episode_0077

77. Should I kill her?

Erica still smiles playfully.

Then she tightens the hand she had affectionately placed on Liriana’s shoulder.

Her expression, which had been mischievous just moments ago, now shifts impossibly into something dark as she glares back at Liriana with blackened eyes.

Her tone is light, as if joking, but the atmosphere weighs heavy as iron.

Her voice is quiet, yet sharp as a razor’s edge.

Facing the now-stiffened Liriana, Erica speaks with a chilling intensity.

“What? Want me to hit you?”

“……”

Eventually, Liriana fails to maintain her composure and hardens her expression coldly.

In this world, talent exists.

Some call it talent when a person gains tenfold the ability with just ten minutes of effort.

But beyond that—

Something even the word ‘talent’ cannot explain: ‘the will of Heaven’ or ‘destiny.’

As if written into the script of a play, some people are born to fulfill such roles—those inevitably drawn by fate, aren’t there?

A noble daughter of a former ducal house and a distant imperial-blooded commoner.

A petite, cute woman and a tall, voluptuous one.

A sharp, cold, firstborn daughter of a wealthy aristocratic family and a gentle, cute, approachable-looking impoverished imperial descendant.

An emotional and radical commander and a scheming, cautious one.

Though the two share no common traits, they both sensed something oddly similar about each other.

As if born under the same fate… an inexplicable, uncanny feeling.

Like how a lion and tiger instinctively recognize each other as apex predators at first glance.

That was the sensation.

As the tension grew thick, Cain—the closest thing to a mutual acquaintance—attempts to mediate.

“Hey, let’s just calm down first…”

But despite Cain’s intervention, the two remain silent, glaring at each other, freezing the banquet hall like ice.

The hostility is palpable, as if fists could fly at any second.

Naturally, Erica’s generals—Vivian, Adel, and Luna—prepare to step in after sensing the shift.

Her actual sisters, Ellara and Tayshi, watch cautiously, ready to intervene if tensions escalate further.

The situation is a powder keg.

The moment the tension peaks, moisture gathers at the edges of Liriana’s eyes.

“Huh…?”

“Hic… Waaah…”

Suddenly bursting into tears, Liriana’s drunken display leaves Erica dumbfounded.

But the floodgates open—tears stream down uncontrollably, messy and pitiful.

With snot-like tears dripping as she stumbles, she looks toward her sisters pitifully.

“Elaraaa… Tayshiii… The former Grace ducal sister is bullying meee…!”

Though distantly related to the Emperor, Liriana is practically a commoner.

Yet she dares to call a former duchess, now a countess, ‘sister’—an outrageous act.

Unsurprisingly, her sisters break into panicked apologies, sweating bullets.

“……S-Sorry! Our sister has a weak tolerance for alcohol—she’s a delayed drunk…!”

“Mhmm! Yeah, our big sister always gets hammered late and turns into a mess!”

“Ueeek…!”

Still sprawled on the floor, Liriana even pretends to dry-heave.

Her unfocused pupils sway wildly, her face flushing red from pretend intoxication.

Her body trembles weakly before Ellara quickly supports her.

The once-threatening aura now dissipates, revealing nothing but an ugly drunk.

The mood takes an awkward turn.

The convenient excuse—blaming delayed intoxication after picking a fight—was almost too realistic to be acting.

“…Tch. Wasted my energy for nothing.”

Either deflated or irritated, Erica clicks her tongue and slumps back into her chair.

After taking a sip from her cup, she glares at the pitiful drunkard sniffling before her.

‘…Should I kill her?’

For some reason, an ominous premonition stabs into Erica.

This wasn’t just superstition—too many things felt suspicious.

Rating Liriana’s performance? Twelve out of ten.

She flipped the situation in her favor instantly.

‘Tch. Shouldn’t have spoken carelessly earlier.’

Her declaration at the start of the banquet—

*”By the time you leave, you’ll all crawl out on all fours!”*

By allowing everyone to drink until unconsciousness, she also declared that anything happening here would be brushed off as drunken antics.

Now, her own words backfire, acting as a noose around her neck.

‘She deliberately calls me ‘sister’ to emphasize how drunk she is. Disgusting brat.’

Her pretty face streaked with snotty tears, while her sisters risk their lives apologizing.

Liriana’s surface-level offenses—annoyed glares and calling Erica ‘sister’—were mere drunken faux pas…

To exploit these as grounds for execution would only make *Erica* seem petty.

The sisters pledging loyalty creates a touching image of devotion.

Killing Liriana now would be terrible optics.

Punishing rudeness would make Erica seem like a petty tyrant.

And massacring guests at a banquet? Diplomatic reputation would plummet straight to hell.

Defeated, Erica exhales and dismisses her murderous urge.

She takes a sip of mead to wash down her frustration before waving them off impatiently.

“About punishing our eldest sister…”

“Enough! Didn’t I clearly say everyone crawls out on all fours?

I keep my word—I’m not some petty scum holding grudges over drunken nonsense.”

“We’re truly grateful!”

Tayshi bows deeply before dragging Liriana out swiftly.

“Damn it…”

Did Erica ever have a choice?

No—she danced right into Liriana’s palm.

Just as Erica once played with Liriana like a puppet.

A bizarre dynamic—as if they were each other’s natural counters.

Though plagued by a headache and gnawing anxiety urging her to kill Liriana immediately…

“Could I perhaps prepare a meal…?”

The moment Cain speaks, light returns to Erica’s eyes.

The sudden warmth of his voice banishes her headache, clearing her vision.

A banquet hall meant for enjoyment.

Her generals and tacticians, frozen in awkward silence, watching her mood.

Albarn drinks moderately, sighing, while Ellara stays out of duty to guard her liege.

…She ruined the banquet’s mood.

Yet Cain’s suggestion sparks the generals into action, trying to salvage the atmosphere.

“Last time’s pizza?! Of course!”

“No, something different this time.”

“Is it good? If you sold the recipe, you’d make a fortune.”

“Absolutely.”

“For battle preparations, we must maintain a healthy diet… But considering your enthusiasm, I’ll permit indulgence just this once.”

Or maybe—

They’re just simple gluttons craving good food.

Cain watches Erica cautiously.

Like a puppy checking its owner’s mood after misbehaving…

The sight finally cracks Erica’s composure, making her laugh.

“Pfft—Hah! Fine, I’ll gladly taste our fox’s new cuisine!”

“It’ll be ready shortly.”

Her laughter instantly melts the icy tension.

As Cain turns to leave, she stops him.

“Our fox.”

“Yes?”

A brief pause.

Erica hesitates before forcing out the words.

“…Thanks. For everything.”

“?”

Genuinely confused, as if unaware of what he did right.

Yet this is exactly why Erica likes him.

A man always honest, incapable of deceit.

Which is why she, too, allowed herself this one honest phrase.

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Entering the kitchen, he begins cooking.

A large, prepped chicken taken from the poultry farm.

Plucked and gutted, it already looks delicious.

Lifting a heavy cleaver, he swiftly chops the cleaned bird.

Neatly segmented into wings, breast, and thighs—eight pieces total.

Luckily, his hunter father in this world trained him enough to butcher even half-asleep.

Forcing himself to tag along on hunts paid off.

“Now, soak it in milk to remove the gaminess.”

After perfecting the prep, he rinses the pieces and submerges them in milk.

Essential for eliminating undesirable flavors—a brining process requiring roughly 45 minutes.

“Milk’s expensive too… What a waste.”

Still, this is noble cuisine.

Pushing aside frugality, he prepares seasoning: salt, pepper…

Come to think of it, even these spices are luxuries here?

“Commoner food becoming noble fare… What a world.”

Next, he prepares a marinade with cooking wine.

He gently heats white grain wine to reduce alcohol content.

Adding two spoonfuls of sugar, two of water, and one of salt, he stirs thoroughly before cooling.

“Tastes close to what we made back at the shop.”

Dipping his pinky in, the flavor surprises him—good enough for his parents’ restaurant.

Removing the chicken from milk, he coats it with the marinade mixture.

“Fifteen more minutes.”

Now for the crucial batter.

Using Emotion Sense, he located cake flour (low-protein wheat).

Initially, he considered common whole wheat flour, but luckily found actual cake flour thanks to a farm unknowingly growing it.

Not that whole wheat would’ve ruined it—just crispiness and shape.

“Now for the most important part.”

For maximum crunch, he mixes cake flour and cornstarch (2:1 ratio).

Adding salt, curry’s turmeric, garlic powder, and pepper, he blends thoroughly.

Batter: complete!

Thankfully, this continent sells turmeric—six times larger than China, so resources abound.

Essential for authentic KFC-style chicken.

“Now, coat each piece…”

Applying the mixture meticulously ensures proper breading.

If it flakes like tempura, it’s perfect.

Resting another 30 minutes prevents coating separation during frying.

“Haven’t had this in ages. Shame there’s no cola…”

Imagining crispy, greasy chicken paired with ice-cold cola already brings joy.

But medieval ale will substitute.

“Though *I* can’t drink…”

Water it is, then.

Once rested, the battered chicken is ready for frying.

But one problem remains…

“No thermometer.”

Improvisation works.

He heats sunflower oil (1.5 liters) until bubbling.

Testing with a small flour ball:

– Floats after 5 seconds → 160°C – After 3 seconds → 180°C – Immediate → 200°C

Ideal frying temp: ~180°C.

Adjusting heat, he confirms with another test ball.

“Also, never dump chicken in hastily—it’ll stick.

Dip just the edge first for perfect frying.

Leave untouched for 2 minutes to prevent coating separation.

Fry 4 more minutes, then finish with 2 minutes at high heat for extra crisp.”

Who’s he lecturing?

“Got it! Noted thoroughly!”

“““Yes!”””

The Grace mansion’s head chef and junior cooks.

After tasting his pizza last time, Erica ordered them to learn from him directly.

Good for him—their culinary aptitude impresses him.

After demonstrating once, they replicate flawlessly.

He only prepares one serving; they handle the rest.

“Is this the last step?”

“No, drain excess oil or it’ll be too greasy.”

“Understood!”

“Try some.”

Plating his batch, the chefs hesitate despite drooling.

“But this is noble cuisine…”

“Relax—I’m allowing it.

Besides, you’re the ones cooking it later. Taste-testing is necessary.”

“…Then we’ll gratefully indulge.”

The first bite unleashes an audible *crunch*—crispy perfection.

Steam rises from the juicy meat beneath golden-brown coating.

The harmony of juices and crunch dances on their tongues.

“A tad greasy, but delicious.”

Pales compared to modern science-made chicken, but still leagues above medieval fare.

The ‘cake flour’ was closer to a makeshift substitute, but edible.

Commoners here rarely taste spices beyond salt.

Pepper, sugar, honey—luxuries beyond reach.

Even salt costs more than supermarket prices.

So most commoners just grill meat plain—flavorless monotony.

But to them…

“Hallelujah…!”

Their reactions exceed expectations.

Proven delicious even to commoner palates.

Now for the nobles—refined by gourmet tastes—to judge.