chapter 12
“Dad.”
‘Mother,’ ‘love,’ and ‘heart.’
There’s no combo in existence that can beat those three words when it comes to my father.
And if you add in the long-graduated childhood address—“Dad”—on top of that?
“You’re already disqualified from being a Saint. A Saint shouldn’t have anything more important than God.”
There were plenty of important things.
My family was precious, Chelsea was precious—
and food, and, well… food again.
“But my love for my family never changes. Even if I now serve another god, I still want to take care of my family in my own way.”
Father. Please allow it.
I spoke my heartfelt plea as shamelessly as possible without letting even a hint of my true motives show.
Father didn’t answer right away.
Yet, his face—chin resting on both hands—still held traces of concern.
‘Everything is going according to plan…!’
Now, time to throw my final move!
“…Even though I’m your daughter, I understand it might be hard to trust someone who no longer serves the Goddess Iris.”
“Priscilla, I—”
“In that case, please taste my cooking yourself and judge me, Father.”
He lifted his head at my words.
I didn’t look away. I met his eyes directly.
“I’ll bring you the dish first.”
“…You’re telling me to taste it?”
“Yes. If you think it’s not fit for Mother to eat after trying it yourself, I’ll step down.”
A straight back.
Shoulders held firm.
Eyes burning with resolve.
True persuasion begins with posture.
I stood tall, waiting for my father’s next words as he closed his eyes in contemplation.
I prayed silently in my heart.
And finally, his tightly shut lips opened.
In the center of the Duke’s kitchen, I stood tall with my arms crossed.
Doom, doom-doom.
Doom, doom-doom.
A heroic background theme naturally played in my head.
In this moment, the kitchen transformed into an operating room—no, a sacred temple no one could trespass upon.
The two others in the kitchen swallowed hard, faces tense.
“…From this moment on, I’ll be performing this operation myself.”
Doom, doom-doom!
I raised both hands like a surgeon before a life-or-death procedure.
“Hamilton. The knife.”
“Yes, Saint!”
“Chelsea. Bring it here.”
“…Yes, milady.”
All preparations were complete.
Chelsea’s expression was stiff as she placed it onto the cutting board.
To ease her anxiety, I gripped the kitchen knife firmly and nodded. She pressed her hands together and nodded back.
“Don’t worry too much.”
Swish! The knife gleamed with a cold, sharp light.
“I’ve handled knives endlessly back at the Academy!”
With a loud kiai, I brought it down.
Thunk! A heavy sound rang out as it split cleanly in two.
Cluckaaaaah!
It didn’t even have a neck anymore, but if that raw chicken were alive, it would have screamed just like that…
I gulped, imagining its dying cries and my own brutality.
“Ssssk…”
“…Milady.”
Come on, Chelsea. I didn’t drool.
You shouldn’t look at your lady like that.
…Okay fine, maybe I did a little.
“If that’s your decision, then bring the food here and show me.”
In the end, Father relented—just a little.
Partly because my shameless pleas had cracked his resistance, and partly because he wasn’t used to seeing me so assertive.
‘This is why you always have to behave well normally.’
Throwing tantrums anytime you want is for amateurs.
A true tantrum is a masterpiece of timing—silent patience followed by a perfectly timed 360-degree backflip at the critical moment.
However…
Though he had stepped back, he wasn’t one to be easily swayed.
He ordered that I serve the dish three hours later, when the sky darkened.
If the food didn’t meet his standards, he’d revert to his cold, unyielding self.
So I couldn’t afford to make something sloppy.
“…Alright, let’s do this for real. Mushroom soup.”
I decided on cream of mushroom soup for Mother.
The reason was simple—whenever I was sick, that’s what I ate instead of porridge.
‘For some reason, soup always tasted better when I was sick.’
Most people ate porridge when ill, but I was different.
‘Because if I eat porridge… I always overeat…’
One spoonful, a bite of kimchi.
Another spoonful, a taste of spicy squid.
The tender rice and diced vegetables went down so easily that I couldn’t stop eating.
When the soft texture grew boring, I’d add side dishes—kimchi, soy-braised beef, spicy sauce, repeat…
‘Stop! Ugh, just thinking about it makes me full.’
And yet I couldn’t stop imagining it.
Like a sinner doomed to an eternity of gluttony in the hell of sloth.
‘But how can I escape that endless loop?’
—I am not guilty!
It’s all because that porridge-and-side-dish combo is too delicious!
I could almost hear the ruler of that hell fainting at my shameless excuse as I forced my greedy appetite down.
‘Anyway, this soup’s doable with ingredients I can actually get right now.’
Making mushroom soup wasn’t hard.
Melt butter, sauté garlic and onions until caramelized, then add mushrooms.
Season with salt, and when the mushrooms soften, add milk and flour, simmer briefly, then cool.
Blend it smooth, add cream for thickness, and adjust flavor with chicken stock.
Cheese at the end makes it even better.
‘But I don’t have cream, so butter and flour will have to do. And no chicken stock either… maybe I can make broth instead.’
Garlic needed some “skill-based” procurement, but everything else was easily bought at the market.
And so, back to the moment I was splitting that poor chicken in half.
“Milady, shall I do it instead…?”
“It’s fine, Chelsea. I can handle this.”
I worked through the chicken confidently.
A plucked bird had more fat than you’d expect, so I trimmed the tail and innards carefully, then placed it in a pot filled with water.
Salt and pepper for basic seasoning, then radish and garlic to remove odors—broth prep complete.
Green onions or cooking wine would’ve been nice, but I had to make do with what I had.
“Oooh… I never imagined ‘Amur’ could be used for this as well!”
“Yeah. Hamilton, increase the heat, and skim off the foam once it boils.”
“Yes, Saint! But what does removing the foam do?”
“That’s all fat. Anyway, it’ll make it taste cleaner, so just do it.”
“As expected! To think the great Saint would dare boil an entire chicken whole—such boldness! Yet you even mind the tiniest details! I, Hamilton, will forever study and learn under your miraculous presence!”
“…Right…”
What am I even supposed to do with this guy…
I glanced at Hamilton pityingly—he looked like a man fully converted to a new faith. But since he followed orders so well, I pushed my guilt aside.
Honestly, he was convenient.
Anyway, I left the chicken stock to him and began making the roux.
I pulled out the same frying pan I used for garlic bread, dropped in a spoonful of butter, and called out:
“Fire.”
Roux is the base of French cuisine—it adds richness and depth, perfect for replacing cream.
But it burns easily, so in this world with no gas stoves, I used my own flame magic to control the heat.
Once the butter melted, I added flour and whisked quickly to prevent lumps.
“Chelsea, are you ready?”
“Yes, milady!”
After finishing the roux, I tossed in the minced garlic and onion she’d prepped, sautéed in butter, and added the mushrooms once golden brown.
“Hamilton!”
“Yes, Saint!”
When the mushrooms had softened, I called him to pour in the chicken broth.
Without chicken stock, I’d made the broth for umami instead, and thanks to Hamilton’s diligent skimming, it would taste clean and fresh.
“At last, let’s bring it all together…”
As the soup simmered, I fetched a tool from the side of the kitchen.
“Saint, what is that contraption?”
“That, my dear Hamilton, is called a blender.”
“B… blender?”
My secret weapon.
I grinned, remembering how I’d managed to get my hands on one of these in this world.
