WeTried Translations x Flame Comics
Translator/Editor: Hydrogen B
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
Chapter 123: Side ep. Winter Is the Season for Kimjang (1)
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As he had reflected before, Krasilov had no seasons except winter.
There was slightly-less-cold winter, warm winter, cold winter, and freeze-to-death winter. They roughly corresponded to spring, summer, autumn, and winter.
Naturally, university breaks worked differently than they did on Earth.
In South Korea, summer vacation carried the meaning: It's getting too hot, so stay home and rest.
In Krasilov, summer vacation meant: The weather is bearable for once, so spend some time with your family.
So, once the autumn rain began falling right after summer vacation ended, winter began again in Krasilov. Krasilov's autumn lasted one week.
“This weather is seriously insane. How do humans even go outside in this?”
“Does time pass faster in this country or something? Why is it winter already?”
“The maids at my house said that if they hang laundry outside, it freezes solid after two hours.”
Complaints like that could be heard all over campus. Naturally, they came from foreign noble children and elves.
The nobles of Kallion, Tilles, and the smaller nations had come from warmer countries. Every nation with a harsher climate had been destroyed in the last war. That was why Krasilov served as the northern wall.
“Hehe, don't you know? This is... autumn.”
“Ah, what clear weather. It makes me want to get a tan.”
“Does anyone know an ice spell? It's so hot that I want some frozen vodka.”
“Sherbet for sale! Perfect for this muggy weather! Strawberry, grape, and lemon flavors!”
That was usually how Krasilov citizens reacted to foreign freshmen at this time of year. Filled with a strange sort of pride, they jeered at students walking around bundled tightly in coats.
Rain fell, the puddles froze at dawn, and dull gray clouds always hung overhead.
In that bleak autumn, a student sat trembling on a bench at the edge of campus. With hollow eyes and chattering teeth, they occasionally rubbed their arms and legs.
No, it was not just one student.
“My arm, my arm is moving.... So this is a nerve...?”
“Nerve connection successful. Activating annihilation mode.”
“How can people move their limbs? I don't understand anymore.... How do they move every blood vessel, every joint, every muscle so naturally?”
“I'll tell you the password to my National Bank account!! Whatever else you need, I'll give it to you...!! Please, stop already...!!”
Their appearances differed, but they all sat hunched over on benches, muttering ominously. They were strange people who had begun appearing around campus with increasing frequency.
They had two things in common. Every one of them was a freshman, and...
“What on earth do they teach them to make them like that...?”
“There are more Yefyomov Syndrome patients again. What did they do in class yesterday?”
“I heard he told them to paralyze the nerves in their right arms with drugs, then try moving them with mana.”
“...That bastard is insane.”
They were taking two or more classes taught by Ivan Petrovich Yermof.
The first time students from other departments encountered this group of student-patients, called Yefyomov Syndrome Patients (ESP: Ефёмов Syndrome Patient), they shivered and felt grateful for their decision not to register for his classes.
“Eeeek!! That window...! In the window...!!”
One student saw a swaying tree branch outside the window, clutched their head, and collapsed. The drooping conifer needles looked almost like a beard at a glance.
Watching the scene, Isabelle muttered coldly.
“This won't do. Everyone, gather up.”
They had to bring out the final weapon that would stop Ivan Petrovich Yermof's rampage. They could not allow any more ESPs to be mass-produced.
In the ominous September campus of Saint Yansk University, where madness was contagious, Isabelle finally summoned the Hero Party.
“We're having dinner at my house tonight.”
“Bleurgh.”
Elphihara, the Hero Party's mage, let her ears droop and gagged. Still, she understood how serious the situation was, so she did not object.
“Why? What's wrong?”
“Stew and risotto.”
“That sounds delicious! There'll be beer too, right?”
“If we're going to rinse out our mouths, we'll need something with a stronger flavor than beer.... Lemon soda, maybe....”
Rundis, who had never experienced that food during the festival, quietly tilted her head.
Stew and risotto. Eugene called them kimchi stew and kimchi fried rice. Tofu kimchi had to be excluded because no human being could possibly eat it. Feta cheese did not belong with kimchi.
Side ep. Winter Is the Season for Kimjang (Krasilov Is Always Winter)
This took place during the weeks between the festival and the tournament.
After Micheling Fine Dining attempted to sell bizarre food during the festival, suffered a massive deficit, and sank, Isabelle invited its chefs.
Yuri, Eugene, and Oswald admired the courage of this fantasy-world native and smiled ominously.
“Hehe, you're trying to exploit the secret recipes we spent months discovering for free....”
“Is this what the average premodern Russian is like?”
“Tilles is closer to France, so I'd appreciate it if you called it French character instead.”
The three lunatics, each half-abandoned by their departments, made strange remarks while eagerly cooperating in the spread of culture. Every so often, they said incomprehensible things like, “Try wrapping Spam in kimchi.”
From that day onward, Isabelle's kitchen was never free of a terrible stench. The maids in charge tried disinfecting it with alcohol every night, their faces miserable. They said they finally understood how cleanup crews collecting the remains of giant monsters felt.
A few days after they began, Isabelle finally realized something.
“There was a country that ate this because it tasted good...? Were they demonfolk?”
“Pardon?”
“Well, Uncle served in demonfolk territory from the war years onward, so I suppose... I suppose his tastes could have changed a little. But what about you three? Why on earth do you eat this?”
“You're... insulting kimchi?”
The three growled, their expressions turning vicious. Isabelle looked at the strange people with contempt and said,
“If Uncle likes it, then I suppose it must have something good about it. Though I honestly don't know whether there's anything good about his tastes....”
Whenever Ivan ate, he chewed and swallowed bricks of foul-smelling grease with mana-enhanced bite force.
To Isabelle, that was a kind of... wartime habit. It was true. One could see the misery of war written all over that food culture.
But even so, since love overcomes every obstacle, Isabelle wanted to feed him real food, something warm and full of affection, setting aside those bricks Elphihara unhesitatingly called dog food.
The first step was this series of rotten vegetable dishes. Their bizarre mechanism involved mixing already spoiled ingredients with fresh vegetables, then allowing everything to spoil again.
It was hard to say whether they should be called cooking or alchemical experiments. There was a theory that alchemy began in the kitchen.
“Still, aren't you people a little strange? Think about it. Do you think there are no Krasilov dishes in Tilles? Or no Tilles dishes in Krasilov?”
“...Huh?”
“Food is supposed to evolve to suit the food culture of the country where it's eaten. That's common sense.”
“My goodness....”
“A French person understands cultural relativity...?”
Isabelle could not understand why Ivan had gathered lunatics like these in one place. Did madmen possess some magic that drew other madmen to them?
Still, she was a Hero with a mission to lead one madman down a bright, healthy path.
A Hero did not mean the strongest person. A Hero was a title given to the bravest.
Since the train terrorist attack, Isabelle had never felt true fear for even a moment. She carefully lifted a piece of rotten cabbage topped with Droan-style fermented herring between her fingertips.
“This is the essence of the dish you call kimchi. You salt vegetables, season them with fermented seafood, chili peppers, and garlic, then let them ferment for a few days.”
“Uh... and?”
“We'll use that as a base and combine it with Krasilov cuisine. Honestly, you all look like people who have never cooked once in your lives.”
The lunatics flinched in unison.
The only cooking Eugene and Oswald had ever done in their lives was making ramen. They were ordinary Korean men, and high-ranking nobles in this world. Wasn't food something a maid brought when one rang a bell?
From Earth's perspective, Yuri had been a game illustrator. Sadly, people in that profession did not have time to enjoy such a luxurious hobby as cooking. And in Krasilov, she had not had the money to cook for herself. She was an orphan. Outside Saint Basilisha Orphanage, Krasilov's orphans gathered in the slums to live.
The premodern fantasy-world resident looked them over with a disdainful expression and sighed.
“Nobles, honestly.”
“My goodness....”
“I'm... a noble...?”
Isabelle, on the other hand, had been the unwanted child of the Tilles royal palace. Before the Hero's status rose, she had been a hostage. After the Hero killed the Demon King, she had been used as leverage over the Hero. After the Hero went into seclusion, she had been treated as a parasite.
Living in a mansion near the palace, unable to trust even her personal maids, she had plenty of opportunities to learn cooking directly from her commoner mother.
The three lunatics fell into confusion at being treated as pitiful, lazy nobles by a resident of another world.
“First, leave out the anchovies. They smell far too bad. We'll use sild, Krasilov-style pickled herring, instead.”
“We tried pickled herring too! Sild isn't salty enough, and if we're using herring, then maybe surströmming...”
“If you're talking about that insane Droan rotten fish, shut up.”
“Yes....”
Isabelle stared at the glass jar of fermented herring with a disgusted expression. Once opened, that fermented seafood which had crawled up from the deepest pits of hell left the kitchen reeking for two weeks.
“We can adjust the seasoning with something else. Uncle is from Krasilov, after all. Do you think he'd eat anything that wasn't strongly seasoned?”
“Ah....”
But he's Korean...? No, he lived in Korea for twenty years and here for thirty, so was he really Krasilovian? Then again, he spent twenty years in demonfolk territory, so should he count as demonfolk...?
Eugene fell into confusion as he considered Ivan's nationality.
“Now, we have the basic ingredients, so let's start with the stew.”
“Doesn't that just mean pouring in water and boiling it...?”
“Haa....”
As a citizen of Tilles, a land where brilliant culinary culture had flourished, Isabelle looked at the pathetic Krasilov nobles and the equally pathetic Kallion elf.
Those Kallion people could only make desserts. They had no real culinary culture to begin with. The only dish those pointy-eared people proudly served was sardine pie. Not really.
Tilles, on the other hand, was a cultural and artistic powerhouse. She would have to teach these ignorant people, who knew nothing about food, what cuisine truly was.
“Watch carefully. We'll use the most common Krasilov stew as the base, then mix in these fermented vegetables. We'll start with borscht, the sour cream stew with sausage.”
Before a premodern resident of another world who possessed cultural relativism, generous acceptance of foreign cultures, and even creativity, the twenty-first-century nationalists quietly sank into defeat.
Several weeks passed like that. Now that vacation had finally ended, Isabelle decided there was no reason to continue the culinary research.
At last, she had completed it.
Krasilov-demonfolk-territory-style fusion cuisine, with the stench reduced to an edible level. Not really.
“This is... edible, isn't it?!”
“This is cultural victory. This is national pride.”
“Please shut up, everyone. You're making me embarrassed too.”
The lunatics trembled. So this was a glimpse of the Hero's daughter's talent.
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Footnotes:
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