"Mr. Heiter, are you… currently taking so kind of poisonous dicine?"
Hearing Shane's question, Heiter—who had been lounging in the sun with his eyes half-closed—froze for a mont.
He first turned his head to glance inside the house, making sure Frieren and Fern hadn't heard anything. Only then did he look back at Shane.
"Mr. Shane, did you see sothing on ?"
Shane nodded.
Heiter gave a soft chuckle. "As expected. In Beryl's letter, he ntioned that you have a talent for being a [Priest]. Even Frieren has praised your aptitude in this area, saying you possess a very—"
"So!" Shane cut him off urgently, his expression serious. "You've been taking it, right?"
Seeing the tension in Shane's face and hearing the sharpness in his tone, Heiter finally dropped his smile.
After a brief silence, he spoke slowly. "I'm old. I just want to live a little longer… to see Fern grow up."
"So you're fully aware of your condition."
"Of course I am. I'm an excellent priest—a genuine archbishop, you know."
Hearing that, Shane felt a surge of anger.
He could understand using certain thods to extend one's life. But knowing full well how extre and dangerous it was, why continue?
Seeing Shane's stern expression, Heiter didn't change the subject this ti. Instead, his voice carried a trace of lancholy.
"Even though I can barely maintain my health, the toxins from the dicine can't be removed. It doesn't truly grant longevity. I've tried many thods, but the results have been minimal… I'm too old. I could die at any mont. And yet my Fern is still so young."
"At my age, simply being able to open my eyes every morning is already a stroke of luck."
"Whether it's magic or dicine, I just want that bit of luck to last a little longer."
Shane felt a complicated mix of emotions.
In his previous life, he had seen many people who would do anything for health, longevity, or even beauty.
He had always despised them.
But now, looking at Heiter, he found himself unable to utter a single word of disdain.
"If Fern knew what you were enduring, she'd never agree to this."
"Yes. That child would definitely try everything to stop . So… could you help keep this a secret?"
Heiter looked at Shane calmly.
Shane glanced toward the kitchen, where little Fern was busily moving around, then hesitated for a long while before finally nodding.
"You really are just as Beryl described—a very good person."
"If I were truly a good person, I should be stopping you instead. Your Goddess surely wouldn't approve of you treating yourself like this."
Heiter laughed.
Then, as if on purpose, he shifted the topic.
"I heard about you from Frieren. You truly have talent as a priest. To be able to see through the poison in my body at a glance—your gift surpasses mine by many tis."
"So, have you really not considered becoming a priest?"
"I could pass on my legacy to you, you know."
"Being the sole disciple of Archbishop Heiter—it's quite a useful title."
Shane was speechless. He had to admit, he was completely defeated by the man's optimism.
"You can keep your legacy. I'm not interested in becoming a lonely old priest. I have ambitions of my own."
As he spoke, his gaze flicked toward Frieren inside, who was completely absorbed in deciphering a grimoire.
Heiter didn't notice the look.
Instead, he gave Shane's shoulder an encouraging pat. "Alright, young people should pursue what they want. Ah, an old bag of bones like —no one wants to take as a master anymore."
Shane simply ignored his slightly sarcastic tone.
"Oh right. That grimoire—Diary of Sage Ewig—you've already deciphered it, haven't you? Otherwise, you wouldn't have gone to such extres and used a dicine with such severe side effects. But you still entrusted it to Frieren… You're hoping she'll stay and teach Fern, aren't you?"
Heiter paused.
"What? Do you find this old man's scheming disgusting?"
Shane shook his head.
"Don't worry. I'll keep this secret too."
Heiter was montarily stunned, then broke into a genuine smile. He finally understood why the priest Beryl had praised Shane so generously in his letter.
This young man really was sothing.
After finishing his ti in the sun, Heiter returned inside.
Shane remained standing by the window of the wooden house, watching Frieren inside as she flipped through pages with a feather pen in hand.
Seeing her so imrsed in deciphering the grimoire—frowning one mont, smiling the next—he couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
'What a foolish elf…'
…
After collecting himself, Shane headed into the kitchen.
"Little Fern, let help you cook."
The small Fern stood on a stool, stretching her arms to wash a potato in the sink. Hearing him, she politely refused.
"It's okay, Mr. Shane. You're a guest. Guests should not help."
Shane didn't leave.
He simply grabbed another potato from the side and started washing it as well.
"You're so small—you can't even reach the stove properly. Isn't it tough usually?"
"It's not tough. Mr. Heiter takes good care of ."
"I see. Then what's your specialty dish?"
"The dishes Mr. Heiter doesn't like."
"Huh? Why?"
"Because I want him to stop being picky, so I try to make them taste better."
"…"
For a mont, Shane had the strange feeling that Heiter was actually the child.
Why did it feel like Fern was the "mother" here?
Trying every possible way to get a picky eater to eat more—that was sothing only mothers usually worried about.
"What about you, Mr. Shane? What's your specialty?"
"… Flavor Pickled Cabbage and Beef Noodles."
"Flavor Pickled Cabbage and Beef Noodles?" It was Fern's first ti hearing of it. "It sounds delicious."
"Of course it is. I'll treat you to it soday."
"Thank you."
The two chatted casually in the kitchen. Shane occasionally helped out—passing a bowl here, handing over a spoon there.
Before long, they had prepared three dishes and a soup.
After placing everything on the table, Shane wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Looking at the results of his labor, he nodded in satisfaction.
He had to admit—his plating skills were excellent.
Just look at that blue-and-white porcelain soup bowl paired with the creamy mushroom soup. Then the bright yellow plate holding fragrant stir-fried lettuce. And that small white plate with diced ham and broccoli. Most importantly, that long iron tray carrying the chestnut pork chops!
What a perfect combination~
Of course, the one actually doing the cooking—little Fern—was only… barely passable.
Compared to him, a master chef, she still had a long way to go.
Young people needed to keep working hard.
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