WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Haruto

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The Dark Fantasy Doctor Was Mistaken for a Saint ◈

Chapter 8: In Life, You Have to Grease the Wheels (4)

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As I watched the head maid go to fetch my bowl, I found myself lost in thought.

I had thought it was only natural.

I was only a foster son, after all. An outsider with no blood ties to them. It would be presumptuous to intrude on a family meal.

But then...

“Why are you standing there? Sit down.”

Godfather pointed to an open spot at the table.

Mother smiled.

“Yes, Julian. Come sit here.”

“Brother, hurry!”

Freya waved me over.

“...”

I slowly stepped away from the cradle and stood before the table.

It still felt awkward.

Even in the twenty-first century, I had rarely experienced anything like this.

When I was a surgical resident, eating alone had been routine. It was the same after I became a fellow.

Especially a meal with family.

‘...When was the last time?’

I could barely remember.

“Please sit, Young Master.”

The head maid had already returned and set down a fourth bowl.

I slowly took my seat.

I picked up my spoon and took my first bite.

It was a dish I had made myself, yet it tasted strangely different.

“How is it?”

Godfather asked.

“...It’s delicious.”

“Didn’t you make it?”

Godfather gave a quiet laugh.

“Julian.”

“Yes, Godfather.”

“Move your belongings out of the annex.”

“...Pardon?”

Was he throwing me out?

Why, in this atmosphere?

Was this the Last Supper?

But that was not what Godfather meant.

“We should be eating together like this every day. We cannot keep calling you in from the annex each time. And...”

Godfather exchanged a look with Mother.

Having reached a silent agreement, he spoke again.

“Let’s do something about that stiff form of address. How long are you going to call me Godfather? From now on, call me Father. Listening to it makes me feel like I’ll get indigestion.”

I stared blankly at Godfather.

“...”

That was, in effect, an offer to adopt me.

Of course, Godfather was already my guardian.

But that declaration was no different from saying he would treat me as a biological child capable of carrying on the family, just like Freya.

As I continued staring at him blankly, Godfather calmly added, as though prompting me to answer.

“If you don’t want to, say so.”

“No...”

I shook my head.

“Thank you. I will.”

“Good.”

“Then should I call you Head of House now...?”

“You’re not old enough to call me that yet.”

Godfather chuckled.

“Once you’ve grown up, it may be different if you call me that in public. But for now, call me Father.”

“...Understood.”

“Good.”

Godfather picked up his spoon again.

Freya and Mother did the same.

I followed suit.

‘...’

The clinking of spoons resumed.

I took a bite of risotto.

The rich cream and tender seaweed spread through my mouth.

It was the flavor I had expected, yet it somehow felt unfamiliar.

‘Is this... also part of the conventions of a misunderstanding story?’

The thought suddenly crossed my mind.

Perhaps this was a story about the protagonist being accepted by his family.

Rather than turning the country upside down because he wanted to call his father Father, he quietly did what he had to do, and everyone around him misunderstood him and accepted him.

Thinking of it that way made things easier. I would not have to overthink it.

But for some reason, that interpretation did not sit well with me today.

‘...Can I really see it that way?’

Could a family relationship be formed through misunderstanding?

That uncomfortable question began to take over my mind.

* * *

The experiences of my previous life had always warned me.

There was no such thing as perfectly selfless kindness, and every good deed could be interpreted as self-interest.

[Anonymous: Don’t trauma surgeons make good money these days? If they’re paid that much, they should obviously do that much.]

In that dry world, I learned cynicism.

How not to expect anything, how not to show weakness, and how to recognize the bill that would follow any favor.

And this world I had been reincarnated into was not much different.

Nobles kept each other in check, while commoners struggled to survive.

Even within the walls, people preyed on one another. A world where goodwill was repaid with malice.

It was not a world that gave me any reason to abandon the cynicism I had learned in my previous life.

So I learned to interpret kindness through the framework of a misunderstanding story.

When I was merely Godfather’s godson, that had been enough.

‘But adoption...’

That meant family.

Family should not be that kind of relationship.

It should not be built on misunderstanding.

At least, that was what I believed.

If even family became a lie, I would be destroying the one place where I could take off my mask and rest.

‘What should I do...?’

The risotto was growing cold.

A thin film had begun to form over the cream.

‘...I should tell them before the adoption.’

They misunderstood what kind of person I was.

I was not as noble as they thought.

Not everything I had done for House Nihirit had been for their sake.

My goodwill came from a sense of duty as the protagonist, not because I particularly loved them.

More than anything, I had made good use of their kindness for my own benefit.

So I should not become part of their family.

It went beyond deceiving them. It carried the danger of allowing my false mask to become permanently fixed in place.

“Godfather.”

“I told you to call me Father. Fine. Let’s first hear what you’re trying to say.”

“I am not the kind of person you think I am.”

“What kind of person do you think I see you as?”

“I...”

My throat tightened.

If I revealed this truth, they would probably reject me.

But that would be better than everything falling apart in the worst possible way after the adoption.

I steeled myself and opened my mouth.

“Everything I have done in House Nihirit was to secure my position within the family.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The dining table became frighteningly silent.

I waited for Godfather’s response.

Then he gave a quiet laugh.

“Now that I think about it, ever since you came to this house, there has never been a time when you did not watch my reaction.”

Godfather stopped eating.

“Then how much of it was merely you watching your step?”

“...”

“Was giving me malaria medicine and nursing me at my side all night merely you watching your step?”

“...”

“Was devising a dish like this for Linie merely you watching your step?”

“...”

“Was making Freya a bowl when she has no influence in this family at all...”

Godfather’s gaze settled on Freya’s bowl.

“...And leaving carrots out of only this child’s bowl, merely you watching your step?”

“...”

Godfather let out a deep sigh.

“I had no idea you had been carrying such a wound. It is all because I was lacking. I only realized it when you brought three bowls and left out your own.”

“No. As an outsider, I was only doing what was natural...”

“Do not hide behind the phrase ‘watching my step.’”

The moment I heard that, my fingertips whitened around my spoon.

His gaze swept over my risotto, which had no toppings at all.

“Julian. To me, you look like a child who steps back before he can be hurt, who gives up before he can be rejected, and yet cannot stop his hands from working.”

Then Godfather picked the abalone from his own bowl and placed it on top of my risotto.

“So I am trying to set things right, even if it is late.”

“Set things right...?”

“I know this may sound like an excuse, but I knew things were awkward between you and your mother. Still, I thought that if I intervened carelessly, it would only make things worse. I thought you would adapt on your own.”

Godfather pointed at the abalone on my risotto.

“But even after four years, nothing was ever placed on your bowl.”

“...”

“If you were merely watching your step, you would do it in moderation. You would make a suitable impression, keep a suitable distance, and make suitable use of people. A clever boy like you cannot possibly fail to understand moderation.”

Godfather met my eyes.

There was pity and guilt in his gaze...

And affection.

It was the sort of look my biological father might have given me.

“But you could not do anything in moderation. Nursing, cooking, even a slice of carrot. You were either excessively attentive or excessively withdrawn. There was nothing in between.”

“...”

“Perhaps you do not understand because you are still young, but that is not called watching your step. Watching your step means staying in the middle.”

Godfather placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Everything you have done was something one would only do for family.”

Pat, pat.

“This adoption is not about creating a new place for you. It is only about moving what you have placed on my bowl for ten years onto your own bowl.”

“...”

“So stop this Godfather, Godfather nonsense and call me Father.”

“That is...”

“If you were merely watching your step, you would call me what I tell you to. Can you not even do that in moderation?”

Then Mother, who had been quietly listening, stepped in.

“Dear.”

She spoke as though scolding Godfather.

“This is a meal. Why are you lecturing him so much that he’ll get indigestion? And... Julian is like this because of us.”

“Ahem.”

Godfather cleared his throat and took a drink of water.

Mother looked at me.

Her gaze wandered over the bowl of risotto with abalone innards before slowly meeting my eyes.

She was clearly hesitant.

The pride of a noblewoman and the guilt of a mother.

Perhaps she was silent because she was choosing the right words between the two.

After finishing her inner struggle, Mother finally spoke.

“Julian.”

“...Yes, Mother.”

“I also...”

Her voice trailed off.

Mother fidgeted with the stem of her wineglass filled with water.

“I should have welcomed you when you approached me, but old feelings came first, and I put up a wall. I was not very mature.”

“...”

“From now on... I will try. So you, too...”

Mother paused, then gave a faint smile.

“If you need something, just let yourself be spoiled. It may be late, but I would like to see that.”

It was an awkward confession.

She tried to restrain her emotions like a noblewoman, but her voice trembled slightly.

I considered the raw emotions they had shown me.

Then I voiced my own feelings.

“...Thank you, Mother. Father.”

Mother gave a small nod.

I felt as though my throat would close up if I said any more, so I gave a brief reply and lowered my head.

Clink.

The sound of tableware meeting returned to the quiet table.

Then I met Freya’s eyes as they darted around the suddenly serious atmosphere.

“Um, Brother?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry too.”

Freya had nothing to apologize to me for.

So at her sudden apology, Mother, Father, and I all turned to look at her.

“...What are you sorry for?”

At my question, Freya fidgeted and looked away.

“I-I’m sorry. It just felt like I should say it too...”

She seemed to realize that something serious was happening and watched us carefully, gripping her spoon with her tiny hands.

Since Mother and Father had apologized, she must have thought she should apologize too.

It was not as if we were taking turns singing an apology song.

The taut string of tension snapped at the ten-year-old girl’s survival instinct to go along with the mood without even knowing why.

“...Thank you.”

Mother burst into a soft laugh and stroked Freya’s head.

“Yes, our daughter is the sweetest.”

“Hehe.”

Freya puffed out her chest. She did not even know why she was being praised, but she was clearly happy about it anyway.

Father scratched the bridge of his nose and picked up his spoon.

“Ahem. Let’s end this conversation. The food will get cold. Let’s eat.”

The clinking sounds filled the dining room again.

I took a large spoonful of the cooling risotto.

The flavor of cream filled my mouth, along with the tender texture of abalone.

Only then did I realize why the first bite had felt unfamiliar.

It had a distinctly different warmth from the kimbap and sandwiches I had swallowed alone in the cold on-call room of my previous life.

I slowly chewed and swallowed that warmth, savoring it for a long time.

* * *

During the meal, Father frowned after giving all his abalone to me.

Father had given me all the butter-seared abalone, leaving nothing to mask the bitterness of the innards.

After bringing the risotto to his mouth several times, Father asked me.

“Julian. Why is only my plate so green?”

“Godfather, no, Father. I added a few more ingredients with your health in mind.”

“...I think it would be all right for you to watch your step a little in matters like this.”

“How could I do that to my beloved father?”

In the East, abalone innards were considered precious, so in any case, it was love.

It was absolutely not a way of dumping the leftover ingredients on the head of the household.

“...I see.”

Father nodded with a complicated expression.

Footnotes:

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