WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Haruto

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The Dark Fantasy Doctor Was Mistaken for a Saint ◈

Chapter 7: In Life, You Have to Grease the Wheels (3)

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Raw meat, bones, innards, blood.

Grease scraps and leftover food in the washbasin. A dishcloth swollen and sodden from hot water.

In a class society where keeping one's hands clean was practically a mark of status, the kitchen was no place for a noble.

Especially in a world where you also had to share it with rats and insects.

And yet, I stepped into a place that was practically forbidden to nobles.

‘The ingredients are here.’

I laid out the ingredients I had brought and the ones already in the kitchen.

Wakame, abalone, cream, and so on.

‘Everything I need is here.’

First, I soaked the blackened, shriveled wakame in water.

As the dead-looking seaweed absorbed moisture, it unfurled and regained its natural green color.

While the wakame soaked, I reached for the abalone.

‘No need to add the innards.’

I slid a spoon between the muscle and shell.

I separated the adductor muscle and set the removed innards aside.

They were too bitter for a mother whose senses were still sensitive after childbirth.

Besides, their color and flavor would not suit the risotto.

Next, I poured cooking oil into a pan and heated it.

Once the scent of garlic rose, I added the drained wakame and soaked rice.

I poured in the stock, then stirred slowly until the cream and cheese melted in.

I did not stop until the rice released its starch and the stock thickened.

Finally, I plated the dish and neatly topped it with slices of abalone browned in butter.

The risotto was complete.

“Please have a taste, young lady.”

I scooped a little risotto into a small bowl and held it out to Freya.

She carefully lifted her spoon, then hesitated over the bowl.

Though the cheese and cream had made it white, the occasional patches of deep green seemed unfamiliar to her.

There was also the fact that it was made with seaweed, along with its vaguely potion-like color.

There was more than one reason to hesitate before eating it.

But Freya soon squeezed her eyes shut and took a spoonful.

“...!”

“What do you think?”

“... It’s delicious.”

“That’s a relief.”

I nodded and plated a serving for Mother.

Since I was already doing it, I might as well do it properly. I channeled a fine-dining chef and paid attention to the plating.

As I focused on the garnish, Freya spoke.

“Brother.”

“Hmm?”

“... Could you make this again sometime?”

It was an unexpected request.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes! It’s different from what I usually eat.”

Freya looked down at the bowl she had scraped clean.

“I’ve never had anything this mild before. Not something loaded with pepper and oil.”

Ah. Of course.

The food nobles ate within the walls was generally buried under spices.

Pepper, cloves, nutmeg, and so on.

By freely sprinkling spices that were difficult to grow within the walls, they displayed their power.

As a result, noble food always left your tongue numb and your stomach soaked in oil. Indigestion came as a complimentary service.

What would the mild, savory flavor of cream and cheese feel like to a child raised on that kind of diet?

It was probably unfamiliar, but also shocking.

“All right. I’ll make it for you sometimes.”

“... Really?”

“But there’s a problem.”

“Yes?”

As I wiped my used kitchen knife with a dishcloth, I pointed toward the kitchen entrance.

My eyes met those of the head butler, who stood frozen there.

“I don’t know whether I’ll be allowed back into the kitchen.”

* * *

Sometimes, I thought there were far too many taboos in the world.

Men must not intrude on the domain of midwives.

Children must not intrude on the domain of adults.

Doctors must not intrude on the domain of healers.

You cannot do this. You cannot do that.

At this point, it felt as though making a list of what you were allowed to do would be faster.

And today.

I broke another taboo.

The taboo of a young master daring to get his hands wet in the kitchen.

“Young Master. Where in the world did you learn something like this...?”

“I learned while working on Tanner’s Street. There were no cooks there.”

I answered as I cooled the risotto, which was still a little hot.

For reference, Tanner’s Street was a polite name for the red-light district.

Freya was listening beside me. I could not exactly say that I worked in a brothel district.

“Even so, such lowly work...”

The head butler muttered as he looked at the food I had made.

Why is cooking lowly work?

The words nearly slipped out, but I kept my mouth shut.

‘He wouldn’t understand even if I told him.’

It would take an otherworldly French Revolution for cooks to be treated as artisans.

Only after that would chefs be able to lift their heads before nobles.

But in a world where an emperor could get into a character-deletion showdown with a dragon, I doubted such a revolution would ever come.

So I changed direction.

Rather than claiming that cooking was not lowly work, I claimed that my reasons for cooking were not lowly.

“Head Butler, this is medicinal cuisine for Mother. Making medicine is not lowly work, is it?”

“Well, that is true, but...”

“If Mother can eat and regain her strength, I could even scrub floors. Isn’t that the duty of a child?”

“...!”

The head butler’s eyes shook uncontrollably.

He could not bring himself to speak, biting his lip tightly as emotion seemed to rise from deep in his belly.

He was probably deeply moved inside.

‘In truth, I also wanted to keep up my versatile all-rounder image, and the food in this world was so awful that I started cooking for myself.’

There was no need to reveal that honestly.

Everyone had one or two things they oversold about themselves.

The head butler accepted the tray with trembling hands.

It was probably not my imagination that his eyes had grown moist.

“Please bring it to her while it’s hot. Cream dishes lose flavor once they cool.”

“Yes, yes! I’ll take it up at once.”

The head butler hurriedly turned and left the kitchen.

There was something almost solemn about his back.

His reaction was so extreme that I almost felt as though I had made a Last Supper.

Freya looked up at me with shining eyes.

“Brother... I think you’re really amazing.”

I shrugged.

Sometimes, getting praised for something this minor made me feel that the power of a misunderstanding story was a little excessive.

Still...

‘It’s better than mockery.’

In the twenty-first century where I had lived, praise was more precious than gold.

Even if you saved a dying person, it was dismissed as the obvious duty of a professional earning their pay.

And what happened if a doctor showed even a little interest in something besides papers or patients?

Comments like, “Go sleep instead,” or, “You have it too easy,” would fly in and hit you.

There were people who were not like that?

Well, the malicious comments under the documentary I appeared in said otherwise.

They cursed me for already going soft despite not even being a professor yet.

They had plenty to say to the precious young lord of trauma surgery, too.

When I remembered that dry world, this kind of thoughtless praise seemed a hundred, a thousand times better.

“Come on. Let’s go upstairs. You want to eat beside Mother too, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Then shall we bring your portion along? And mine as well.”

For Freya’s serving, I had made sure to leave out the carrots.

* * *

I carried the tray toward the room.

Ah, not a tray. A serving platter.

Old habits from my previous life had not quite left me.

When I reached the door, Godfather was there.

He had pressed his face close to the gap in the open door, watching Fried and Mother with eyes that practically dripped honey.

The fingers of his hands clasped behind his back kept twitching, as if he wanted to rush inside, scoop Fried up, and smother him with cuddles.

Unfortunately, even Godfather could not be allowed to touch Fried whenever he pleased.

Fried was a premature baby whose immune system was already at rock bottom.

If anyone brought in even a single germ from outside, it could be fatal.

For at least the first hundred days, no one except Mother or a doctor could touch the baby.

It might seem excessive, but this was what it took to keep a premature baby alive in this era.

‘Should I hang a birth rope across the entrance until then?’

Thinking that, I approached Godfather from behind.

“Did you come to see Fried?”

“Julian...!”

Godfather startled and turned toward me.

His eyes were red.

He looked at me with eyes full of emotion.

“I heard what happened last night.”

“Ah, that? There’s no problem. And there won’t be any in the future, either.”

I was here, after all.

Who was I? The protagonist who would one day be called a saint.

That was when it happened.

Godfather suddenly pulled me into an embrace hard enough to crush my ribs.

I barely managed to toss the tray to the head butler beforehand. Nice catch.

“Julian! Thank you. Thank you so much...”

His rough breathing reached my ear directly.

He gripped my shoulders tightly, trying to compose himself, then turned his eyes toward the head butler behind me.

“Send the carpenter I summoned this morning home. There will be no need to make a coffin.”

Apparently, he had thought Fried would not survive the night.

That was common sense in this bleak world, but it still hurt a little. The Angel of the Brothel District was guarding him, and he still could not trust me.

... Couldn’t something be done about that title?

“And the wood prepared for the coffin... Yes. It would be better to use it as firewood to keep our Fried and Linie warm in this room.”

The head butler sniffed and nodded.

Good grief. What was with everyone?

Their reactions were too much to handle.

Still, this was not the first time I had experienced something like it, so I accepted it calmly.

It wasn’t as if people in the red-light district had reacted this way only once or twice.

Unlike the twenty-first century, where survival was expected, perhaps reactions like that were only natural in this punk-genre world, where death was expected.

“Julian, then what is this?”

A few minutes later.

Godfather, having barely emerged from the lingering emotion, finally noticed the food.

“This is... coddle? No, it isn’t. Risotto. Did you have the head cook make it at your request?”

“I made it.”

“You did?”

The head of the house drew his brows together.

Why did everyone react this way?

It was not as if I had cooked people as ingredients.

The head of the house’s gaze lingered on the risotto for a long while.

Dark green wakame wrapped in cream. Abalone glistening with butter.

It was certainly an unfamiliar combination. He might have been thinking, Why would anyone put seaweed in food?

A brief silence passed before the head of the house spoke.

“... There are three bowls.”

He muttered.

I nodded.

“Fried’s condition has stabilized, so I thought it would be good for the family to have a meal together.”

“So you prepared Freya’s portion as well?”

“Yes. Mother, Head of House, and Freya. I thought it would be good for the three of you to eat together.”

I left the bowls with the head butler and approached Mother.

“Leave Fried to me and have your meal, Mother.”

Mother began to rise from the bed, then hesitated.

“Julian, what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I need to watch Fried.”

“...”

Mother’s eyes wavered strangely.

Her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she only nodded.

“All right. I leave him to you, Julian.”

The head butler and head maid pulled a small table beside the bed.

It was a dining table prepared for a mother who could not go down to the dining room.

The head of the house sat beside Linie, and Freya took a seat beside them.

I stepped back and went to the cradle.

Fried was still sleeping soundly.

His tiny chest rose and fell steadily.

‘Sleep well, little one.’

Leaning against the railing of the cradle, I watched the Nihirit family eat.

Mother’s expression changed after she took a spoonful.

“... It’s delicious.”

Freya’s eyes lit up as she agreed.

“I ate some earlier too, and it was really delicious. There’s no pepper, so my tongue doesn’t go numb.”

“You’re right. I’ve never had anything this mild before. This is quite nice.”

The head of the house raised his spoon as well.

The one with plenty of abalone innards in it.

One bite.

His expression stiffened for a moment, then relaxed.

“It is an unusual flavor. Where did you learn this? This is...”

The head of the house trailed off.

From the context, he had probably been about to say that it was a flavor no noble could possibly know, then swallowed the words.

He must have worried it would sound like an insult, as if I were not noble enough.

But I did not particularly care.

“On Tanner’s Street. There were no cooks there, so I had to learn for myself.”

“...”

The head of the house stopped his spoon and looked at me.

Then.

“Head Maid.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring another bowl.”

“?”

The head of the house gestured toward the table with his chin.

“There is an empty seat, is there not?”

“Ah, I’m fine. Fried...”

I tried to refuse his offer.

But the head of the house cut me off before I could finish.

“Fried is sleeping. Will he sleep better because you starve? Or are you observing a fasting prayer?”

“Not exactly...”

“Then that settles it. Bring it, Head Maid.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The head maid turned away.

I could only stare blankly at her back.

Author’s Note

I meant to press the edit button, but pressed delete instead, causing a small mishap where some readers received two notifications. I apologize.

Footnotes:

A birth rope is a traditional Korean straw rope hung outside a home after childbirth, signaling that visitors should not enter.

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