SS 13📍

⁜ Chapter 13. A Sucker Isn’t Far Away

The first concern I had upon waking up was, “What should I cook for breakfast today?”

Not exactly the kind of concern a twelve-year-old should have—more like that of a housewife with ten years of experience.

But in modern Korea, that kind of sigh-inducing question of “Ugh, what should I eat today?” is boring at best. Up here in a medieval mountain-top world, however, it takes on an entirely different meaning—suddenly, it becomes a matter of survival.

I’ve lived in this world for twelve years, but my taste buds are still fixed in modern-day Korea. I studied all sorts of books on pharmacology and culinary culture, and eventually succeeded at seasoning food. But recreating the taste of spiciness? I failed.

That drove me crazy. At every meal, I found myself muttering: “Ramen, tteokbokki, kimchi…”

“You don’t appreciate the depth of your homeland’s flavors until you live abroad.”
Turns out, that’s me to a T.

The difference is, international students can always pay for a taste of home. Me? I’ll never be able to. Not in this lifetime.

That bitter truth hits me at every breakfast and dinner, leaving me gloomy.

Of course, compared to others, this is a luxury problem. To them, I look like some kind of cooking fairy.

Even the king himself was impressed once. (Although, I wasn’t the one cooking that time. I merely supplied a few handmade seasonings and recipes. To be precise, it was my mother. When a count’s little daughter whips up a dish, it’s considered “cute.” But when the countess herself serves the king and his guests with rich flavors, that’s called an achievement. And her achievements are the halo that shines on me. This is no time to foolishly seek the spotlight.)

Today’s breakfast was an omelet.

I would’ve loved to stuff it with cheese, but we’d run out. Guess I’ll have to go down the mountain to see Rattlesnake Paul again. Maybe I can coax him into setting up at least a regular supply system. Food ingredients bouncing up and down like this is just too unstable.

All I had to work with were mushrooms picked nearby, some ham from Jean Courchet’s pack, and onions from Pythia’s garden.

Milk would’ve been great, but nope. As for the eggs—I’d carried them up the mountain myself, and they were nearing expiration. Time to use them all up in an omelet.

“The only reason these eggs lasted this long is because this place is snowy year-round. Otherwise, no way.”

That’s one of the few blessings of this grand temple: low temperatures. Basically a natural fridge. Thank goodness. Imagine if it had been in the middle of a desert—what a nightmare that would’ve been.

“Does it taste alright?”

I asked Damian Hamilcar gently. It wasn’t calculated; just an old habit from part-time work serving food. If I hadn’t caught myself, I might’ve even added “sir” at the end.

Even after twelve years here, some habits die hard.

Damian didn’t answer. He just glanced at me for a moment, then lowered his eyes. But I knew right away he’d been surprised by the taste—he scraped the plate clean.

I got up to clear the dishes but caught Pythia trying to flop down with her stomach full.

“High Priestess, what should you do after breakfast?”

She gave me a long look, then sighed.

“…Morning cleaning.”

“Please tidy your bed, clean your room, and sweep the temple dust. Understood?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“But I’m so happy after eating! If I just lie down, I’ll be completely happy. Ariane, try lying down too, I swear—”

“Lie down after a meal, you’ll turn into a cow.”

She bit her lip.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Of course, Korean sayings mean nothing to her. But this world has similar proverbs.

“A lazy chicken is the first to be slaughtered.”

When I put it that way, Pythia exploded.

“Why tidy my bed if I’ll just lie in it again tonight?! And this temple is clean—insanely clean!”

“It’s barely livable thanks to daily cleaning. Now go.”

“No way…!”

“High Priestess.”

I crossed my arms and stared at her. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t treat someone of her rank like this. But her relentlessly cheerful personality made it easy to push boundaries.

“I already have my own tasks today. And they’re more than yours. If I do your work too, dinner will be very plain.”

Before I came, she survived on black bread alone. Then I showed up and cooked all kinds of meals. How could she not be thrilled?

At the mere suggestion that skipping chores would downgrade her meals, she panicked.

“I’ll clean! I was going to anyway!”

“Thank you so much.”

I smiled brightly, then turned to clear the table—only to find the dishes gone.

Puzzled, I peeked out the window and spotted Damian carrying the dishes to the stream.

So, no manners to say thank you for cooking, but at least he had the conscience to clean up.

“Maybe… he isn’t such a bad kid after all.”

Then again, he’s an S-rank assassin. So yeah, bad kid.

I shut the window, reminding myself not to lower my guard.

The real problem was our dwindling food supply. Honestly, it bothered me more than Pythia. I just can’t compromise on meals.

Even at nine, if I wanted ramen, I lit the gas stove myself. That first attempt turned out watery and overcooked—but still delicious. Why? Because it was my accomplishment.

But that only works once. Now that I’m good at cooking, no amount of sentimentality can make bad food taste good. For proper taste, you need proper ingredients.

I considered sending Damian down the mountain to Rattlesnake Paul. But…

First, Paul would definitely recognize him. He’s the heir of the Hamilcar estate, treated like a treasure. I couldn’t risk people thinking I exploited him.

Second, who knows how Damian would get supplies? Everything here belongs to the Hamilcars. Meaning, he could just grab whatever he wants. And when villagers grumble, who would they blame? The powerless assistant of the high priestess.

And third—this one’s most important—

“He paid way too much gold.”

For that price, I should be washing his feet! No matter that I’m a count’s daughter—status fades the farther I am from home. By power, by stats, by sheer donation, I couldn’t dare order him around.

So I let him do the dishes, sure—but I didn’t ask.

And I certainly couldn’t starve him either. Again: he paid too much gold.

My soul belongs to capitalism.

“I finished the cleaning, so I’m lying down now, okay?”

Pythia peeked her head out of her room. She was old enough to be my mom, but unlike Mrs. Louise, she was endearingly cute.

I almost told her “Sure,” but then I paused and stared at her. She squirmed, frowning.

“…Why? What now?”

“High Priestess.”

“Call me Pythia, I said.”

“Before I came here, you lived on black bread, right?”

She stomped her foot.

“Ugh! What are you nitpicking now?!”

“No, no. I mean—where did you get that black bread?”

Pythia, lovely but not exactly capable, had suffered terribly eating that coarse bread. And yet, even that bread is more than many people can dream of.

Her face lit up at once, and she cheerfully pointed out the window.

“The other temples gave it to me.”

I turned to look. I couldn’t see the temples, but that didn’t matter. They were out there. Unlike us, those temples had real connections to the townsfolk.

“Ah… why didn’t I think of that? I was too soft-hearted, only thinking about faraway suckers!”

I wasn’t alone in this grand hall. Besides Pythia and Damian, there were plenty of other temples around—each with pilgrims, donations, and food supplies.

I stood up at once.

“High Priestess, I’ll be back.”

If Pythia had one virtue, it was this:

“Take care!”

She trusted me completely. Even if I was off to squeeze resources out of neighboring temples, she sent me off with a bright smile, as though I were watering flowers.