Your Honorable Head Chef (13)
As the severed head thudded to the ground at her feet, Francois recoiled in horror. She scraped at the dirt with all her remaining strength, scrambling backward along the log as if climbing it in reverse.
"Wha—what...?"
The other soldiers, caught off guard by the sudden beheading, stood frozen and stammering. But they shouldn't have hesitated. The moment that head hit the dirt, they should have bolted without looking back.
"Aaaagh!"
The soldiers' exposed cocks—pants half-down—were sliced clean off, balls and all, dropping to the ground with wet plops. Blood gushed from between their legs like waterfalls as they clamped their thighs together and doubled over at the waist. And there, behind them, stood the man.
That guy...?! The one who killed the baron and his wife and brought the manor to ruins?!
No one could fathom how he'd snuck up behind them and severed their dicks from the front. But that wasn't the issue right now. Francois rolled desperately to the side, dodging the soldiers as they toppled forward.
"I wondered where you'd run off to. Looks like you were just trying to have some petty fun out here."
The man spoke coldly, planting his foot firmly on the back of a soldier who'd buried his face in the dirt and curled into a ball. The soldiers' faces had gone as white as if they were in Apenzel during midsummer. Their erections had trapped the blood, which now poured out all at once upon severing. The bleeding wouldn't stop, and the ground beneath them was already soaked, pooling thick and slick with blood.
"I told you clearly: run when I let you live. I don't give second chances. Forgot already?"
No one answered. A few had already succumbed to blood loss, and the rest wouldn't last much longer. The man clicked his tongue and glanced at Francois, who was slumped halfway against a tree.
"We meet again here. You okay?"
At his words, a wave of dizziness crashed over Francois, her vision spinning wildly.
"Hah... hah..."
Noticing her unnaturally rapid breathing, the man rushed over and knelt on one knee beside her.
"Your body's burning up."
Francois's temperature was far above normal. He laid her flat on her back, propping her legs up on a nearby log higher than her torso. Then he pulled a cold towel from the bag on his back and gently wiped her limbs.
"Ngh..."
The unexpected chill drew a groan from her lips. In this midsummer heat, the towel's coldness had a reason. From the half-open bag came a chirping melody.
"A pleasant trip is always fun."
A single Asenaris—one of those cold-emitting spirit-like monsters—perched amid his belongings, waving its arms like it was dancing.
The direct chill from the towel soon cleared Francois's head.
"Enough... it's too cold..."
Confirming her wits had returned, the man withdrew the towel and handed her a canteen, its surface beaded with condensation, promising cool relief.
"Sugar water. It'll perk you up."
He helped her sit up. She sipped slowly. The sweet syrup sliding down her throat cleared the fog in her mind like parting mist.
"Better? Lie back down now."
She obeyed without protest. She had no strength to do otherwise. The man sat beside her until she fully recovered. After lying there with eyes closed for a while, she spoke.
"Thank you. You saved me from a nasty fate."
Ever the noble to her bones, Francois first thanked the man who'd wrecked her manor. What came after could wait.
"You got lucky. I stumbled on them while chasing you down."
He glanced at the fallen soldiers—no movement. All dead, it seemed. Francois shuddered and averted her eyes. The vivid memory of throats and cocks severed, blood spraying everywhere, surged back, bile rising in her throat. She lurched up and retched on all fours, vomiting everything inside her.
The man watched silently, as if expecting it.
"So, where were you headed? Back to your family after that botched wedding? I can give you a ride."
"Wedding... yeah. That's right..."
She wiped her mouth, murmuring weakly. No regrets about the ruined ceremony—just exhaustion.
"Sorry it turned out that way. But I had no choice."
"No need to apologize. I'm grateful, really."
"I see. Must've been some circumstances on your end too. Not exactly a normal marriage, huh?"
"Noble weddings are all like that. No one's marrying for love."
"You're nobility too? Makes sense—you wouldn't marry into it otherwise."
Francois fell silent at his question. The baron's second son had died under a misunderstanding—he was the viscount's boy. Revealing she was an Audrion could be dangerous with this man. But why had he stormed the manor and massacred everyone? From the looks of it, Benson and the other territories had fallen to him too.
Wait... did he do it all alone...?
She had a flood of questions, but the situation was too tangled, too illogical to know where to start. So she went with the simplest.
"Why come to Audrion lands and do all that?"
"It's complicated, but Baron Audrion and a few other lords colluded to screw over Rosens. People died because of it."
"Screw over how...?"
He gave her the rundown: the six lords west of the Vurn Mountains pooled cash to hire a mage, who summoned monsters in Vurn Pass to block Rosens's northern route. Hard to believe, but there it was.
"I run an inn in Rosens. That kind of stunt would've bankrupted me overnight. So I gave them a lesson and headed back."
"That's... one hell of a story."
"Believe it or don't. Wasn't showing off for anyone—just protecting my business. Anyway, where to? I'll drop you."
Francois hesitated. Nowhere came to mind but the capital.
"Bue... on my way to Bue."
"Perfect—same direction. But why the capital if you're noble?"
"Uh... well..."
She faltered. He nodded, guessing wildly.
"Fallen house's daughter or something? Capital makes sense then. Other nobles would treat you like a slave, and home won't welcome a failed political pawn."
"Something like that."
"Good. Up you go when you're ready. I'll take you straight there."
He stood, offering a hand. She took it, pulled up with effortless strength that nearly yanked her off her feet.
"Still... you saved my life. Least we can do is names. I'm Francois. Yours?"
"Bertrand Balder."
"Bertrand Balder... Balder... Balder...?"
The name rang a faint bell; she repeated it musingly. Bertrand grinned and led over a massive Hell Horse.
"Nothing special. Hop on."
Francois gaped at the beast—nearly two meters at the shoulder, wreathed in black flames.
"What about your horse? Can't keep up with the speed difference."
"No choice. We'll cut it loose."
Bertrand stripped the saddle from her mount, secured her bag to the Hell Horse's, and mounted first, extending a hand. Francois eyed it, conflicted. But tagging along with Bertrand was her only option. Their brief talk convinced her he wasn't bad. She grabbed on and climbed up.
He seated her in front, cheerful as ever.
"Close your eyes, open 'em, and we'll be in Bue. Hold tight!"
Bertrand hadn't exaggerated. Bue appeared out of nowhere; Francois blinked in stunned silence. A two-day ride on horseback, covered in seconds by this shadowy beast.
"We'll walk into town. Guards freak out at the sight of it."
"Can imagine."
He slung her bag over his shoulder and led her into Bue.
"No shoes, clothes in rags... you broke too, right?"
"Pretty much. Fled the manor in a panic—only grabbed some rations."
"Got it."
He fished coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
"Technically my fault you're like this, so my responsibility. Buy clothes, shoes, and a carriage home."
He was right, but even without him, things wouldn't have differed much. She'd be in some count's bedroom by now, ravaged endlessly by that stinking pig until death in an inescapable prison. Compared to that hell, penniless freedom felt like bliss.
"Thank you. I'll never forget this debt—I'll repay it someday."
"No need. Surviving the trials ahead is repayment enough. Gotta run—other business."
As Bertrand turned to leave, Francois grabbed him.
"Wait... are you hiring a head chef for your inn?"
"How'd you know? Local chefs don't cut it—need big-city talent."
She bit her lip, staring intently. He looked puzzled but bid farewell again. Watching his back recede down the street, Francois wrestled with turmoil. Nowhere to go. No skills but cooking. Couldn't just beg any kitchen. No experience meant slim chances, and risks abounded.
"Wait—Balder!"
She bolted after him.