Thanks to volunteering at Glebevel for meal distribution, Kay had even earned the cringeworthy moniker "Saint."
But that kind of fame was completely useless to Kay—it only piled more chores on his plate.
The party packed up again and headed north, bound for the northern tip of Britain: Orkney.
It was Gareth's hometown, and the seat of Gawain—another nephew of the Artorias, and dubbed the greatest knight in all of Britain.
Rattle, rattle.
The carriage jolted over the unpaved road, tormenting his backside.
"Big brother, what kind of person is Lord Gawain, exactly?"
Artoria, sitting astride her horse, called out to Kay through the carriage window. Disguised in men's clothing, she was doing her best to mimic a deeper voice.
"Who knows? I’ve never met him, so I wouldn't know. All I've got is Merlin bragging about him until my ears bleed."
Kay leaned back against the luggage compartment, lazily shaking a rattle for Gareth as he answered coolly.
"Merlin says he's a genius among geniuses—that no one can stand against him under the sun. Apparently, his strength triples in daylight. Honestly, he sounds more like a gorilla than a knight."
"Triple strength... huh."
Artoria’s emerald eyes flashed with competitive fire.
"Then is he stronger than me?"
"No idea. I haven't fought him, so how should I know? But judging by how Merlin raves that he’s your equal—or even a bigger monster—he's no average knight."
Kay yawned and added, "Well, we'll see when we meet. I just hope his personality isn’t totally broken. I’m the only sane one in this household, after all."
"Hmph, the sun, my foot."
Nearby, Artoria Alter scoffed. She had already sprawled herself out, using Kay’s thigh as a pillow without asking for permission.
"With my Excalibur Morgan, I'll simply cover the heavens in black. Sun or not, in the darkness, I am the king."
As she spoke, Alter subtly rubbed her face against Kay's thigh to get comfortable. The cold sensation of her armor pressed against his leg.
"Hey, you’re heavy. Move your head. My leg’s going numb."
Kay frowned and tried to push her off, but Alter didn’t budge—she burrowed in deeper instead.
"No. This is the comfiest spot. It's soft, warm, and smells nice."
"Is my leg a bed? And what do you mean 'smells nice'? It's probably just sweat."
"Yes. That's why it's good."
The other sisters watched the scene, their eyes emitting murderous lasers.
"Alter, aren’t you being too blatant? I want to rest on brother’s lap too!"
Lily and the others bombarded them with protests.
"That's right. We should decide fairly with rock-paper-scissors. My legs are tired too!"
"Exactly! Why are you monopolizing it all by yourself?"
Starting with Artoria Lancer and Artoria X, the sisters erupted in a shouting match, while the lone Artoria perched on the coach box radiated a strangely forlorn air.
For once, the shoulders of the king in disguise seemed especially heavy.
Regardless, the carriage instantly turned into a battlefield over the ownership of Kay’s lap.
Kay let out a deep sigh and covered his ears, careful not to wake Gareth, who was strapped behind him.
"Ugh... Gawain or whatever—I just hope the fellow’s a bit quieter."
He could only pray Gawain wouldn’t share the volatile personalities of the Artorias or Morgan.
One day, amid all the ruckus as they pressed northward, the group traversed a steep canyon pass.
It was a place where the wind howled ominously.
Kay instinctively smelled blood on the air.
"Hold up."
The carriage screeched to a halt at Kay’s command. Artoria, surveying the surroundings, already rested her hand on her sword.
"These are the signs of battle."
Broken wagon fragments, discarded weapons, and scattered corpses littered the ground.
Most wore armor emblazoned with the White Dragon sigil of Vortigern’s army.
"Looks like Vortigern’s regulars. Someone put up a fight..."
Clang! Clang!
Then, from across the canyon, the sharp ring of metal on metal and men's battle cries rang out.
"The battle isn’t over yet!" Artoria shouted, drawing her sword.
The party leapt from the carriage and sprinted toward the sounds.
Rounding a bend in the canyon revealed a fierce battlefield.
With their backs to the cliff, dozens of warriors were locked in desperate combat against Vortigern’s elite soldiers.
They were overwhelmingly outnumbered—but at their center stood one man.
A knight with silver hair streaming behind him, one arm missing yet wielding his sword with astonishing prowess.
"Hold fast! If we fall, the village behind us will be in peril! Let not a single one slip through!" he roared.
His name was Bedivere.
Next to him fought his brother Lucan and cousin Don Geoflet, backs braced against each other.
"Captain! We can't hold them much longer! There are too many enemies!"
"Quiet! If your arm’s severed, strike with your leg; if your leg’s gone, bite with your teeth! We are knights!"
But sheer will wasn’t enough. Vortigern’s soldiers surged like tides, tightening the encirclement.
As Bedivere grimly braced for his end,
"Scatter, thirteen fangs! [Rhongomyniad]!!!"
With a thunderous command, a tempest of black light tore across the battlefield.
KRAAAANG!!
Vortigern’s vanguard was obliterated in an instant—the earth split as a massive explosion erupted.
Bedivere’s eyes snapped open.
"Wh-what is this! Reinforcements?!"
From the cloud of dust, eight shadows emerged.
"Clear the way! The king approaches!"
Artoria Alter slammed down Excalibur Morgan, and waves of black light devoured the enemies.
Artoria Lancer spun Rhongomyniad and charged, ripping through the enemy’s shield wall like paper.
Artoria X and Artoria X Alter weaved through the fray like dancers, dispatching enemies with swift dual-wield sword strikes and beam-saber blasts.
Lily’s golden sword carved through rows of enemies in dazzling radiance, and Artoria Caster’s magecraft spun walls of light that tore through the remaining troops.
Artoria’s single-strike slash unleashed a tempest of golden light that cut down the enemies in one blow.
This was not a battle.
It was a one-sided ravaging—a judgment.
"Mo-monsters!"
"Run! Those aren’t human!"
Vortigern’s troops, seized by terror, began discarding their weapons and fleeing.
The situation was over in an instant thanks to their efforts.
When the dust settled, only silence hung over the battlefield.
Bedivere sheathed his sword with trembling hands and approached those who had saved them.
And there, at the forefront, stood the radiant golden-haired young knight: Artoria.
"Y-you are…"
Bedivere’s gaze wavered.
Noble grace, overwhelming charisma, and that legendary holy sword in her hand.
Though he had not served King Uther, he instinctively knew who she was.
This was the one. The true king Britain had been waiting for.
Without hesitation, Bedivere dropped to one knee on the dirt.
"Thank you for saving us. My name is Bedivere, and I lead this band of mercenaries."
Lucan, Don Geoflet, and the fifty or so surviving mercenaries following behind also knelt.
Artoria inclined her head with courtesy.
"I am but a traveler passing by. Your righteous fight compelled me to intervene. Are you unharmed?"
"A traveler, you say? Far from it."
Bedivere lifted his head and gazed up at Artoria with resolute eyes.
"Your sword—your stature… you are the renowned heir to King Uther."
Artoria, flustered, glanced back at Kay behind her.
Her eyes silently pleaded, Big brother, what should I do?
Kay shrugged, still shouldering Gareth.
At Kay's unspoken cue, Artoria cleared her throat and nodded.
"…Indeed. I am Arthur Pendragon, the one destined to be king of Britain."
"Ahhh…!"
Bedivere bowed his head in awe.
"Please… accept our swords. Under your banner, we will fight until our last breath!"
"Waaaah!! Long live King Arthur!!"
The mercenaries’ cheers echoed through the canyon.
This was the historic moment when the first force of what would become the legendary Knights of the Round Table joined the fold.
But behind that stirring meeting of lord and vassals, Kay’s expression was growing pale.
"Wait. Just a moment…."
Kay began counting the mercenaries on his fingers.
One, two, three… ten… thirty… fifty.
"…Fifty?"
Kay approached Bedivere.
"Excuse me, sir knight. Do you happen to have a cook?"
Bedivere smiled kindly and replied.
"Ah, you must be His Majesty’s servant. Unfortunately, we have no cook. We did bring provisions, but it’s mostly hardtack and jerky."
Kay looked up at the sky.
The sky was clear and blue—yet Kay felt utterly dark inside.
This was the norm. In this era, there was no such thing as a cook corps. Cooks stayed in castles, not on the battlefield.
That structure only appeared after the First World War—no soldier or laborer specialized in cooking back then. You only carried rations.
Even Napoleon, who revolutionized field rations, only issued provisions; he never formed a culinary detachment.
Feeding the kids was already breaking my back… and now it's sixty servings?
Every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
This was not childcare—it was running a cafeteria.
"Ha… I must’ve sold out a country in my past life. Everyone else has modern gear, and I’m stuck doing this old-school crap," he grumbled.
Truly, it was a trial by fire. At least cooking units have specialized equipment and manpower—he had neither and had to handcraft every meal alone.
Grumbling, Kay pulled on his apron.
He couldn’t refuse.
Leaving hungry people without food went against every principle Kay held dear.
Above all, the mercenaries' eyes were starving—eyes of men surviving on scraps of hardtack.
That evening, in the temporary camp, two enormous cauldrons were hung over the blaze.
They were the extra-large pots Merlin had swiftly summoned with magecraft.
Of course, Merlin had expected this to finally break Kay. No matter who he was, preparing dozens of servings three times a day was bound to overwhelm him.
And Arthur’s forces would only continue to grow. There was no cook in Britain capable of assisting Kay—would any chef willingly march onto a battlefield?
At best, cooks catered exclusively to kings, nobles, and generals. It was unheard of to have cooks for the rank-and-file.
Yet Merlin, ever the master of politics, saw even this as an opportunity.
Crackle, crackle!
The wood fire blazed, and Kay stripped off his shirt.
The heat from the cauldrons was unbearable.
With his well-toned torso exposed, the sisters fixated on him.
"Oh… big brother…"
Lily watched his many scars and rippling muscles, then nose-bled uncontrollably.
"Wipe it off, Lily. That’s my shirt," he teased.
Artoria Alter, instead of a nosebleed, let a droplet of drool slide down as she licked her lips. "Your back muscles… they're marvelous."
Artoria X Alter, in her mind, indulged in a fantasy of Kay exerting authority over her, her cheeks coloring at the thought.
Kay, with his muscular arms, stirred the giant ladle—nearly as tall as he was—through the stew.
Beads of sweat slid down his back, making his muscles gleam in the firelight. It was more reassuring than any warrior’s armor.
The menu: meat broth. With limited tools, nothing else could match the ease of a massive stew.
With more help, he could have managed roasts, braises, or stir-fries—but that wasn’t an option.
The Artorias offered to help, but after that poisonous barley porridge incident, it was safer if they stayed out of the kitchen.
"Line up! Newcomers fall to the back! Feed my kids first, and then you get whatever’s left!"
At his command, the battle-hardened mercenaries hesitantly formed a line.
At first they dismissed him as just a caretaker for a brood, but the smell of his meat broth changed their tune in an instant.
"Good heavens, what is this smell?"
"Is this boar? There’s not a hint of gaminess!"
"It looks better than any soup my mother ever made…"
Kay ladled out the stew with mechanical precision and speed.
"Here, take it. Be careful—it’s hot. You there, you hurt your arm, so I’ll add extra meat. You need to eat well to recover quickly."
"Th-thank you!"
The mercenaries received their bowls and, after a single sip, broke into tears.
It was not mere gruel—it was the taste of life, soothing their bodies and souls battered by war.
After days of chewing hardtack, this steaming meat broth was pure salvation.
Even Bedivere took a bowl and marveled.
"Incredible. To prepare such a volume all by yourself, and so flawlessly. And the taste… it rivals any royal chef’s. How could such cooking come from these mountain hills?"
Bedivere bowed deeply—not merely in admiration of his cooking skill.
He saw the sight of Kay tending wounded first, soothing babies, and preparing meals for sixty people without a single complaint.
He had no flashy martial arts, but in Bedivere’s eyes, Kay was the true pillar holding this army together.
"You are truly remarkable. If the king’s blade falls upon foes, yours protects your allies’ lives. This is true chivalry."
"…It’s nothing special. I just got better at it the more I did it," Kay said, brushing it off.
"And save your thanks for later. You owe me a debt for this feast—doing the dishes is your responsibility. Get all your men on it. I have to put Gareth to bed."
"Ah, yes! Understood! It’s an honor! I’ll do anything to help!"
Bedivere answered eagerly. Dishwashing was nothing compared to this delicious meal.
Artoria Lancer approached with a satisfied smile.
"Sir Bedivere has a keen eye—to recognize my brother’s true worth."
"Ahaha, thank you, Lancer. He truly is a warm-hearted fellow. With someone like him at my side, the king can fight with peace of mind."
The sisters nodded at Bedivere’s words.
To them, Kay was the center of the world—and now new followers were flocking to that center in droves.
But from his vantage in the tree above, Merlin’s expression soured.
This isn’t what I had in mind.
He’d expected that adding the mercenary company would spark discord over supplies and provisions.
He thought Kay would throw in the towel, crying, “I can’t handle this anymore!”
But instead, Kay had become like a mother to the entire army.
The mercenaries strengthened their loyalty with each meal from Kay’s pot, and Artoria’s royal authority only solidified thanks to his support.
And seeing that he never looked weary, it seemed he could keep this up for at least two meals a day.
That guy… a mere mediocrity in battle, yet a genius in this? I have no talent for such matters—who could’ve guessed?
Merlin stared at Kay, increasingly troubled.
By all rights, people grow through pain and trial. If Kay continued coddling everyone like this, neither the Artorias nor their forces would ever become stronger.
That was Merlin’s line of thought—the way history had always played out.
In what history had there been kings, emperors, or generals who sustained an army so well, like Kay?
They merely distributed provisions and left it at that.
Only then would they grow strong, living like the Roman legions on little more than hardtack, jerky, and wine.
Merlin, judging by his own experience, saw each of Kay’s actions as a hindrance to growth.
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register