drink with the pepper—”
“I’ll make it right away, so eat it and leave!”
And Gordon did exactly as Karem said: a short while later he finished the baesuk and rose cleanly from his seat, leaving the kitchen.
Though while the baesuk was being made and eaten, he had watched the fried-chicken process with the eyes of a predator stalking its prey.
After chasing Gordon out, Karem stared for a long time at the still-swinging door, then carefully inspected the mountain of chicken.
And he let out a sigh of relief.
“I was half-afraid he’d snatch some.”
If a terrifying Sword Master started forcibly stuffing pieces into his mouth at speeds no one could see, there would be no way to stop him. Could Mary stop him? He wasn’t sure.
If Gordon, who had just left the kitchen, had heard that, he would have felt wronged.
Sword Master, man, Baron of Bolton, Sir Gordon Stark.
He did not go back on his word over something like this.
Probably.
Material Attachment
— Dak-gaejang —
A picture drawn by ChatGPT.