I walked inside, leaving behind a brooding Artoria and a shaken Medea. They would be cooking their own food from now on.
"Master... you must reconsider. Being properly fed is vital for a knight to work at full capacity." Artoria spoke from behind, hurrying after me.
"The war is already over. Why do you need to work at full capacity now?" I asked, stepping into the living room, my eyes sweeping around out of habit.
Artoria stopped dead in her tracks, mouth still half-open for another logical retort when my words rendered her speechless.
She remained like that for a moment, then snapped her head toward Medea, eyes sharp and jaw tight.
Medea looked at her, then turned her gaze to my retreating back.
Magic circles flickered beneath her robe for an instant. The rosy hue drained from her face, leaving it pale as her body tilted sideways, unsteady on her feet like an injured woman.
She extended an arm toward me, her shoulder crashing into a wall as her fingers reached out.
"Master..." Her voice came out low, strength draining from it with each syllable.
Artoria's eyes widened. Ignoring their earlier spat, she took a step toward the witch, hands coming up to support her.
"Caster, have you still not fully healed?"
Medea did not reply, her lips sealed as if she even lacked the strength for another word.
I glanced at them once, then turned back, my voice drifting over as I fully entered the living room.
"Stop, acting. You know I won't be fooled by it."
My words made Artoria's hands halt mid-air.
Under Artoria's wide eyes, the witch caught herself from her fall. Those weak trembles across her body subsided in seconds.
Medea's face underwent a dramatic transformation. That pale bled back into a healthy hue, her posture straightening as she leaned her shoulder against the wall, arms crossing beneath her chest.
"Tsk. It was worth a try." She spoke to the air. Glancing once at Artoria's frozen arms and wide eyes, she flashed a small, foxy smirk before stepping toward the living room, leaving a betrayed King of Knights in her wake.
Artoria stood frozen for five whole seconds. Then, she curled her fingers into fists, knuckles cracking with how hard she held them.
"Treacherous witch."
She murmured to herself.
"I heard that, you penniless knight."
A reply came from inside.
Artoria's teeth clenched as tight as her knuckles.
...
Inside the living room.
Medusa lay sprawled across a sofa, her prior wounds mostly healed. She still wore her blindfold, holding up her head with one palm, elbow resting on the sofa's leather.
A documentary about snakes played on the TV in front of her, and she seemed entirely engrossed in its audio.
I didn't disturb her, taking a seat on an adjacent sofa. She turned her face toward me, shifting as if to rise from her relaxed position out of deference.
"Stay relaxed. I'm only here for some minutes."
My words made her pause, looking in my general direction for a moment. Then, she nodded slightly and settled back into her earlier posture.
Words from the documentary floated between us.
"A snake does not waste energy on movement without purpose. It lies still for hours, conserving warmth, waiting for the precise moment to strike."
Meanwhile, Medea stepped in. She paused for a fraction of a second, gaze shifting between me and Medusa before she shook her head and walked toward the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves.
"Snakes detect chemical signals through their forked tongues, flicking them to sample air, transmitting molecular information to a specialized organ in their mouth called the Jacobson's organ."
Artoria strode in next, shoulders hunched. She reached the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down, keeping her gaze trained on its empty surface ahead, as if staring intensely enough would conjure food.
"During courtship, a male king cobra tracks the female's pheromone trail for miles, following her scent across vast distances. When he finds her, he must compete with other males in a combat dance—rising upright and pushing against each other in a display of strength. The victor earns the right to mate."
Medusa's fingers on her cheek shifted slightly. Her position remained unchanged, but the tips of her ears had begun to redden.
I observed her reaction but said nothing.
"Once a female accepts a mate, they may remain intertwined for—"
A button click, and the TV turned off before that documentary could continue.
Medusa had shut it off. A flush crept from her neck to her jaw, climbing further until it reached her cheeks. She pressed her fingers against her skin, as if trying to physically push the heat back down.
Her body temperature had risen approximately 1.2 degrees in the last four seconds. Capillaries in her neck and ears were dilated.
... She was flustered.
I stood up from the sofa. "You can continue watching if you want. I have some work to do."
Pivoting on my heels, I walked away without looking back, heading toward the kitchen where clattering of utensils was coming from.
Medusa remained still, the remote still clutched in her hand as she gently dabbed her cheek with it.
Artoria followed my path, her spine straightening when she realized where I was heading.
Inside, Medea was conducting what she called "the construction of a proper territory" and what Artoria would later call "breakfast."
She had laid out multiple ingredients with the same geometric precision as her magic circles. Five vegetables were arranged in a circle, measured in milligrams, while oil boiled in a nearby , two magic circles monitoring its temperature.
Age of Gods witchcraft, being used to cook.
I stood at the threshold, watching her fumble around for five minutes, cutting ingredients into uneven lengths.
She was less cooking and more trying to create an elixir out of vegetables.
My footsteps resounded as I moved inside, stopping beside her.
"Master?" She looked up from her work, a paper-thin flake of garlic stuck to her cheek.
I removed it, my other hand already gripping a knife from a nearby stand.
Pulling it free, I started to chop some leftover vegetables, matching her uneven cuts to turn the unevenness into a pattern that looked like an aesthetic choice.
"Didn't you say you wouldn't cook for us?" Medea asked, admiring my work from the side.
"I'm not cooking for you. I'm helping you cook." I said just as I finished chopping everything.
She snapped out of her daze. Her hands moved instinctively toward a packet of flour.
"You are making udon. Do you know the recipe?"
Medea wasn't surprised that I knew what she was cooking. Instead, she puffed her chest out, speaking with confidence. "I have watched how it's made on TV, Master. I should be pretty good at it."
"Without practice?" My words made her turn eyes drift away from my face, somewhere above my shoulder.
"It seemed easy to understand. It shouldn't be that difficult to cook, right?" She asked, seeking reassurance to boost her confidence.
"I'll guide you only once. You will cook it yourself after that."
I moved behind her, arms sliding over hers, tearing the packet of flour in her grip and tilting it into a bowl.
"M-Master..." Medea stuttered at our close proximity, her heart rate spiking.
"Focus."
I pulled another bowl of cold water close and had her take a pinch of salt, adding it to the water to create a brine.
Then, we added that brine into the bowl of flour thrice at timed intervals. Between those intervals, I had her rake her fingers through its wet and dry mixture.
After continuously adding brine and raking through it, that mixture collapsed into wet, uneven clumps.
Finally, I brought my palms over hers and gathered it into a single shaggy mass, kneading it with her—heel of the palm pressing, holding, turning, pressing again.
One hundred and fifty times.
Two hundred.
A breath ghosted over her neck, pulling at her focus, her body shivering in my hold.
The dough fought us at first, then surrendered, turning smooth and soft under our hands, springing back when she pressed a thumb into it.
We sealed it in a bowl and let it rest. The gluten needed time to settle. It would take around an hour.
Too long.
I tapped the bowl. A boundary field stretched across my finger, expanding over the dough inside, accelerating its time fourfold.
The world did not seem to like my action. It exerted slight pressure against me and that bowl.
Sky-blue particles coalesced around it as the slab beneath bled into concrete in a twenty-centimeter radius.
The world's pressure crashed against my Reality Marble, held at bay by it.
Now, it would take only fifteen minutes for it to be ready.
"Master!? You're using that for... dough?" Medea held her head, glancing at the miniature clash of two domains with an exasperated face.
"You still have a broth to make. Put your attention there." I said.
"Honestly, Master... you're a headache."
...
Fifteen minutes later.
"You've set the broth on a low flame. Now, our dough should be ready. Spray some potato starch on the slab first of all." I said after pulling my focus from that heavy pot set on a stove close by.
She dusted the slab as I had instructed and rolled that dough out.
"Press it down from the centre outward, then turn your palm ninety degrees, press again, thinner and thinner until a sheet barely thicker than a coin forms."
Her hands moved, press outward, ninety degree turn, press outward. It took her three minutes to stretch it into a flat sheet.
"More starch on top."
She obliged.
"Fold it in layers now, on top of one another. Left to centre. Right to centre. Up to centre. And down to centre."
It took a moment for her to understand my words, then she folded the dough's sides on top of one another, compressing it.
"Cut through it now. Long and even strokes."
Her hand shook as she cut into it, her strokes growing uneven in places.
Those strips fell apart with each cut, pale and thick, dusted with starch so they wouldn't cling together.
The oil was already boiling.
"Shake that starch from a handful of noodles and drop them in. Stir them once after three seconds to keep them from fusing."
She dropped those noodles in and stirred once.
They sank down into hot oil, then floated, then turned soft and translucent after minutes.
"Fish all of them out. They're done."
Her fingers tightened around the strainer as she pulled everything out and set them on a plate lined with paper towels.
Medea took a noodle in hand and blew on it, bit through, eyes widening at that bite.
"Master! I did it!"
She declared with a smile, tackling me against the fridge, her arms wrapping around my waist.
"Hehehehe~"
I looked down at the crown of her head and felt my lips twitch up.
"Get back to work, or your broth might burn out."
"How can I forget!?"
She pulled away and dashed over to her broth.
...
"Come on, Medusa. Breakfast is ready." I said while walking over to the dining table, taking a seat besides Artoria.
She had already forgotten about her earlier mood and was eagerly looking toward the kitchen.
"Master, did you make it?" Her eyebrows stretched to crescents at that aroma wafting over.
"No, Medea did." I replied.
Artoria's expression dimmed, lips turning flat.
"I helped her make it."
Those words seemed to pump life back into her. She quickly wiped her mouth with a napkin, held onto a fork and a spoon.
Medusa came over, taking a seat on my other side. The audio from her snake documentary still reached us, meaning she could still listen it while eating.
It didn't take long for Medea to stride out of the kitchen with multiple bows of udon set on a tray. She set it on the table and took a seat opposite to us.
"Master... I have a proposal." Artoria spoke before we could start eating.
"Hm?" I tilted my head toward her, a single eyebrow raised.
"Let us have an eating race about who can finish three bowls of these noodles fastest between you and me." She declared solemnly, her fingers tightening around those spoon and folk.
"If I come out victorious, then you will revoke your words from earlier and provide food for me like before."
"What do I get out of this?" I asked.
"If you win, then I'll..." She looked left, then right, searching for something. "Share more stories of my life with you."
Medea snickered from the side. Even Medusa's lips tilted up slightly at those words.
I remained silent for once second. Two.
Then—
"Alright."
Medea's snickers went silent.
...
Artoria was slurping on noodles like there was no tomorrow. One gulp and she nearly downed one tenth of them from the bowl.
I followed right behind, matching her pace.
She glanced at my progress and sped up, pushing her face deeper into the bowl. I copied her stance, bringing my own face down.
Both of us finished at the first bowl together.
Then, we opened our second bowls.
Artoria's fork moved in a blur, or they would have been a blur to anyone else. To my eyes, each movement was sequential, predictable, and precisely 0.3 seconds slower than optimal.
She was eating with her pride, not technique.
I adjusted my grip on the fork, gathering a thicker clump of noodles per bite. A few extra grams per mouthful, but compounded over two bowls, it would decide the winner.
"Slurping is—slurp—a legitimate technique." Artoria declared between gulps, broth flecking the table. "It cools the noodles while—slurp—maximizing intake speed!"
"You don't need to justify your eating habits to me." I spoke between mouthfuls.
"I am not justifying. I am explaining the strategy."
Medea had her chin propped on her palm, watching us with the expression of a woman who had seen many battles in her long life but none this absurd.
"He's going to win, you know." She said to Artoria, bringing a forkful of noodles to her own mouth.
"Silence. This is a duel of honor!"
"It's a duel of digestion." Medea corrected.
Beside me, Medusa ate in silence. Her fork moved at a measured pace, small mouthfuls she chewed thoroughly before swallowing. Every few seconds her head would tilt a fraction toward the living room, tracking that documentary's audio.
Emptying her second bowl, Artoria slammed it down with a clack and grabbed the third.
I set my second bowl down and picked up another simultaneously.
Her eyes found mine, burning with a intensity she usually reserved for enemy Servants. Broth dripped from her chin onto the table. She didn't notice, or didn't care.
"You will not win, Master." She said, voice low. "I refuse to loose at my own table."
"This is not your table. This is Medea's food on a table I brought."
"Semantics!"
She dove back in. I followed.
The third bowl went faster, both of us had found our rhythm, muscle memory taking over. Artoria's technique had actually improved mid-race, her slurps becoming more efficient and less wasteful. She was learning from observing my grip pattern.
Interesting.
I adjusted again. She adjusted back. A feedback loop of competitive eating, each iteration shaving fractions of seconds.
A trajectory became visible to me.
Another eleven seconds at our current pace and I would finish 0.4 seconds before her. My grip efficiency was 7% higher, swallow interval 0.2 seconds shorter, bowl angle optimization marginally superior.
But.
My thumb relaxed a fraction on the fork, enough to drop my grip efficiency by 9%, the swallow interval lengthened by 0.3 seconds, a deliberate hesitation disguised as fatigue.
The gap between us closed.
Sensing her chance, Artoria surged ahead. Her slurps intensified, broth splashing across her chin, her napkin forgotten, dignity abandoned to secure her food supply.
I watched her pass me and maintained my pace, neither accelerating nor slowing further.
Artoria's fork scraped the bottom of her bowl.
She slammed it down, rattling our whole table, both hands shooting up toward the ceiling.
"I WIN!"
Rising to her feet, chair pushed back, both arms spread like a knight raising a sword after felling a dragon.
Her cheeks were flushed, chin glistening with broth, eyes shining with a light more blinding than when we had defeated Gilgamesh.
I looked at her... She looked happy.
I looked at Medea. She was watching us while enjoying her own cooking, happy too.
I then looked at Medusa. She was eating at her own pace, hearing that snake documentary with a small smile.
All of them were happy.
I had lost...
But then—
Why did I feel happy too?
...
..
.
***
[200 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter]
[5 chapters ahead on P@tr3on = [email protected]/Not_Aaryan]
...
[Authors Thoughts]
How was it? Want more?
Anyway... have a fabulous day, everyone!