Ch.11The Road to Rascal (2)

I don’t use honorifics.

The reason was simple.

Those who used honorifics with me were either bad people or crazy ones, so naturally, I stopped using honorifics myself.

And since honorifics were easy to hear where I was from, whenever an adult tried to force me to use honorifics, I would quietly draw my knife.

Most would run away before losing a limb, or ironically end up using honorifics with me instead—that’s how deceptive this way of speaking is.

Isn’t it truly cowardly how one’s speech level changes depending on their position?

“Don’t you think so too, little one?”

“Muaang.”

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

It had been a good five hours since we left Parsifal.

This caravan had gathered a total of 30 adventurers including myself, and surprisingly, that woman I had hit also seemed to be an adventurer.

Of course, that didn’t mean I regretted my actions.

This is what happens when intelligence is lacking.

Acting all high and mighty despite being a subcontractor, and with no manners to boot.

“Huff… huff…”

Perhaps because we had been walking for five hours without rest, the adventurers—except for me—were already starting to pant.

This road was the only main route connecting Parsifal and Rascal, which meant it was better maintained than other paths.

It curved here and there, but not enough to be bothersome. Yet they were already sticking their tongues out and struggling after just five hours of walking—it was exasperating.

I had been carrying loads exceeding 100kg on my back since I was five, working on construction sites for 24 hours straight while navigating hills, yet these much stronger young people couldn’t exert themselves like this? Doesn’t that simply mean they’ve been lazy with their efforts and training?

“Butterfly! Butterfly!”

“Yes, the butterfly is pretty. Here. Try to catch it.”

“Kyahahahaha!”

At least the child was adorable.

I noticed when taking her to the bathroom that she was a girl, but she was as spirited and bold as any boy. While it’s just cute at her young age, by the time she reaches my age, she’ll probably make several boys in the neighborhood cry.

With clear eyes and chubby baby fat, she was already the type who could monopolize attention at a senior center.

Since it seemed a bit harsh to seat the baby on the hard saddle, I was carrying her in one arm while riding. Fortunately, the road wasn’t rough, so there was no risk of dropping her.

Another three hours passed like that, and eventually the caravan stopped for a meal and rest.

*

Crackle! Crackle!

“Hey now, don’t go near the fire.”

“Waaah.”

“Crying won’t change what’s not allowed.”

Keeping a two-year-old still during mealtime was far more dangerous than I had anticipated.

Not only was there the obvious danger of fire, but everyone was slicing away with knives, so she could easily get seriously hurt if something went wrong.

I poured olive oil into a skillet, added smoked meat and eggs, and used the remaining space to slice bread and toast it until golden brown.

Sizzle…

“Meat!”

When the smoked meat started to sizzle and move in the heat, the baby suddenly reached her hand toward the skillet.

“Hey! I said no!”

I was so startled by her sudden movement that I scolded her loudly, and the surprised baby—whether from my voice, my stern expression, or both—began to well up with tears.

“Waaaaaaah!”

Sizzle, sizzle…

“Oh dear, this won’t do. You sit here.”

I took the baby, who was jumping up and down crying while holding onto my left arm that was stretched out gripping the skillet handle, and tucked her firmly into my lap, tightening my legs and twisting my body to keep her from escaping.

Then I tore off a small piece of the smoked meat and the white part of the egg that had started to cook, and fed it to the baby. As soon as she tasted the savory meat, she stopped crying.

“See? You may not speak well yet, but you know what tastes good, don’t you?”

“Hehe.”

Eventually, the meat, eggs, and bread in the skillet were nicely browned and transferred to a plate. I poured water into the greasy pan and started cooking tomatoes.

Timing it for when the effect of the meat would start to wear off, I gave the baby some bread topped with egg and meat, and she began to munch on the open sandwich with her tiny mouth.

“Is it good?”

“Hehe… yummy.”

Her little tongue peeking out between her puffed cheeks was incredibly soft.

I wiped the crumbs from around her mouth, then mashed the tomatoes that had softened from the heat, added finely chopped cheese, and seasoned it with salt.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

Perhaps because I had warned her once, the baby was half-sprawled on my knee, watching the “cheemato” with bright, attentive eyes.

“Close your eyes. Looking at fire is bad for your eyes.”

“Eep!”

When I said that, she quickly covered her eyes with her chubby hands.

I placed the simmered cheese and tomato on bread, wiped the skillet with a piece of bread, then took out a dagger and started peeling a radish.

Crunch! Crunch!

Finding it fascinating that I was peeling a radish, the baby clung to my arm and started rubbing her soft cheeks against me.

I began to julienne the radish and mix it with the remaining cheemato sauce.

Then I put the skillet back over the campfire, and the juice from the radish became broth, completing the vegetable soup.

“Alright, let’s eat now, little one.”

I put a whole piece of smoked meat in my mouth and started chewing, while for the baby, I burst the egg yolk, spread it on bread with butter, and topped it with egg white.

“Nyum nyum.”

As if she hadn’t eaten the sandwich I gave her earlier, the baby happily ate the egg bread, and I also started my meal, eating eggs on toasted bread and drinking the cheemato soup.

Soon our short yet long mealtime ended, and I carefully held the baby with her now bulging belly and wiped the food scraps from around her mouth.

Then I rinsed the skillet with water, buried the remaining food scraps in the ground, and carefully mounted my horse while making sure not to disturb the rice cake of a baby in my arms.

“Start packing up! We’re leaving soon!”

Orca’s booming voice reached the adventurers in the caravan, and I gripped the reins of my horse firmly.

*

Thud-thud-thud-thud…

The procession of ten heavily loaded wagons pressed heavily against the ground.

Occasionally we saw other caravans passing by, and comparing them to us was like comparing elephants to ants.

Of course, we were like empty shells burning up inside, but it still wasn’t a bad feeling to experience that sense of superiority while sitting on horseback.

“Mister! Me too, giddy-up!”

“You want to hold the reins? Alright. Just don’t grip them too tightly.”

When the baby wanted to hold the reins, I wrapped them more flexibly and then covered her hands with mine to maintain control.

As I expected, the baby happily flapped about while holding the reins, and I slowly adjusted the horse’s speed to match her rhythm, accommodating her clumsy handling.

“Neigh! Neigh!”

Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

“Hehe! Fun!”

Finding it so amusing that the horse was moving according to her hands (though not really), the baby laughed with delight, and when she eventually let go of the reins, I once again held her with one arm.

Soon, having exhausted all her energy and with a full belly, the baby began to fall asleep in my arms, drooling, and I wrapped her in the folds of my coat.

“You’re quite good with the baby. Where did you learn that skill?”

That voice came from below me on my right.

“When I was about nine, I needed money urgently, so I worked at a place that cared for children with disabilities. Well, it wasn’t that difficult—the adults handled the severely disabled children, and I just looked after those who were a bit behind.”

“Hmm. So after handling the difficult, the easy is like chewing gum?”

“You could say that. Compared to dealing with a non-verbal autistic patient, this is nothing.”

I had seen a teenager, who looked twice my age, howling like a beast.

His mother, who despite being in her 30s looked like she was in her 50s, held onto the child with a resigned expression. The child was thrashing about despite needing to be hospitalized for a head wound he got while running around.

If you ask why, the reason is simple.

Because he doesn’t understand the concept of hospitalization.

But he does understand the concept of pain.

Yet he has no concept that treatment is necessary to eliminate pain.

That’s why he thrashes about like that.

For me, who had cared for pitiful souls unable to comprehend even the concept of death, looking after a child who was merely innocent in her ignorance wasn’t particularly difficult.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

The adventurer seemed to accept my explanation and didn’t say anything more.

And so we reached one-third of our destination, and when it was around 32 o’clock, the caravan stopped to set up camp so we could rise with the sun tomorrow.