A Master's Grace Is Like the Heavens—and Invites Attack
Traditions differ by culture and history. That much is inevitable.
But wherever people live, certain customs tend to look the same. Hospitality is one of them. A host treats a guest with respect; a guest does not threaten the host. A few exceptions exist, yet even tribes deep in the wilderness—places civilization has never touched—keep the rule.
And this other world was no different. At least, that was what Karem had learned so far.
From the sudden visit of the youngest Felwinter daughter, to Duke Alfred Felwinter himself—who had stopped by often until the mayonnaise incident put an end to the habit—and every other guest who found a reason to climb the Mage’s Tower… when company arrived, Karem’s job was simple. Prepare a light snack or a proper meal; Mary did the serving.
He assumed today would be the same.
It was not.
The moment Catherine returned to the tower and stepped into the reception room, she took one look at the old man seated at the table and clicked her tongue as if the sight alone offended her.
“Karem! If we’ve got any rock-hard bread that’s been sitting around for ten days, bring it out! That’s all a walking disaster like this old fossil deserves!”
“Yes, understood—wait, what?”
Did I just hear ‘blunt weapon’?
The old man who had been listening from across the table answered without the slightest change in expression.
“So you finally reached the rank of sage, and whatever scrap of sense you had left you sold off straight through the floor and into the bottom of the Abyss. You can’t even serve a guest a cup of warmed wine.”
“Old man. After everything you’ve put me through, you still have the nerve to talk like that?”
“Catherina Calendula Atanatos. Wherever did you sell off the respect a disciple owes her master, along with your skill?”
“Respect? The only thing I want to give you is a beating! Just thinking about every disaster and accident you dragged me into makes my mana want to punch a hole through the ceiling and run wild!”
“Hoho. After living through that many incidents and still being unable to control your own mana—shouldn’t we be talking about the disciple’s shortcomings rather than the master’s? Care to come back and finish your apprenticeship under me?”
The instant the words left the old man’s mouth, a vein stood out sharply on Catherine’s temple.
She answered by firing a volley of tiny icicles.
“Hahahaha! You damned fossil! This time I’m yanking that beard out by the roots!”
“Not a chance! Haha!”
The old man flicked his hand as if swatting away a nuisance. The icicles racing to skewer him shattered one after another at the head of the formation, scattering into snowflakes that instantly became countless flaming butterflies and fluttered straight back toward their original caster.
That was the opening shot. Between Catherine and the old man—two archmages seated at opposite ends of the reception-room table—a spectacular miniature war erupted.
The burning butterflies became a single bolt of lightning and were hurled back; the old man scattered the lightning into sand, then gathered the sand into a spinning stream of water and fired it. Catherine snapped her fingers; the water burst into dozens of autumn leaves that ignited and flew like arrows. The old man caught them in a flat stone slab and sent the whole thing hurtling back.
Anyone watching true mages duel should have been awestruck. Karem had been, at first. But once the exchange settled into a rhythm long enough for him to glance around the room, the wonder drained away fast.
One look at the white-bearded old man and at Catherine—who by her own admission was several centuries old—and the reason was obvious. They were nothing more than a pair of kindergarteners who hated to lose. The tiny battlefield on the reception table made the whole spectacle deflate like a pricked balloon.
Old people playing at being childish. That was the only thought that came to mind.
Mary seemed to share it. The house-elf, looking thoroughly done with the situation, gave Karem a small wave and jerked her chin toward the door. The meaning needed no explanation. Karem agreed silently and followed her out of the reception room.
“What on earth happened between them in the past for it to be like that…?”
“Not our business to worry about, Hubae. More importantly, Karem Hubae—are you actually planning to bring that out?”
“Bring what?”
“The thing our contractor ordered as a ‘welcome gift.’”
“Ah, the ten-day-old baguette? We probably should, right?”
Mary’s expression turned doubtful. Catherine’s attitude toward the old man had certainly been pure hostility; she might have meant the request as pure insult. And yet, by pure coincidence—truly pure coincidence—such a loaf did exist. A loaf that had sat for ten full days, grown so hard and dense it had crossed the line from food into blunt instrument.
No one had planned it. The causes were simply stacked: the storage room was cool and dry; jam-filled doughnuts had taken over the table for a while; and Karem had been so absorbed in recreating modern flavors that he had simply forgotten the bread was there.
“If we really serve that to a guest, though…”
“It would be perfect for getting punished.”
“Yeah.”
Even so, handing a guest an actual weapon was out of the question. Deliberately insulting a visitor never sat well either. It was doable—just deeply uncomfortable.
Then Mary had a thought.
“If she was going to punish us, she would have done it already.”
“Hmm. That’s true too.”
Mary stared down at the table with a deeply skeptical look.
“I trust you do not intend to carry this bread out as-is.”
“Trust me. Once I’m finished, people will fight over it.”
With that assurance, Mary picked up a saw and set to work. The loaf had been so rock-hard that a bread knife could not even bite into it—but in front of a brownie armed with a proper saw, it stood no chance. Piece by piece, Mary’s strength, technique, and tools reduced the weapon into bite-sized slabs that piled up neatly on the cutting board.
Karem had not been idle either. He minced a generous mountain of garlic, sprinkled it with a little salt, crushed it further, then dumped the whole mass into a bowl of melted butter.
Mary muttered with clear weariness, “Garlic again, I see.”
“Garlic again, yes.”
Garlic bread. How could you make garlic bread without garlic? You had to load it on until your teeth tingled; that was the only way it never got boring.
Karem mixed the minced garlic and butter with a generous pour of honey, then brushed the thick, sticky glaze over every surface of the hard bread pieces. Normally, any time Karem made a bread-based snack, Mary would be hopping from foot to foot with impatience. Not this time. Even a house-elf who lived for baked goods would have broken a tooth on the raw slabs. Fortunately Karem was not finished.
The honey-butter-garlic-coated pieces went into a hot oven. Moments later they began releasing an aroma that was nothing short of seductive. Mary closed her eyes and drew a deep breath: the sweetness of heated honey, the rich, greasy scent of butter underneath, and the garlic that kept shifting the perfume just when the nose began to adapt.
“I always say it, but if it weren’t for baking, I’d be a better cook than you, Mary.”
“Karem Hubae, I have never once doubted that.”
“Liar. The second you find an opening you try to steal my work.”
“That is… well. A brownie’s instinct, I suppose.”
Like a bear or a tiger driving a rival out of its territory. A house-elf whose domain was housework had had her kitchen taken away; of course she would keep trying to reclaim it. Karem shook his head at the unspoken promise of future skirmishes and pulled the garlic bread from the oven.
The edges had turned a deep, toasted brown. The interiors, soaked in butter, honey, and garlic, gleamed with a rich yellow sheen. They would have been fine to eat as they were—but “fine” was never the goal. Karem quickly reheated the leftover glaze and slathered another thick layer over the top. The fragrance intensified again. Mary, who had been watching in silence, finally began to fidget in earnest.
Back in the reception room the miniature war had reached its natural limit. Any further and both combatants would have had to get serious, so the two mages simultaneously reined in their mana and began grumbling.
“You still haven’t lost a step for an old fossil who spends every century locked in a lab causing accidents.”
“Of course not. Jealous people are everywhere.”
“Spare me the nonsense, Olivier.”
“Ehh? So young and already so impatient. Where did you pawn the word ‘master’?”
Hohoho. The old man—Olivier—stroked his beard and chuckled. Catherine nearly flared up again, but managed to hold herself back. Everything so far had been a casual sparring match mixed with a status check; both of them knew it. They prepared to get down to business.
“Fortunately the fighting seems to have stopped.”
“Hm? Now that you mention it, when did you two leave?”
Mary returned carrying a tray, Karem right behind her.
“…Mary.”
“Yes?”
“What exactly is that thing in your mouth?”
Mary, who had been holding a long stick of garlic bread between her teeth, blinked, then crunched through it at high speed and answered, “I was tasting it to check for poison.”
“Garlic again—no, wait, what poison are you even—?”
“I’ll set the table.”
Mary arranged plates and a basin of wash water while neatly ignoring Catherine’s protest. Since the matter was hardly important, Catherine changed the subject.
“Boy. I distinctly told you to bring bread that was at least ten days old.”
“That was real? Well, these started life as ten-day-old rock-hard bread.”
“And which part of these golden, toasted things is supposed to look like that?”
“Mary sawed them, I brushed on the sauce, and we baked them in the oven.”
You never said not to cook them.
Catherine found herself nodding at the calm reply before she could stop herself. True, she had not forbidden cooking. Still, it felt slightly cheeky.
“You mean to say you made these out of ten-day-old bread?”
“Yes. And the hardness won’t be a problem. Sauce, oven, more sauce on top—they’ll be plenty crisp.”
For a second Karem wondered whether it would really be all right, but the worry vanished the moment Olivier picked up a piece and began crunching away. Exactly as the boy had promised, the garlic bread was so crisp it was hard to believe it had spent ten days in cold, dry Iceland. Flavor: pass. It was sticky enough to cling to the teeth, but Olivier’s sturdy molars had no trouble with that. For a man who loved intense flavors, the clinging sweetness was perfect, and the thick garlic aroma he also favored only added points. The only remaining issue—dryness—was solved the instant Mary handed him a glass of water.
“Karem, was it?”
“Yes. If there’s anything else you need…”
“The taste is more than enough. A little salt would improve it, though.”
Karem agreed completely. A pinch of salt woke up a tongue saturated with sweetness and pulled the umami forward.
“Salt? What salt? Stop dragging this out and state your purpose!”
“Hmm. The hospitality has been satisfactory enough. In that case…”
Olivier leaned his staff against the table and reached into his cloak. He produced a familiar scroll—silk, sealed with wax bearing the Felwinter crest. Wasn’t that the same letter of appointment Catherine had shown before?
“So that’s how it is. I’d prefer an interior room without windows, if possible.”
“Old man. What mess did you cause this time to end up in a backwater like this?”
“Well, the great noble who hired me tried to stiff me on the payment, so…”
“Stop stalling and answer! If I speak to my lord right now, that contract of yours—”
“I merely released the control restrictions on a chimera I had been commissioned to create. The chimera then… caused a slightly large accident.”
“Ah. So the other party broke the contract first. Then there’s nothing to be done.”
He just admitted he wrecked a great noble’s estate and that’s her reaction?
While Karem reeled, even Mary nodded as if to say that if a contract had been broken, of course one had to respond.
“Tch. Mary, prepare a room for this fossil.”
“Of course. Olivier-nim, this way.”
Whether Karem understood or not, Mary was already ushering Olivier out of the reception room.
He caused an incident with a great noble and they’re just… letting it go?
“Boy. Why are you standing there like a statue?”
“…I have no idea what’s going on.”
“What nonsense. Come here.”
Karem closed his eyes for a moment, discarded common sense, and moved to fill the gap Mary had left, waiting on Catherine as ordered. If three separate people all treated the situation as normal, then that had to be normal. It most certainly was not—but Karem decided to accept it anyway.
Attached Material
— Garlic Bread —
A picture drawn by ChatGPT.