Episode 104

They say wild animal meat is delicious.

To be honest, how could that be true?

It’s the result of the belief that natural products taste better.

Of course, there were rare exceptions.

This was no different on the Continent of Europa.

How could it possibly taste better than livestock raised in controlled spaces, fed with carefully selected feed and hay?

The less active the body, the more tender the muscles become.

And the less active it is, the fattier and juicier it gets.

Typically, hunting targets are predetermined.

Wild animals or monsters that are active for more than half the day.

Such creatures’ muscles are never tender.

If you can even sink your teeth into it when cooked, consider yourself lucky.

Moreover, the meat of a wild animal, tense from the brink of life and death, isn’t the kind you can just butcher and eat on the spot.

Even with proper cooking, challenges remained.

The smell—a factor that polarizes preferences and defines a portion of the flavor.

For this reason, people racked their brains and twisted their bodies to find ways to deal with it.

Removing blood and entrails as quickly as possible was a given.

To tenderize the tough flesh, it was common to leave the butchered meat for a few days to let the muscles relax, a process typically called aging.

To address the smell, a variety of spices and cooking methods were required.

Or, if tense muscles were considered the problem, techniques were developed to kill livestock without them realizing their impending death.

Such methods ensured that the animals didn’t even realize they were dying.

Therefore, hunting for social activities and roasting freshly caught game on the spot was purely for the sake of varied social ‘activities.’

It was never because it tasted good.

“Mmm—”

Crunch, sizzle—snap!

Iona let out a nasal hum as he continuously chewed the meat in his mouth.

He was a gourmet.

From the beginning, Iona’s indulgence was entirely in eating.

Excluding maintaining his dignity, he was reputed to be one of the most modest nobles.

Iona’s robust “pouch of knowledge.”

Or, as some called it, his “pouch of experience,” a heavy belly, was proof of this.

“Ohhhh. It’s—”

Chew, crunch, sizzle—chew.

It wasn’t the era of nobles starving at the drop of a hat like decades ago.

Even the poorest could manage two meals a day, though not to fullness, in modern Iceland. So why wouldn’t someone as powerful as Iona indulge?

That’s why the mushroom and moss boar skewer that Iona was gnawing on could hardly be called delicious objectively.

But as a certain chef once said:

“Hunger is the best seasoning.”

Normally, Iona would have stopped after eating a little out of courtesy.

Even if he participated in a hunt hosted by someone, even his lord Alfred, it wouldn’t have been different.

The strong scent of the wild and the tough texture of wild animals were not to Iona’s liking.

But for him now, it only whetted his appetite.

The piercingly strong aroma mingled with the scent of firewood, becoming a spice that tickled his nose and stimulated his hunger.

The tough and chewy texture, questionable as to whether it was even meat, felt like cotton fluff compared to the hardtack and jerky he had eaten in recent days.

Of course, not literally, but comparatively speaking.

Still, the change in the otherwise bland and tough meat came when Iona chewed it thoroughly.

The flavor, suppressed by the strong aroma, burst forth in his mouth when it met the salt on the surface.

The umami, ignited by the firewood, was something farm livestock could never mimic. Enhanced by the pepper, it revealed itself even more.

“Hooohh!”

In modern times, such an overwhelming scene would easily garner a million views.

Gordon and Hyphon stared at Iona, completely entranced.

No, everyone in the campsite did.

“Hmm? Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“Ha, is it really that good?”

“Gordon. Try it for yourself, and you’ll see.”

“Thank you. Then, one bite.”

Distracted from the sensory assault of sight and sound, Gordon immediately grabbed a skewer.

The skewer alternated between mushrooms picked by attendants and soldiers, and neatly cut square pieces of meat, like something out of a picture.

For a Swordmaster, hunger was a serious issue.

Knights, mercenaries, and soldiers typically ate more than others.

Few ate more than they did.

And those who ate even more than them, those who could single-handedly slay ogres and split boulders, required immense energy.

Besides, Gordon had been subsisting on minimal preserved food for the past few days.

And now he was faced with smoky, aromatic meat.

And there was Iona, biting into the large steak-like skewers, practically exploding with appetite.

Gordon couldn’t hold back any longer.

Following Hyphon, who had already grabbed a skewer and taken a bite, Gordon quickly shoved the mushroom and meat into his mouth.

“Mmm…!?”

And then, he flinched at the unexpected sensation.

“What’s wrong? Did you burn your mouth?”

“How could something like this burn my mouth?”

“Then what’s with that intense reaction?”

“No, the mushroom burst with meat juices.”

What happened in Gordon’s mouth was exactly as he described.

The appetizingly roasted mushroom burst with moisture under pressure.

But it wasn’t ordinary moisture.

Typically, mushrooms lose their moisture when heated.

But in the hollowed-out space, the mushroom had absorbed the oil mixed with meat juices from the moss boar.

The inside was tender, while the outside was chewy.

And added to that was the intense flavor of moss boar meat.

The meat had cooled slightly due to Iona’s sudden feast.

But that wasn’t enough to stop Gordon from eating.

Gordon’s teeth were strong enough to chew through plain hardtack and tear into jerky.

This level of toughness was merely a new sensory experience for him.

Not that he’d eat it like this often.

But he thought it wasn’t bad to try this texture once in a while.

“Soft meat is nice, but sometimes, this kind of chewiness is satisfying too.”

Hyphon silently nodded in agreement, chewing his meat.

Cooking isn’t something you experience solely with your tongue.

You use all five senses—seeing with your eyes, hearing with your ears, smelling with your nose, feeling texture with your teeth, tongue, and even your fingertips.

The skewers before them were, in that sense, a splendid dish that stimulated all the senses at once.

Added to that was hunger.

It wasn’t eating to show off power or authority.

It was a deep satisfaction that came from within.

The three, who could eat far more than most ordinary people, devoured the skewers as if they’d vanished into thin air, prompting the attendants to quickly bring out more.

Their hunger was somewhat satisfied.

Regaining his composure, Gordon took his time savoring the flavor this time.

“Phew, so what exactly is our goal? Surely, we can’t keep wandering around with so many people just to avoid pursuit, can we?”

“That’s already decided.”

Iona took a big bite of his skewer.

“By now, a detachment must’ve been assembled to rescue me and my escort after receiving the courier’s message.”

“Then we can afford to relax a bit.”

“Heh, after running around so hard for the past few days, are you tired now?”

“Before being a Swordmaster, I’m still human. Man, I’ll make sure I’m well compensated for this.”

“Hah, who do you think I am?”

Of course, Iona wasn’t asking because Gordon didn’t know.

It was just a hypothetical question.

After all, Iona was no ordinary noble.

He was a direct subordinate of a great noble—a chief steward.

On top of that, he was an elder of a religious order, not exactly major nor minor but respected throughout Europa.

“How could I not know? Surely, you’ll reward me and my temporary subordinates generously?”

“Yes, as much as you want! Our destination is Blackwood Village near the Felwinter estate. The rescue unit will likely head there first too. Now, where’s the map…”

“Ah, I know where that is.”

It was a place Gordon had visited after entering Iceland.

“So, I have a suggestion for you.”

“Yes?”

“How about paying a visit to my lord?”

Iona was a purebred native of Iceland.

He spoke directly, without any pretense or euphemism.

“You have the skill to attack and break through hordes of monsters numbering in the hundreds and eliminate their leader. And you’re a Swordmaster on top of that. Isn’t it strange for someone like you to remain just a mercenary? Honestly, it’s more surprising that you’re not an S-rank adventurer.”

“Ah, S-rank mercenaries face restrictions on movement, even without trying to avoid that sort of thing. Too many obstacles.”

“True, half the people want to recruit you, and the other half envy you. Makes sense.”

“Hmm.”

Chew.

Gordon, with a light and casual motion, took a heavier bite of his meat than before.

Everyone who witnessed his true skills thought he must have a reason for his situation, but Gordon didn’t have any heavy concerns like that.

He was simply a mercenary who liked money a little more than others.

Some said he could rake in money if he switched to being an adventurer, but that was a one-sided assumption.

Of course, if he joined the adventurer’s guild, an S-rank title would be a given.

However, S-rank adventurers were customarily treated as nobility without titles.

And new nobles were always subject to checks and challenges.

On top of that, being the target of endless envy was an annoyance he wanted to avoid.

“Just to check, there wouldn’t be any hazing of newly established nobles, right?”

“Iceland prioritizes ability over bloodline. The only exception to that rule is the Felwinter family.”

“Ah, I just wanted to make sure.”

Gordon waved his hand dismissively as if saying it was a pointless question.

“I think I know what’s worrying you.”

Hyphon swallowed the contents of his mouth and chuckled softly.

“If anyone behaves rudely, just challenge them to a duel and split their head open.”

“That’s certainly a bold and straightforward solution.”

“That kind of wishy-washy attitude is a culture cultivated by pampered knights and nobles from warm regions. Iceland has no such culture.”

“Hmm.”

Hearing that, it was only natural for Gordon to feel more inclined.

Iona gave Gordon a subtle smile.

“With your level of skill, you’d probably skip all the preliminaries and directly become a landed noble. Maybe start as a baron?”

“Hah, there will surely be many who say that’s too much for a mercenary of peasant origin.”

“As I said, in Iceland, ability is all that matters. And if someone has complaints—”

“You’re saying to beat them down in a duel, right? I heard you earlier.”

“Well, there might be those who challenge you to a duel, but that won’t be an issue for you.”

“Being provoked first is—”

Whoooosh.

“Huh… what?”

A sweet scent wafted heavily through the air.

If Karem, who remembered his past life, had been here, he would’ve gone berserk.

That’s because the sweet scent was identical to the smell of vanilla.

But Gordon hardened his expression against the irresistible, alluring aroma.

One might suspect someone had secretly brought dessert or sugar.

But Gordon could swear that wasn’t the case.

Ordinarily, it was a faint scent one could easily overlook, but now the campsite was filled with the dominant smells of firewood, pepper, and aromatic mushrooms.

In such an environment, resisting this enticing scent was difficult.

Especially when the source of the scent was likely the same monster pack that had been chasing them until recently.

Gordon darted his eyes around the campsite.

Yet, those who had been engrossed in their meal were now frozen in place.

It wasn’t just them—mercenaries rolling dice, soldiers standing guard, attendants diligently turning skewers over the fire, and even Hyphon and Iona had all stopped.

If only one person had noticed, that would be one thing, but now everyone in the area had caught the scent.

And Gordon realized the situation faster than anyone else.

The monster pack was drawing near.

The only saving grace was that they were still far enough away.

The faint smell, which they might have otherwise ignored, proved it.

He signaled discreetly to a few nearby mercenaries.

The mercenaries relayed it to the soldiers, who in turn calmed the others, assuring them there was still time.

However, the camp didn’t regain its previous lively atmosphere after the bad news.

Instead, they mechanically chewed and swallowed the mushroom and moss boar meat as quickly as possible.

“Didn’t you say we’d have at least a day?”

“There might be a shaman among the monster pack, or perhaps they’re pursuing us relentlessly out of vengeance for killing their leader.”

“Either way, it’s not a good situation.”

“Judging by the scent, it’s more like half a day, not a full day…”

There was no time to digest what they ate.

As if they couldn’t eat any faster, the group finished off an entire boar in no time and abandoned the campsite, retreating.

Half a day later, a pack of furry monsters the size of bears, with large paddle-like tails, swept through the campsite in pursuit of the group.