Winter-Ascend (2)

The main ceremony of Winter-Ascend began in a sequence even Karem found familiar.

When an event opened, it was usual for the person of highest status and renown among the attendees to take the platform and deliver what they claimed would be a short speech—only for it to stretch on without end.

Fortunately, Alfred offered only a brief ceremonial word of thanks to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the gods, along with the ordinary well-wishes expected of a ruler.

In both his past life and this one, whenever someone at a gathering promised to keep it short, they invariably dragged the thing out forever. And yet he actually finished quickly?

"I have nothing further to say. I shall conclude my remarks here."

Despite every doubt, Alfred truly stepped down from the platform.

To think he would actually speak briefly and leave.

Karem felt a small surge of admiration.

At once Iona stroked his luxuriant beard and, for all his plump frame, nimbly climbed onto the stage.

It began solemnly enough, but the moment the festivities proper got underway the atmosphere flipped completely.

The plaza, which had quieted a little, erupted into noisy bustle in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an instant.

For Karem, who had expected a one-sidedly solemn mood, it was something of a surprise.

Tamers put trained monsters and beasts through their paces. A circus troupe swiftly set up equipment and launched into a performance. Two axe-wielding barbarian warriors clashed in a fierce duel. A beautiful woman single-handedly devoured an entire giant roast boar. An elf-and-dwarf bard duo sang. And countless others performed around the bonfires in their own fashion.

Karem felt a sudden twinge of regret.

Had the occasional festivals in Moston Village been anything like this?

Then he dismissed the thought himself.

This was Winterhome. A ducal castle.

It was a grand banquet hosted by nobility, so of course the spectacles would be impressive. Comparing it to a backwater village like Moston was an insult in itself. Besides, even when they held festivals there, wandering circus troupes, theater companies, or bards almost never passed through.

Anyway, it offered a novel flavor different from anything in his past life.

As Karem watched, thinking that there was indeed a reason people of every sort went wild for festivals, he suddenly felt something pricking at the back of his head.

An irritating sensation like tangled hair stabbing into his scalp.

He could have ignored it if he chose, but as it kept up it began to bother him.

Tightening his grip on the vessels in both hands, Karem casually scanned his surroundings.

The crowds filling the plaza's pathways and outer edges were absorbed in the performances circling the bonfires, so he ruled them out. Just in case, he glanced back toward the high seats.

"What's got our cute little plumpkin so pouty?"

"William. I can't watch the monster show again, can I?"

"No chance. There are tons of other performers waiting their turn."

Alicia was grumbling, seemingly uninterested in the performances. Beside her sat William, second son of the Felwinter house, offering dry replies. Alfred and the Duchess gazed at Alicia with honey-sweet eyes.

Godwin, who had been playfully poking at the third son Robin, met Karem's gaze, gave a slight nod, and pointed with his eyes to his right.

Karem's expression soured.

To think that after receiving the Maoines he would bring it all the way here. He must have been thoroughly addicted to the stuff. He was definitely going to put on weight at this rate.

Shaking his head, Karem looked over the rest of the high seats.

Influential townsfolk, nobles, tribal chiefs, and other distinguished guests sat along the outermost high seats, chatting over their meals while watching the performances. But the owner of the gaze pricking the back of his head was not among them.

Catherine, seated in the high guest section, seemed uninterested in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the performances and was eating fruit Mary offered her. When Mary's eyes met Karem's, she shifted her gaze slightly to indicate one side of the group of sacrificial offerers.

Mary's look pointed behind the stage—more precisely, to the right of the cluster of offerers where Karem stood.

But to Karem's eyes the offerers looked perfectly ordinary. Most were chatting as they watched the performances. They showed no particular tension, as if they had served as offerers many times before.

And then there was a beardless elderly dwarf glaring at him with fierce eyes.

For a moment Karem wondered if he was dreaming, but the dwarf staring him down was truly smooth-faced without so much as a whisker. For an instant he almost mistook him for a muscular old man. But the thick, short arms and legs like logs, the broad shoulders, the solid build—looking at the overall proportions, he could be certain it was a dwarf.

And the emotions in the elderly dwarf's eyes were jealousy and rage.

Karem was bewildered by the fervent stare of a dwarf grandfather he had never seen before in his life.

Did I make some mistake on the way here? No way.

Objectively speaking, of course, there was no reason for Karem to be the target of anyone's anger. But from the subjective standpoint of the dwarf, Head Chef Jigmeser, his rage was entirely justified.

Jigmeser was certain. The little kid diagonally ahead to the left was that Karem. After all, there was no one younger than Karem among the offerers, so recognizing him was only natural.

That ill-mannered little brat dared to steal my joy…!

Feeding one's children and grandchildren until they were full and hearing them say it was delicious—for an elderly man, that was a happiness he would yield to no one. Yet the fact that Karem had stolen even a portion of that happiness filled Jigmeser with unbearable fury.

Whether Karem saw it or not, Jigmeser poured a burning gaze filled with one-sided rage at him. Unable to endure the stare ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any longer, Karem finally turned his head forward. Even so, the gaze he felt on the back of his head was terribly burdensome.

Fortunately for Karem, the elf archer's curved-shot performance came to an end. Iona, holding a long scroll, climbed onto the stage once more. The priests who had been waiting in front of the offerers also stepped forward and took positions around the tables encircling the bonfire.

As a natural solemn atmosphere settled in, the noisy crowd gradually fell silent.

The gaze pricking the back of his head remained. But Karem, tensing up for no good reason, only twisted his body this way and that while turning his head.

High-quality leather trousers and a wool shirt—far superior to the rags of his serf days—topped with a leather vest and a thick fur cloak against the cold. These were clothes he had found in the servants' night-duty room prepared in the Mage's Tower. According to Mary, while not quite on the level of the nobles, they were the sort of outing clothes a person of some means might wear on a special occasion.

Indeed, her words did not seem wrong. Though not quite equal to the shirts of his past life, he could clearly feel a softness and insulating performance incomparable to his usual work clothes. And the fur cloak as well. Whatever beast the hide came from, the fluffy outer fur was soft and plush. The inside had been finished so well that it was not rough in the slightest.

Meanwhile Iona called out the names of the offerers written on the parchment.

The procedure was simpler than Karem had expected. The offerer whose name Iona called would carry their offering to the table, hand it to the priests, and give a light bow toward the bonfire. While the offerer returned to their original position, the priests arranged the offering on the table, and Iona called the next name.

Judging purely by procedure, Karem had never seen a simpler ceremony. Then again, he had never seen people noisily enjoying performances and stunts either.

One person brought a taxidermied wyvern head they had hunted. Another, an axe forged by burning the final flame of their life's work. Another, clothes made from the finest fabric in the kingdom. Countless offerings arrived at the table that way.

"Head Chef! Jigmeser!"

After so many offerers had come and gone, Karem finally saw the Jigmeser who had been glaring at him walk out.

That dwarf was the head chef?

Snorting through his nose for Karem to see, Jigmeser strode forward confidently with plates in both hands. The large plate, big enough to hold a whole suckling pig, was covered with a lid like a big bucket, so its contents could not be seen.

Jigmeser's behavior was not particularly unusual. Quite a few other offerers had also covered their offerings. Karem, who had been thinking nothing of it, changed his expression when the priests opened the lid.

With a sharp metallic sound—ssreung—Jigmeser's offering was revealed.

An impressive cylinder of deep yellow blended with subtle red stood there, its shape an isosceles trapezoid rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees under its own weight. Covering half of it was a glossy piece with a light brown sheen. Looking closely, the piece was woven with countless tiny lines like dense fabric. The wind carried a sweet fragrance and a faint floral scent as it brushed the uncovered portion, sending ripples like waves across the surface.

Pudding!? That size, and no wobbling? No—without a container it's no different from crème brûlée or something else?

The moment the thought formed, Karem reproached himself. As someone who remembered the modern civilization of his past life, he might have been unconsciously looking down on this place that, though fantasy, was still stuck in the Middle Ages. Even if the era and civilization differed, people did not become fools. A lack of knowledge did not mean a lack of wisdom or intelligence. If you brought Leonardo da Vinci to the modern day, people would surely nod and marvel, saying of course it was da Vinci.

More than anything, the only person who would have mentioned pudding to the head chef is Alicia. And he recreated it like that without a recipe?

Karem was astonished. From the start, most of the recipes he remembered were imitations and variations of others' from his past life, so he had no particular desire to monopolize them. But to copy a dish he had never even eaten, and then arrange it as his own? Was it true that outstanding chefs could copy and improve recipes from just a few clues?

Returning to his place, Jigmeser glanced once at the high seats and smiled like a satisfied bear.

"Pudding! A giant pudding! Brother!"

"Our little chubby. It's amazing, but still—"

Indeed, the reaction he had hoped for was fully on display. Looking down from there to Karem, Jigmeser started to smile in satisfaction—then grew flustered.

Huh, that's not the reaction I expected?

Defeat. Frustration. Anger. Jigmeser had expected emotions like those, but in his view Karem's eyes held an entirely different emotion: respect. Didn't that mean he had failed?

After a brief moment of consideration, Jigmeser decided to be satisfied for now, though it left a bad taste. Anyway, Lady Alicia's reaction would return with this.

"Karem!"

Only after Iona had called several more names was Karem summoned. Still unable to hide his astonishment, he only came to his senses after Iona called him. A beat late, Karem stepped forward and let out a breath to release the tension.

Before Winter-Ascend, he could not afford mistakes even for the sake of the magic tool covering the plate right now.

While preparing the offering, Karem suddenly recalled the magic tool he had heard about earlier. A tool that kept bread in its best condition. Then what about a tool that kept food at its most delicious?

Huh? There is one, actually?

Oh, of course!

But the rental fee will come out of your pay.

Ehh—

What do you mean, "ehh"? Hurry up and prepare the offering.

Still, its effect was certainly reliable.

Thanks to that, the porchetta he had prepared was still warm and crispy.

Even so, Karem had not particularly thought he would be chosen. The other offerings were all so impressive. The priests, having seen so many magnificent offerings, merely glanced in surprise for a moment at the boy who had not even undergone his coming-of-age ceremony when they received Karem's porchetta.

"Um, Priest."

"What is it?"

"If you'll excuse me, could I take that lid back?"

"Pardon?"

"It's just… it's a borrowed item…"

After Karem returned to his place and everyone remaining had been called so that the offerings were all on the table, Iona put away the scroll.

"…As the preparations of the offerings are complete, this humble servant of the Mistress of Winter dares to petition. O Conqueror of Winter, though it is lacking, look kindly upon this sincerity. O Ascendant. Though it is lacking, I petition you. O God of Warriors, please choose."

When Iona's prayer ended, the priests all at once thrust their hands into their billowing sleeves. Drawing out longswords, daggers, hand axes, maces, morning stars, and every sort of weapon, they hurled them all into the roaring bonfire.

The scent of the bonfire carried on the wind mixed with a thick iron-blood stench. As the bonfire flared higher and its heat gradually spread through the plaza, the square grew even noisier with the crowd's excitement.

When the weapons touched the flames and the metal blackened in an instant—

A sharp, heavy voice like clashing weapons rang out across the plaza.