Coback al (2)
Nothing in life is easy.
Neither cooking, nor knife skills, nor people.
The world is full of difficulties.
And right now,
Schutmann's words felt especially difficult.
"That's why it's so difficult."
Schutmann, who'd been showering with complints about my dish.
For him to suddenly say it was difficult,
I couldn't easily grasp what he ant.
But I did notice Plerine's left hand under the table,
her middle finger and thumb touching, ready to snap at any mont.
This was a turning point.
Depending on the conversation now, the outco could change.
'First thing's first—avoid any physical conflict.'
If, by chance, the squire and Plerine clashed?
Who knows who would win, but the shop itself would be turned to dust.
I forced myself to keep my voice as calm as possible.
"What do you an by 'difficult?' Are you interested in the recipe for the food you ate?"
Schutmann, however, continued to stare silently at his empty bowl before speaking slowly.
"The recipe... Certainly important. But in food, perhaps the ingredients are even more vital than the recipe. The quality of ingredients changes the flavor."
What nonsense.
As a cook, I wanted to retort,
but there was no need to provoke him, so I kept quiet and listened.
"People are similar. Just as a dish's taste depends on its ingredients, the outco depends on the person. Soone might start as a lowly soldier and beco a knight, or might run a small inn while soone else becos the palace head chef."
Ah, like how you're a squire, not a full knight? I swallowed the words before they escaped.
Schutmann's cold gaze pierced .
"This ingredient looks promising, but I can't tell if it will be dicine or poison. That's why it's difficult."
He sure liked talking in circles.
I suppose he was comparing to an ingredient.
He's unsure if my existence will be a benefit or a drawback to him—essentially, that's what he ant.
'I don't get it. Why is he saying that about ?'
Knowing his true identity only deepened my doubt.
Schutmann is a squire from the Whitefang knight order, which represents the Duchy in the north, after all.
If so, it would make sense for him to follow his commander—the battalion commander's—will and use as a cook,
if he knows my abilities and value.
'He doesn't seem like so ambition-blinded, jealous fool like the green-eyed company commander.'
So, the fact that this squire is hesitating on what to do with doesn't fit the context.
At this point, a new hypothesis erged.
'What if Schutmann isn't here to help Granfen after all?'
What if he's actually here to sabotage Granfen's victory?
'Is he a spy? Hmm. That actually makes more sense.'
As I ntally reorganized my list of connections and the status board,
I picked my next words carefully.
Diplomacy always begins with eloquence.
"Are you familiar with the fish called fugu?"
Schutmann didn't answer, maybe surprised by my non-sequitur,
or maybe he just thought it was unworthy of a reply.
Either way, I continued.
"The internal organs of a fugu are highly poisonous. Eating it without proper preparation is suicide. But if the poisons are thoroughly removed, it offers an incomparable, unique flavor. For this, neither the best recipe nor the freshest fugu matters most."
"?"
"What matters most is the cook's skill itself, more than the recipe or the ingredient."
Since he'd compared to an ingredient, I compared him to a chef in return.
At this, Schutmann's lips curled up ever so slightly.
"...."
"...."
In the silent tension, Schutmann's subtle smile,
and , swallowing all my nerves and managing my expression.
But above Plerine and Naba's heads, transparent question marks floated.
They clearly hadn't caught on to the hidden aning in our exchange.
'Actually, it's better that way.'
If they butted in clumsily, things could get worse.
As these thoughts passed through my head and I was about to choose my next words,
Schutmann spoke first.
"Not only is your cooking good, but you have a silver tongue as well."
"I guess I picked up the skill from dealing with custors."
At my words, Schutmann grinned and pulled up the mask hanging around his neck over his nose.
"An impressive perspective. That the chef, not the recipe or the ingredient, is what matters most in taste."
Isn't that obvious? I thought just as Plerine suddenly interrupted.
"And our boss is the continent's greatest chef."
Not to be outdone, Naba slamd his hand on the table, exclaiming,
"Th-that's right! He's an even greater chef than the palace head chef!"
Of course, the embarrassnt was mine alone,
but Schutmann, seeming amused, said,
"You have so lively subordinates."
"They're my pride and joy."
As I said this, I could feel the warm gazes of employees #1 and #2,
but I kept staring at Schutmann as I spoke.
"Do you have anything else to say?"
Instead of answering, Schutmann simply held my gaze,
then, slowly, very slowly, rose from his seat and spoke.
"... It was a pleasant ti. Thank you for the al."
At the sa ti, two silver coins clinked onto the table.
That amount was a ridiculous sum for a single al.
〈 Custor - Schutmann Whitefang acknowledges your cooking 〉
〈 You have gained 1 'Recognition'. 〉
〈 Custor - Schutmann Whitefang acknowledges your service. 〉
〈 You have gained 1 'Recognition'. 〉
*
After seeing off the quiet storm nad Schutmann,
and assigning the two to clear away the dishes, I pondered.
'How many ticking ti bombs are there, anyway?'
Zeros—the first client and my observer.
Schutmann, a squire with an unknown agenda.
The unexpectedly cunning green-eyed Hank, the company commander, who I'd thought was just an emotional fool.
And his scrawny lieutenant.
'Ah, Burt. Looking back, I realize it was like spring back then.'
... Okay, maybe not.
Anyway,
with things this complicated, it was ti to set so priorities.
'First, I need to resolve the duel.'
Zeros's contradictory behavior is a mystery,
and Schutmann's ulterior motives are also suspicious.
But for now, these are just potential threats.
They haven't surfaced yet, so they must be dealt with later.
"If you're done with the cleaning, gather around."
I called over Plerine and Naba and brought up the highlight of today's events.
"I'm having an honor duel in three days."
"Who?"
"."
"Eh?!"
"Huh?"
The two of them were visibly shocked.
Co to think of it, I probably should start by telling them I've beco a cook.
In the end, I had to explain the whole story from the start.
Dragged to headquarters as soon as we arrived in the village,
getting on the bad side of green-eyed Hank the company commander, —this part was for Naba—
getting conscripted as a cook directly under the battalion commander in the operations room,
having army officers co eat at our inn,
getting into trouble at the training center and beating soone up,
then, as if on cue, that lieutenant showed up and tried to kill so I challenged him to a duel.
—Of course, I skipped all the bits about Jeros in the middle.
Having listened to it all, Naba spoke as if stunned.
"No way. All of that happened in a single day?"
Well,
a scenario where an outsider becos a Duchy soldier,
a shabby inn turns into an officers' ss,
and on top of that, a duel is arranged with the lieutenant—those are hardly everyday events.
"Um, boss. Can you even win that duel?"
I shook my head and replied.
"According to Jeros, there's no way I'll win."
"What? Jeros said so?!"
Naba, going pale, clutched his own head.
"Why? Who's Jeros?"
To explain to Plerine, who didn't know Jeros, Naba began an explanation:
He's a mber of the village guard, a monstrously strong brute,
with a 100% insane hit rate in betting on matches at the sparring tournant.
His face turned from pale to blue as he explained with spit flying,
but Plerine listened in silence and then said coolly,
"Want to sneak in and kill your duel opponent for you?"
Oh. Genius move?
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