After catching his breath, Herace turned his attention to Luke, who was still sprawled on the bed, shirtless and asleep.
Once he’d tidied things up, he finally found a moment to relax.
And what did Herace do to unwind?
Cooking.
Not that he was some master chef—he just found simple, home-cooked meals soothing.
Even though he didn’t need to eat anymore, thanks to his abilities as an Grand Magician, Herace still enjoyed the warmth of freshly prepared food. It was one of the few comforts he hadn’t sacrificed for his magical pursuits.
“Though, of course, this hotel doesn’t have a proper kitchen…” he muttered.
No matter—magic could fix that.
Herace summoned his portable cooking tools from a pocket dimension, setting up an impromptu kitchen.
He cleaned the fresh ingredients with magic and began chopping vegetables—potatoes, carrots, onions.
The main ingredient?
Cabbage, lots of it.
Paired with just the right amount of pork.
Today’s dish: pork and cabbage stew.
It was a staple of any medieval fantasy world, hearty and flavorful.
The only difference was Herace’s personal touch—an assortment of rare spices he’d packed for his travels.
As the stew bubbled and its rich aroma filled the room, Herace’s stomach growled in anticipation.
“This smells amazing…”
“…I’m hungry.”
The voice wasn’t his own.
Startled, Herace turned to see Luke, now awake and rubbing his eyes.
His gaze was locked on the steaming pot, his stomach growling audibly.
“Wh-what? Why are you staring at me like that?”
Luke stammered, his cheeks flushing.
Herace raised an eyebrow.
“Hungry?”
“N-no! I’m not hungry! This is just… a physiological reaction!”
Luke’s protests were loud but unconvincing.
Herace decided to let it slide.
After all, Luke was the story’s protagonist, destined to endure hardships that would break most people.
Even so, Herace didn’t want to see him collapse from starvation.
“If you’re hungry, just eat,” Herace said simply.
“R-really?”
Luke’s eyes lit up for a brief moment before he caught himself.
“Yes. It’s good, I promise.”
Luke hesitated before finally giving in, dragging himself to the table.
However, just as he was about to take a seat, he froze.
His face turned bright red, and he abruptly shot to his feet, knocking over the chair.
“Don’t think I’m falling for this! What did you put in it? Is it drugged? Or poisoned?!”
“Why would I undo the aphrodisiac spell yesterday just to add it again today?”
“Isn’t it obvious? To mock me after seeing how relieved I was!”
As expected of the protagonist with a delinquent streak—what a nasty temper.
Herace shrugged nonchalantly.
“If you don’t want to eat, don’t. I’ll eat it myself.”
Herace pulled the steaming pot of stew closer to himself and set up the elegant tableware provided by the hotel.
Luke swallowed audibly, his bright blue eyes wavering.
Watching Herace eat seemed to make him second-guess whether the food was safe after all.
The sight of large chunks of vegetables being ladled into a bowl, surrounded by a broth made rich and savory by their juices, was captivating.
Luke, mouth slightly ajar, turned his head sharply away as if unable to resist any longer.
‘Just say you’ll eat it already.’
Protagonists and their pride, truly. Unable to utter even a single “I’ll have some,” Luke resorted to kicking the innocent chair next to him.
Herace, with a flick of magic, set the chair upright again.
“Sit.”
“Do I look like a damn dog to you? Sit?!”
Despite his attempt at being polite, Herace earned only anger in return.
He tried to keep his cool; after all, he needed Luke fed to take him where he needed to go.
Behind the mask he wore, Herace frowned, though Luke couldn’t see it.
“Then eat standing up. Why cause a scene?”
“I’m not—fine! I’ll eat.”
The voice cracked mid-sentence, betraying hesitation.
“Why? You’re hungry, aren’t you? Or do you plan to starve to death? Aren’t you the eldest son of the Clayton Count? Didn’t you say your father was coming to get you soon?”
“Who’s starving to death?!”
Luke’s indignant yell rang out, a testament to the protagonist’s stamina despite days without food.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“…”
Luke lowered his head dejectedly.
“Because…”
“Because what?”
“Because I have to eat like a dog! I can’t use my hands! Are your eyes just for show? Can’t you see this?”
Any trace of dejection vanished as he raised his voice, veins bulging in his neck.
In contrast to his strong tone, the arm he lifted revealed limp, unresponsive hands.
‘If he’d just eat now, I’d treat him later.’
Of course, Herace couldn’t say that aloud.
“What, do you want me to feed you or something?”
“Don’t you dare say something so disgusting! Just thinking about it makes me want to puke!”
Naturally, it wasn’t an option.
No self-respecting villain would lovingly feed the protagonist bite by bite.
Herace briefly considered whether it was time to bring out the metaphorical “leash” for the uppity protagonist but decided against it.
He found the idea distasteful.
Better to stick to the plan—Luke would surely come to regard him as a complete scumbag anyway.
“Fine. Just open your mouth.”
“What—wait, are you seriously going to feed me? Are you out of your mind? No, wait, you’ve always been insane—”
Before Luke could finish, Herace used magic to lift a wooden spoon and shove stew into his mouth.
The tender cabbage, softened by the flavorful broth, and the juicy pork melted in his mouth.
Spices added a refreshing, lingering aroma.
It was a dish that would be tasty even when made casually, but the high-quality ingredients made it exceptional.
Confident, Herace watched Luke’s reaction.
Luke, silent as he savored the stew, suddenly began to cry.
‘Huh?’
Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying!”
But he was.
Was he overwhelmed by the misery of his time at the slave market, where he’d gone without proper meals?
Or was he mourning the noble life, where he could once freely enjoy such dishes?
Either way, the protagonist appeared surprisingly fragile.
Sniffling, Luke opened his mouth again. It was an unspoken demand for more.
For a slave, he was oddly bold.
“And to think, the eldest son of the Count’s family is this moved by a simple stew.
If it’s so bad you’re crying, maybe I shouldn’t give you any more.”
“Stop talking crap and just give me more.”
“And is that how you talk to someone giving you food?”
“…Please.”
Herace hadn’t even needed to prompt him for polite speech.
He’d planned to keep feeding him anyway but was caught off guard by Luke’s sudden shift in tone.
‘No, wait.’
This wasn’t genuine submission.
It was likely that thing protagonists often did—pretending to be docile to catch their opponents off guard.
A ploy to exploit weaknesses and strike when the time was right.
‘Go ahead. Plot all you want. Once I’ve finished my job, I’ll let your plan sweep me away.’
It was both a thoroughly villainous and oddly unvillainous resolve.
Herace just wanted to finish this drawn-out mission and go home.
To that end, he diligently stuffed more stew into Luke’s mouth.
Despite his high pride, Luke accepted the stew with surprising compliance, occasionally murmuring low exclamations of appreciation.
Herace found himself feeling a bit pleased—anyone would, watching someone enjoy food they’d prepared.
“So…”
Mid-bite, Luke spoke again.
“If you bought me for some other reason, why don’t you just spill it already? What’s with this whole charade…?”
Herace smiled behind his mask as he saw Luke willingly take another spoonful without complaint.
At least he had a good appetite.
“The ‘Great One’ and the ‘test,’” Luke continued.
“What are those supposed to mean?”
“They’re exactly what they sound like,” Herace replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Who is this ‘Great One’?”
“They’re the greatest being who has existed since the beginning of time, the rightful ruler of this land who will cleanse the earth defiled by humans and return it to us.”
It was all theatrics, of course.
Luke didn’t need to know the identity of the final boss just yet—none other than the mad dragon Rubikante, sealed away for the past 500 years and now slowly stirring.
‘Might as well make use of their name while they’re asleep.’
Herace watched Luke closely, noting his skeptical expression.
Predictable.
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