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Sigurd IV had completely stopped eating.

Karem was able to hear the reason as he walked along.

“Is it because of pride?”

“Yeah.”

Zigmeser sighed, grabbing his forehead.

“He said that neither I nor my subordinates would eat anything made or brought to this castle.”

“Is it because… how smooth your jaw and head are, Sir Zigmeser?”

Oops, that thought slipped out unintentionally.

Zigmeser lifted his head slightly, looking at Karem, and nodded gloomily.

“Yeah. It’s because I shaved off the beard and hair my parents passed down.”

“But what did your subordinates do to deserve it?”

“There’s a collective punishment law in Eisenwald.”

Collective punishment.

For Karem, who remembered his past life, it was a term he was quite familiar with. What’s going on? Is this dwarf kingdom influenced by Confucian culture? Why does this feeling seem so familiar? Are dwarves like Joseon?

“Grace and enmity are to be repaid through generations, and if the involved parties are absent, close kin must repay it instead.”

“What does that have to do with the head cooks? Isn’t that a blood relation that transcends races?”

“Are they turning the innocent dwarves into vampires?”

Zigmeser shouted under his breath, indicating that was not the case. A maid passing by glanced back and gestured to continue with her tasks.

“Weren’t you just saying it’s because of pride?”

“What? Are you saying that Sir Zigmeser and his subordinates won’t eat or drink anything they bring or make because he shaved off the beard and hair his parents left him?”

“Yeah, even beer was refused.”

Wait, dwarves are even avoiding beer?

‘Isn’t that a bit serious?’

Perhaps my expression reflected my thoughts, as Zigmeser nodded vigorously when our eyes met.

“Given that I completely shaved off the beard and hair my parents left me, and severed ties, and even ran away without notifying anyone… it can’t be helped that he’s being stubborn.”

“But what about the servants or attendants?”

Cooking in Winterhome is done by the chefs, but that doesn’t mean attendants or servants can’t cook. When there are many dishes to prepare and hands are lacking, attendants and servants often help out the chefs.

But why can’t they make eye contact? No way…

At any rate, even if a rudeness has been committed, he is an important guest linked to a business associated with His Grace, Grand Prince Godwin.

There’s no way the Duke wouldn’t know about this situation.

Under normal circumstances.

Karem hesitantly lowered his head, but Zigmeser naturally averted his gaze and started whistling lightly.

“His Grace the Duke is aware, right?”

“It’s only been two days. Why would I bother letting him know about such a complicated family matter?”

They are indeed family.

They both had a tendency to assert their pride in strange places.

“So you came to me for help?”

“Yes! I shamelessly beg of you.”

Well, according to the logic presented by Sigurd IV, Karem was neither Zigmeser’s subordinate nor a blood relative.

However.

‘I learned the basics, so I’m somewhat like a disciple.’

If both Karem and Zigmeser kept their mouths shut, there would be no way Sigurd IV could know. Basic culinary education was only conducted in Zigmeser’s private kitchen.

“Then, I’ll mark this as a debt.”

“As long as it won’t be known to His Grace the Duke, and if my uncle just eats and drinks, that’s fine!”

“Then…”

Karem stopped in his tracks, turning back the way he came. Zigmeser looked bewildered at the sudden change of direction.

“Huh? Where are you going? I asked you to persuade him!”

“The chef must persuade him in a chef-like manner. Could you go get some charcoal and a stove from the warehouse?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

Despite questioning the sudden request for charcoal and a stove, Zigmeser instinctively rummaged through his memory for recipes as a chef.

“Once it’s cooked, I think he’ll change his mind.”

There should still be some things left from when I received obsidian berries.

*

*

*

Words spoken by humans can easily be misinterpreted in various ways.

Sigurd IV’s declaration that he would not eat anything made or brought by his underling cooks also falls into that category.

gulp

“Okay, let’s stop here. Hah.”

Sigurd IV never stated that he wouldn’t eat any item he owned, like jerky or beer.

‘Twas been two days; only one more day remains.’

Creak—

Sigurd IV closed the mouth of the beer pouch, letting out another sigh.

A single sip of beer per day!

If you were to bring any dwarf from anywhere in the world and ask them if they could survive a day with just that much, they’d say that’s nonsense and crack you over the head with a beer mug.

Of course, a sip is based on dwarf standards, and wouldn’t suffice for any other standards either.

Nevertheless, this was a familiar situation for a dwarf adventurer.

During quests, moments arise where drinking beer, let alone water, becomes near impossible. The optimal solution is to prepare as much as possible to prevent those moments from occurring, yet does the world always turn as one wishes?

Of course, he was locked up in a prison right now.

However, it wasn’t the dreadful hygiene, cold stone floors, iron bars, rats, and insects that typical prisoners endured.

Heating and cooling systems, carpeted floors, luxurious wooden furniture, soft fabrics, and silk curtains adorned the space.

In other words, a guest’s prisons.

Of course, Sigurd IV had committed a crime.

At a banquet, a guest swung a weapon at the host’s servant.

If he lost his head, there would be no arguing.

Although Alfred understood the circumstances between Zigmeser and Sigurd IV, he generously ordered them to be locked up for just three days.

“I never thought Iceland would change this much.”

Sigurd IV briefly closed his eyes, recalling memories from a century ago during his visit to Iceland for a quest— “Ahem. Hm. Karem. Is this really how it’s supposed to be?” —he tried to recollect.

“You little brat. Did I—with? Huh? Karem?”

Upon opening his eyes, he saw Zigmeser and Karem frantically preparing something in front of the iron bars.

“Oh, hello. It’s been two days.”

“…Right. So you’re indeed the personal chef of the great predecessor?”

“That’s right.”

Externally, Sigurd IV maintained a casual demeanor, yet internally, he felt joy.

‘Finally! That dimwit is oblivious.’

After all, who would willingly starve due to pride?

The reason he stopped eating was to hint at Zigmeser to swallow his pride and go to Karem for him to cook instead.

At any rate, Karem was not a subordinate of Zigmeser.

Karem’s cooking was something he could enjoy without having to compromise his pride.

Even if he arrived a day late, with such thoughts of filling an empty stomach, Sigurd IV grimaced at the scene unfolding before him.

“What trickery is this?”

Karem placed some charcoal into the stove and lit a fire. As the heat danced like a mirage, Zigmeser silently sat in front, placing a grill on top and waiting a moment.

Once the grill started to char slightly—

Sizzle—sizzle—sizzle—

He laid a half-dried blue fish—the mackerel—on it.

“Uncle, just so you know, this isn’t my plan.”

“Huh? If that’s the case…”

“It’s Karem’s plan.”

Sigurd IV’s expression, unable to grasp what was going on, twisted in an extraordinarily peculiar way beyond his beard.

“Whoosh. Huh!?”

As the scent wafted through the air, his gaze shifted.

“Ho, his look actually changed.”

“I did say it would work, didn’t I?”

The heat from the sizzling mackerel began to reduce the moisture, allowing a drop or two of oil to pool on the grill.

Sizzle—

From where the oil dripped onto the charcoal, faint white smoke began to rise quickly.

It was the aroma of the grilled charcoal mackerel, mingled with a salty ocean scent.

As stated before, the prison where Sigurd IV was locked up was a place designated for those of status.

In essence, it was nearly the same as a room with merely iron bars. With no dust on the floor, the air carried a faint and refreshing fragrance.

However, it was precisely for this reason that the combined assault of the charcoal flavor, the salty taste, and the oily scent invaded and rapidly consumed the corridors and rooms.

Flutter, flutter, flutter—

Karem, holding a fan, fanned the air, enhancing the taste of the grilled mackerel.

The smell of the grilled mackerel rushed through the iron bars to Sigurd IV.

“Y-you madman! You brat! And you, Karem! Are you daring to test my patience and pride right now?!”

“Oh, my dear uncle. Isn’t it only right to gauge it once it’s long or short? It’s time to flip it.”

“Flip it and give it a good shake on the grill.”

“Huh? Ah.”

Zigmeser looked puzzled for a moment but quickly realized and dramatically flipped the mackerel.

Sizzle! Sizzle! Sizzle!

Smoke billowed even more intensely!

The scent intensified further!

“How dare you tempt me with mere snacks like this!!!”

“Karem. Would you mind bringing that while I grill this?”

“Oh, just a moment.”

As Zigmeser repeatedly flipped the mackerel, Karem, clutching the fan, quickly got up.

Thud—

“Oops.”

He brought a beer barrel, slightly larger than a regular dwarf, and set it down on the ground. Sigurd IV, who had been secretly surviving on a sip of beer per day for the last two days, was in disbelief.

Pop, fizz—

As he opened the top of the barrel, the sound of beer bubbles rang out, cutting through the sizzling of the mackerel skin.

“Damn it! Fine! I surrender! I surrender!”

“I thought you would. Looks like it’s about done?”

With a click—creak—Zigmeser nodded in agreement as Karem placed the open beer barrel and the grilled mackerel onto the iron bars.

Sigurd IV rushed at it like a thirsty dwarf to beer.

*

*

*

It goes without saying that Sigmeser wasn’t let off the hook for just the beer and grilled mackerel.

His crimes were too great to end it merely there.

Disrespecting one’s kin, severing ties, running away.

Back in Joseon, he would be struck off the family register.

gulp gulp gulp gulp

However, just that was enough to bend the stubbornness of Sigurd IV, locked up.

He chewed and swallowed his fourth piece of mackerel, downed his fifth mug of beer, and said.

“Don’t think I forgive you just because of this!”

“Uncle, if that’s the case, wouldn’t you—”

“Yeah. That’s how it’ll be, so get lost in front of me.”

As Sigurd IV picked up his sword, Zigmeser dashed out of the prison like his backside was on fire.

“Phew.”

Sigurd IV let out a long sigh, watching the scene until the end, and began to drink beer again.

“Well, I’m just glad we reconciled.”

“Reconciled? Me? With that brat? Ha!”

“That sword. You didn’t throw it; you just kept holding it, right?”

“This? Well… uh, whatever.”

Clank! Sigurd IV seemed to have no words left and grumbled softly with pursed lips.

“Once this meeting wraps up, I should probably face that bastard Gordon and his wife, and then leave this island.”

And at those words, Karem nearly dropped the mackerel.

“…Wait. Gordon?”

“Yeah, Gordon.”

The friend who came to visit because he had fulfilled his dreams and even married—his name was Gordon? Karem barely caught the mackerel that nearly dropped onto the floor.

“Do you… know him?”

“Of course, he’s my benefactor.”

“Right, that guy is a sword—”

“And my son-in-law.”

“What?”

Sigurd IV’s reaction, bewildered by such nonsense, only solidified Karem’s confidence.

“He might look old due to the Curse of Aging, but if you count by the years he’s lived, he should be thirteen.”

“Yep.”

“And yet you are that guy’s father-in-law?”

“Indeed.”

Sigurd IV paused to gulp the beer he was drinking, then turned to stare at Karem again. The gleam in his eyes and his intuition as an adventurer indicated that Karem was indeed telling the truth.

“…Why does it feel true?”

“Uh, that’s because it is true?”

I don’t tell lies.

Karem stood proudly and confidently.

 

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