Hardtack Was Never Meant to Taste Good (1)

The next morning I rose early and set out for the field kitchen. On the way I passed soldiers coming back from a night of fighting.

Every one of them had hollow eyes and a staggering gait, the fatigue of battle written plainly across them.

Temporary or not, I had been given the post of quartermaster. When the emergency broke the day before, I had meant to stay awake and stand by, but the cooks had opposed me with ferocious determination.

Go to bed, right now! If the quartermaster pulls an all-nighter and then clocks out to sleep, we'll be stuck eating that dogshit gruel again!

Ah.

If that counted as consideration, then it was consideration. Thanks to them, I had slept well.

I was scanning the worn faces of the returning men when one knight came toward me, unusually clear-eyed and fairly radiating energy.

It was none other than Arthur, and his expression was set like stone. So rigid I could almost believe a speech bubble reading Strict. Solemn. Serious. was stuck to the side of his face.

"Jinwoo. A moment—this way..."

"Yes?"

With a grave, secretive gesture, he led me into the provisions storeroom at the back of the kitchen.

What was he planning, dragging me somewhere this deserted? What was this?

Arthur checked the surroundings again and again. Only once he was certain no one was there did he open his mouth, like a dam finally releasing the water it had been holding back.

"Jinwoo. No—Master!!!!!!"

"Gyaaah!! Urk!!"

Crying my name in a voice pitched to the absolute peak of joy, Arthur seized me in a full-body embrace, heavy plate armor and all.

I didn't even have room for the humiliation of being hugged by a knight built like a bear. It just hurt like hell.

"Thanks to you, Master, my realm has risen!!!!!!"

"Aaaagh!! I get it, so let go of me, you lunatic!!!"

Arthur registered the scream a beat late and loosened his arms. I gingerly probed my throbbing waist and ribs. Nothing seemed broken.

Belatedly embarrassed by his own excitement, he laughed awkwardly.

Honestly, I still hadn't fully shaken off my morning sleep. Well. I was wide awake now.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Hoo... It's fine. Anyway, what's going on? Explain it slowly."

"Ah, yes! So..."

Arthur laid out, in full detail, the change he had undergone after eating my food. He had spent ten years struggling to climb that single step, and last night, after eating curry, his realm had risen. The other soldiers, too, had grown markedly stronger...

"In any case, the Monster Wave is as good as repelled. The fighting should be over within two days, and I expect we'll begin clearing the battlefield before long."

"That's good news. Ah—then what stage of swordsman are you now, Arthur?"

"I have stepped into the rank of Sword Expert!"

He answered, plainly delighted.

The stages of a swordsman, he explained, were divided into Sword User—those who could not wield aura—Aura User, those who could shape aura into sword-energy, and Sword Expert, those who pushed that sword-energy to its limit and unleashed a sword-force. Above Expert, the classification was Sword Master, but so few ever reached that realm that the title functioned less as a formal rank than as a byname for a handful of sword saints.

Doesn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mean much to me.

I felt bad for the excited Arthur, but it didn't really land. Aura this, sword-force that—I had no sense of the power involved. Still, there was no need to throw cold water on him. I nodded along and offered my congratulations.

"Congratulations. With a Sword Expert around, I'll be able to sleep easy at night."

"Haha! Thank you."

"But this is a joyous occasion, isn't it? So why are you telling me in secret, in a place like this?"

The question occurred to me mid-congratulation, so I asked. If their squad leader was an Expert, the knights would only be more loyal, and Duke Kailan would be delighted—wouldn't he?

Arthur answered with a deliberately grave expression.

"It is a joyous occasion, of course. The problem is the method by which I crossed the threshold."

"You mean the fact that you ate my food?"

"Yes. Rising in realm is no simple matter. Half of all swordsmen never even become Aura Users. Those who can climb from there to Sword Expert are far fewer still. So what would happen if word got around that someone ate a certain food and their realm rose on the spot?"

"They'd come looking for that food. And danger could follow in the process. That's what you're saying."

"Correct."

The reason I kept Mana Market a secret was much the same—lest I end up as Flour Sack Mk.1. If a rumor like that spread, it would definitely be dangerous.

A food that raised your realm just by eating it? Whoa!

You will, without fail, become a kidnapped and imprisoned chef.

Power-mad nobles would snatch me away without a mouse or a bird the wiser and set me to stamping out food like a factory.

The soldiers had surely felt themselves grow stronger after eating my cooking, but that could still be waved off as private suspicion, or imagination. Arthur, though—a squad leader of the knight order who ate curry and became a Sword Expert? That was a shockwave you could not simply let pass.

"Thank you for looking out for me. That could have been a disaster."

"You are a benefactor not only to me, Jinwoo, but to the entire knight order. Of course I should look out for you. I ought to be going. I will repay this kindness without fail. Thank you!"

"It's really fine..."

Whether he heard my last words or not, Arthur slipped away in a hurry. He was tired from the fight, and—though I didn't fully understand—he probably still had things to sort out.

That aside, was it all right to keep making food like this?

If I went on cooking with the ability, someday someone would step on my tail. I couldn't stop using Mana Market, so... was there a function that deactivated Son-mat?

As if reading my mind, the status window drove the nail in. There was no such thing as an on-off function.

Ah, whatever.

If something happened, I would deal with it when it happened. Arthur had said he would repay the favor. If things turned dangerous, I could just ask him for help.

I set the stray thoughts aside and made the morning rations: curry.

Serving the same menu two days in a row had felt a little off, but that had been my miscalculation.

"Damn it. What even is this food."

"It's good, I said it's good!"

Repeat menu or not, the soldiers ate as if they were tasting it for the first time. Probably because what they had been eating before was that bad.

"Ha... For lunch we'll be soaking hardtack again. I'm already dreading it."

"Ah... yeah. But dinner will be good again, right?"

"I'll have to take comfort in that."

I happened to overhear the soldiers chatting as they ate. I hadn't meant to eavesdrop. I just heard it.

Come to think of it, they had said lunch would be covered by issued rations. Was that the hardtack?

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠asked a cook about the hardtack I hadn't paid any attention to yesterday.

"Yes? H-hardtack, sir?"

"Yeah. Can I see some?"

"Yes, sir. It's over there."

The cook led me to where the hardtack was kept. But when I arrived at the place he indicated, there was no hardtack anywhere—only a stack of brown bricks.

"Where's the hardtack?"

"Yes? It's right here."

"These are bricks."

"This is our hardtack."

"Eh."

I was so thrown that a vacant sound escaped me. I had expected it to differ from the hardtack I knew, but this was too different, wasn't it? He wasn't just pointing at bricks and lying to me, was he?

I picked up one brick—no, one piece of hardtack—and gave it a light tap.

Thock— thock—

Clang—!

I rapped it with my hand and even slammed it on the floor. The sound was impossible to believe of a lump of flour. You could eat this? Could you even cut it in the first place?

"How do you eat this?"

"We break the hardtack into pieces, boil them in hot water, and eat it like porridge."

"And how do you break it?"

"With an axe."

???

The appearance of a cooking tool I had never imagined left me unable to hide my shock. An ingredient that required an axe—was that even an ingredient? This wasn't hunting. It was just bread. But the cook looked at me with a pure, uncomprehending face, as if he couldn't see what the problem was.

So this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the average combat ration of another world. This was no time to fuss over the mess menu.

Once breakfast service ended, I gave an order to every cook.

"Bring me the flour you use to make hardtack!"

This crap was not hardtack. It was time to show another-world fantasy what K-hardtack looked like.

Hardtack was never meant to taste good.

On Earth, hardtack had existed under that very name since ancient Egypt: an extreme preserved food, its dough dried until the moisture fell below six percent, to keep mold from taking hold. No eggs. No dried fruit. No yeast. Put any of that into the dough and preservation became that much harder. So hardtack could never become delicious. From the very purpose of its existence, it was a food that had turned its back on flavor.

But that, in the end, was a story of the past. Before modern food science, hardtack had been able to reclaim its taste.

Truth be told, the hardtack of the modern Republic of Korea was probably classified closer to a biscuit than to hardtack proper, but what did that matter? As long as it tasted good, that was enough. They dried it, anyway.

The hardtack I had eaten to death in the army: clean and faintly sweet, the nutty aroma of barley lingering through a crisp, dry bite.

Look at the dough ratio of ordinary modern hardtack, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ingredient used in the greatest quantity alongside flour was shortening, or margarine. Mixing in fat brought the distinctive flavor of fat, a crisp texture, and greater dryness. Powdered milk went in as well. It was a similar idea to the fat, but an ingredient focused even more sharply on taste and aroma.

In my head, the list of hardtack ingredients roughly came together. I gave the cooks their orders.

"Get the biggest dough tub in this kitchen ready."

"Yes, sir!"

"You—go to the village tavern and skim me some beer foam."

"Yes? Foam, sir?"

"Yeah. About three tubs?"

"Under...stood."

Making hardtack and suddenly asking for beer might seem strange, but since we were producing it in bulk, it was better to obtain whatever ingredients we could and put them in. Beer foam had a composition similar to malt extract, and could stand in for the yeast used to ferment dough.

After giving the cooks their instructions, I stepped completely outside the knight order's encampment for a moment and, in a deserted alley, used Mana Market.

I materialized four kilograms of butter, three of powdered milk, and three of sugar. I felt the draining weakness of mana leaving me, but just as with the spices, I was able to make the exchange at a good rate.

"Every time I see it, it's amazing... You're sure this is really okay?"

"I told you it's fine. Help me carry this."

"Tch."

Iseria, who had been watching from the side, looked on with an expression half worry and half wonder. I made her share the load, and we returned to the kitchen.

I had said I was only stepping out for a moment. When the cooks saw me come back with butter, powdered milk, and sugar—ingredients as precious as pepper—they jumped.

"Q-Quartermaster? Isn't that sugar? Are we allowed to use it for hardtack?"

"It's fine. I brought it myself. Just help."

The cook wore the expression of a man committing a tremendous crime.

A little later the one who had gone for the beer foam returned, and I began the dough in earnest.

One packaged bag of modern hardtack was usually thirty grams. Taking that as a single serving, and since hardtack kept anyway, if I made about eighteen hundred servings in advance, that came to fifty-four kilograms. Calculate the ratio off the total, and the mix would follow. There was no precise scale anyway, so I couldn't match it to the gram. Roughly: flour 7, water 1.2, butter and powdered milk 0.5, barley flour 0.3, salt and sugar 0.3. All the beer foam went in as well, and we would knead while adding flour, starch, and water so the dough didn't turn too wet.

"Oh, Lady Maria. Why have you given me a trial like this..."

"Quartermaster... my arms hurt so much..."

"Hang in there! You can do it!"

Of course I wasn't doing it myself. I was the quartermaster.

The muscular cooks alone seemed a little short for eighteen hundred servings, so I called in the priests and nuns who looked idle. Their specific branches might differ, but priests and nuns still fell under the broad heading of logistics.

This is quartermaster power.

Drawing on the considerable authority a quartermaster held in the logistics branch, I supplemented the manpower, and before long the dough reached the texture I was used to seeing. Smooth and firm, like a sheet of raw croissant dough.

We dusted a large, cleanly wiped worktable with flour and rolled the dough thin. We stacked the thin sheets and rolled them, stacked and rolled, about four times, until the structure grew quite firm. The finished sheet was about two millimeters thick. It looked extremely thin, but accounting for the slight rise during baking, it was about right.

"From now on, your name is Chunsik."

"Huh? What did you say?"

"It's your turn to suffer, Iseria."

While everyone else wrestled with the dough, Iseria had been sitting comfortably in a chair and watching, playing innocent. As if I would let her slack off alone. The reason I hadn't given her any work was that she had that much more to do from here on...!

In a medieval fantasy, a way to cut hardtack dough with precision and bake it as uniformly as a factory?

"Become the machine, Iseria."

"N-no!!"

A magical feat like that was, properly speaking, something you left to a mage.