Even Dogs Don't Interrupt Mealtime
Even when a person isn't hungry, watching someone else eat with pure enjoyment has a way of making that food look irresistible. If it doesn't, then the eater simply isn't savoring it enough.
In that sense, the sight of Catherine eating was devastating to Narke, who had skipped both breakfast and snacks after finishing her research and analysis before dawn. Yet Narke still hesitated.
People are powerfully swayed by first impressions. And in that regard, Karem's balsamic-glazed chicken had left a thoroughly bad one on Narke.
Unlike ordinary dishes that simply overwhelmed the senses with mouthwatering aroma, this one suppressed the appetite with its blackish sheen. Parts of the dark-red sauce coating the fried chicken had clotted into something that looked uncomfortably like dried blood. The smell remained enticingly rich—yet that only made it feel more like staring at a man-eating plant monster, an alraune or a nepenthes, luring prey with false sweetness.
But then—
Crunch!
"Mm. The juices just sprayed out."
"I'll wipe that up right away."
It wasn't merely crisp. The sound carried both crunch and a satisfying chew, more than enough to jolt the empty, fatigue-heavy stomach of someone who had risen earlier than anyone else. And then there was the juice that burst openly from Catherine's lips as she smiled with quiet, unmistakable pleasure.
For a fleeting moment a single shaft of light pierced the gloomy sky and lit Catherine as if whispering a voice only Narke could never hear: Wow, that's ruthless. You're still holding out?
"You could just admit you're hungry, you know."
"Hm? What are you talking about?"
"Your body seems quite honest about it, Lady Escarna."
At Karem's sudden, sly tone Narke only blinked—until she felt something foreign between the fingers of both hands and looked down.
"Ah—ah! When did I—?!"
It was like realizing a wound only after noticing the blood: the moment her attention landed, a flood of violent sensory information crashed over her. Narke froze for a beat, then squeezed shut the eyes that had (supposedly) ruined her first impression, and simply let her body remember what to do. She brought the drumstick to her mouth.
Crunch—tear—
The texture was nothing like the purely crispy batter of the fried chicken she had eaten these past few days. The interlocking crunch had lessened, but the chewiness had grown in its place—a springy resistance somewhere between long-stewed chicken skin and rotisserie, never tough, soft enough that the mere motion of her teeth could tear it free.
The flavor was utterly different from the clean mildness of plain fried chicken. The sharp, pickled sweetness of the marinade and a rich, fragrant acidity raced along her tongue like an electric current, climbing her nerves in a spiderweb of sensation.
Narke had felt something similar once before. Back when she still wandered the continent of Europa, living as a necromancer who could never settle anywhere, a proper meal had been pure luxury. Most things she could grow used to—except salt. Surviving half a year on hardtack and a few thumb-sized lumps of rock salt had been ordinary. Then one day a piece of intensely salted jerky had punched straight through her tongue and awakened every nerve in her body.
The moment the sauce touched her tongue she felt that unforgettable jolt again. Just as the overload threatened to numb her, silken meat tore open and released hot, savory oil and juices that soothed everything.
"...!"
The intensity almost made her mouth go slack, yet somehow Narke managed to swallow every drop. Her expression melted. The harmony of sauce and chicken essence sliding from tongue to throat; the dense, warm flavor of the chicken itself, trapped inside batter the fierce sauce could never fully penetrate, flooding her mouth like a warm tide; the remaining chew of the coating after the crispness faded, and the drumstick meat that tore so gently—when Narke came back to herself she was already holding a bare bone with only the gristly ends left.
She crunched those down in a hurry and immediately reached for the remaining drumstick.
Catherine watched her with a look of mild incomprehension.
"I've thought this since last time, but you really only go for the legs. Peculiar taste."
"Well, at least we don't have to fight over any cut. Best for everyone."
Karem, who like Catherine preferred the breast, answered easily. On the continent of Europa plenty of people favored breast meat for the simple reason that there was more of it. Softer and juicier legs? That only meant the cook had ruined the breast and made it dry. In his previous life Karem had cooked so much chicken breast for dieting that he considered himself near-professional—grilling, steaming, frying, the works. Comparing it to the dry breast meat of ordinary chicken franchises would have been an insult.
None of that mattered to Narke, whose odd preference for legs remained unchanged; she simply claimed the drumstick no one else was touching.
BOOM—!
"Kyaaaaaaaah?!"
The impact that shook their bodies and the accompanying roar tore a scream from Narke—followed immediately by another scream of a very different kind.
"My leg!"
In the sudden jolt the seasoned chicken flew free of her hand and flopped onto the wooden floor of the command tower. Narke let out a silent shriek at the catastrophe. How could this happen?! Of the precious two legs that came from a single chicken, one had been sacrificed in the most unjust manner imaginable.
Karem, for his part, only frowned and stared far off toward the center of the forest. A pitch-black aura was slowly billowing upward.
"Lady Catherine. What is that pouring out of the forest?"
Catherine did not take her eyes off the black energy.
"Kid. You're saying you can see that right now?"
"That distinct black, tentacle-like aura? Yes."
"So that's how it is."
"Doesn't sound like good news."
"It isn't. Embodied death energy. Things are getting serious. Follow me!"
Catherine snatched up her staff and bolted down from the command tower as if launching herself. Karem quickly packed the remaining glazed chicken into a basket, grabbed the still-stunned Narke, and hurried after her.
"It's less chaotic than I expected."
The village was certainly in an uproar, yet staff from the Adventurers' Guild dispatched from Coldon were racing about on foot, calming the situation. The self-defense force led by the village chief of Fungusby and a few adventurers were helping them. The chief, who had been running every which way, spotted Catherine and sprinted over at once.
"My lord!"
"Call the Guild staff. Gather every adventurer who volunteered for the subjugation in the village square. I'll wait there with my retainers."
"The square, my lord?"
"Yes. The source of the problem seems to have appeared. We'll need our full strength. I'm joining the subjugation myself."
"Th-the Archmage herself—! Y-yes, understood!"
"And I'm not the lord, I'm the advisor. Also call the soldiers waiting at the lodgings to the square."
"Yes!"
Catherine dismissed the chief. He nodded, barked orders to the self-defense force, and scattered them through the village.
"You're going out personally, like you did against the Iceworm?"
Karem asked, carefully cradling the basket in both arms.
"Yes. Death energy so embodied that even someone who can't handle mana can see it clearly means we can't afford to dawdle. That forest might actually turn into a dungeon that spits out undead."
Catherine jabbed her staff irritably into the ground as she strode toward the square.
"With that much death energy it will be more than enough to agitate the mushroom golems that are little more than instinct now. We've had reports these past few days, but inside the forest it may be even more of a mess than we thought."
Unlike at the Tower, Karem had had little to do in the village beyond cooking three meals and snacks and chatting with the two mages. Still, that had been enough to pick up a light, ice-breaker level of knowledge about magic and necromancy—including what embodied death energy meant. Ordinary death energy was the aura that arose when mana was polluted by the miasma and toxins of rotting corpses. Naturally it was invisible to anyone who could not handle mana. For it to become visible and solid meant someone—or something—had deliberately worsened it.
"But undead won't appear."
"Right. The mana that would have formed undead has been going into the mushroom golems instead."
"Still, we should prepare to face golems on the level of mid-tier undead."
Narke spoke without her usual trembling or constant glances around, her drooping ears now standing rigidly straight as she chewed on her anger. So the timid girl had this side too? Karem discovered a new facet of her.
"Whether it's the long-vanished Demon King's army, some fellow necromancer who only causes trouble, or the leftover relic of some windbag senior—I will definitely avenge that chicken leg."
Ah. Never mind. The stutter was gone, but the tone and content remained as endearingly dense as ever. Karem simply looked at her with an expression that said well, if you say so. Oblivious, Narke continued burning with righteous fury as she followed Catherine.
Before long the village chief came rushing back with Guild staff in tow.
"Hah... I've informed every adventurer currently inside the village. The self-defense force and some adventurers have gone to round up those who were near the outskirts."
"Just in case, evacuate the non-combatants to the safe zone."
"I'll send all the self-defense members to the palisade to watch the forest. And just to be safe, the adventurers—"
"No need to worry. Everyone who isn't entering the forest with me will be assigned to defend the village."
While Catherine issued orders to the Guild staff and the chief, every adventurer not already inside the forest gathered. She gave her commands at once: the target of the subjugation had revealed itself; adventurers of C-rank and above would accompany her into the forest; those of D-rank and below, along with some of the higher ranks, would remain on standby in the village against contingencies. Her final note—that the necromancer under her command would be coming as well, so take care—drew a few frowns and tongue-clicks, but almost no open protest.
After all, she was the current client and sponsor of the subjugation force, one of the few S-rank adventurers or higher in the entire kingdom, an archmage who had reached the level of sage, and the chief magical advisor of the Felwinter family. Money, status, and raw power—none of them were lacking in a noble's command. The tiny handful who did raise a fuss right in front of her had a different reason entirely.
"Necromancer!"
A shrill scream rang out.
"I thought that filthy aura felt familiar, but how can one of them be standing in the middle of the village?!"
"Hey, what's wrong with this prayer-monger all of a sudden?!"
Karem immediately turned toward the raised voices. The source of the noise was an adventuring party planted in the center of the square—warrior, mage, archer, thief, and priest; dwarf, human, elf, and gnome. A textbook perfect party composition. And the woman in white priestly robes was swinging a mace through the air and screaming at the top of her lungs.
The sudden uproar drew every gaze: Karem, Catherine, the village chief, the surrounding adventurers, and even the soldiers who had just entered the square.
"Necromancers and demonkin are heretics! Targets for extermination! Let me gooooo!"
"Hey, magic-user! Don't tell me you forgot the precautions again?!"
"Ah... it appears I did."
"Let me goooo! I can't smash that heretic's skull if you hold me baaaack!"
"Dwarf. Knock her out."
At the elf archer's words the dwarf warrior, looking thoroughly reluctant, swung a cooking pot.
Clang!
The priest who had been thrashing about like a fanatic fell silent together with the now-dented pot. Karem's head turned on reflex. Narke, who moments earlier had been seething with rage, now wore a strangely refreshed, almost nostalgic expression.
"Wow. Th-this clear, pure hatred toward a fellow professional... I haven't felt that in a long time."
"Is this the usual treatment necromancers get?"
"I-it depends on the region and which god they worship, I suppose? M-mostly the Salvation Judgment Church or the Left Sword of Tyr side of things."
In an instant the tension that had blanketed the square evaporated. Catherine let out a long sigh.
"Well, too much tension keeps even simple things from getting done. Kid."
"Yes. I'll head to the shelter too."
"Good. Guard that basket carefully. Tch!"
Catherine herself was just as irritable. We're in the middle of a meal and you pull this? Whether it's a person or a thing, I'm going to smash it to pieces. Damn it.