As mentioned in retrospect, there are no seasons in Krasilov except winter.
There exists a slightly less cold winter, a warm winter, a cold winter, and a freezing winter. If each is equated with spring, summer, fall, and winter, respectively, they roughly mean the same thing.
Therefore, university vacations are conducted under a different concept from Earth.
From the perspective of South Korea, summer vacation means “rest at home when the weather gets too hot.”
From the perspective of Krasilov, summer vacation means “spend some time with family when the weather is tolerable.”
Therefore, starting from the end of summer vacation, based on the autumn rain, Krasilov was entering winter again. (Autumn in Krasilov lasts for a week.)
“Wow, the weather is insane. How do people walk around outside in this weather?”
“Does time fly in this country? Why is it already winter?”
“Our maids were saying that if you hang out laundry, it freezes after two hours.”
Such lamentations could be heard throughout the correctional facilities. Naturally, they were foreign nobles and elves.
Kalion, Tylesse, and other nobles of small countries had come from warmer lands. (Nations with harsher climates than this were all destroyed in the previous war. That’s why Krasilov serves as the northern barrier.)
“Hehe, don’t you know? This is… ‘autumn.’”
“Oh, how refreshing. Makes me want to go tanning.”
“Any mages here who know freezing spells? I want to drink some frozen vodka because it’s too hot.”
“Selling sherbets! Perfect for hot weather like today! We have strawberry, grape, and lemon flavors!”
The reactions of Krasilov citizens looking at foreign freshmen during this period were usually like this. Those who had such strange pride would often jeer at students bundled up in coats.
Rain falling, rainwater freezing in the early morning, and always looming thick clouds above.
In this bleak autumn, a student sat trembling on the outskirts of the correctional bench. Clenching their teeth with hardened eyes, occasionally rubbing their arms and legs.
No, it wasn’t just one student.
“My arm, my arm is moving… Is this… the ‘nerves’?”
“Successful nerve connection, activating termination mode.”
“How do people move their arms and legs? I can’t understand anymore… How do they naturally swing all those blood vessels, joints, and muscles?”
“I will reveal the National Bank’s savings account password!! If you need more… please… stop it now…!!”
Though their appearances were different, these individuals occupying benches, crouching, and murmuring were behaving similarly. They were monsters that had been appearing frequently in the correctional facility lately.
Their commonality was that they were all first-year students, and…
“What on earth is being taught to produce such…?”
“Looks like another case of Yermov syndrome. What did we do in class yesterday?”
“They said to paralyze the right arm nerves with medication and then try moving them with magic.”
“…Crazy.”
It was the fact that these students had attended more than two of Ivan Petrovich Yeremov’s classes.
Other undergraduates encountering this group of students, known as Yeremov Syndrome patients (ESP: Ефёмов Syndrome Patient), for the first time had to be grateful for their decision not to register for the course amid their eerie sensations.
“Eeeek—!! That window…! On the window…!!”
A student, upon seeing a branch shaking outside the window, grabbed their head and collapsed. The dangling conifer leaves almost resembled beards at first glance.
Watching the scene unfold, Isabelle muttered with a chilling expression.
“It won’t do. Everyone, gather around.”
They had to resort to the final weapon to stop Ivan Petrovich Yermov’s rampage. They couldn’t afford to produce any more ESPs.
In the eerie September of the corrupted Saint Jan’s University’s correctional facility, Isabelle finally called for a hero party.
“We’ll have dinner at my place tonight.”
“Ugh—.”
The magician of the hero party, Elpheira, grimaced and retched, ears drooping, but she didn’t oppose it, as she too realized the seriousness of the situation.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Stew and risotto.”
“That sounds delicious! Do you have beer?”
“If you want to clear your palate, you’ll need something stronger than beer… like lemon soda.”
Rundis, who had never experienced ‘that food’ during the festival, quietly nodded in agreement.
Stew and risotto, what Eugene called ‘kimchi stew’ and ‘kimchi fried rice.’ Tofu kimchi had to be excluded as it was simply inedible. (Feta cheese doesn’t go with kimchi.)
Side Episode: Winter is the season of kimchi-making (Krasilov is always in winter)
It was a few weeks from after the festival to the tournament period.
Isabelle, after attempting to sell weird food during the festival and accruing significant losses, invited the bankrupt chefs of the ‘Michelin Fine Dining’ that had sunk.
Yuri, Eugene, and Oswald admired the courage of these fantasy residents and chuckled grimly.
“Hehe, trying to exploit our secret recipe we’ve discovered over the past few months for free…” (Eugene)
“Is this the average Russian attitude from pre-modern times?” (Yuri)
“Tylesse is closer to France, so I’d appreciate it if you referred to it as ‘French manners.’” (Oswald)
These three lunatics, halfway from each faculty, made strange sounds, chuckled, and actively cooperated in spreading culture. Occasionally, they would say things like, “Try wrapping spam in kimchi.”
Since that day, the stench in Isabelle’s kitchen never ceased. The maids, with mournful expressions, attempted alcohol disinfection every night. (They conveyed that they understood the feelings of the large monster debris cleanup crew.)
After a few days of starting the operation, Isabelle finally realized.
“There are countries where they eat this and find it delicious…? Are they demons?” (Isabelle)
“Well…?” (Eugene)
“No, I suppose. Since uncle served in the demon army since the war… his tastes might be somewhat… somewhat altered, but what about you? What on earth are you eating?” (Isabelle)
“Insulting kimchi?” (Yuri)
The three of them growled menacingly. Isabelle looked at these monsters with pity and said,
“Well, since uncle likes it, there must be some good points to it. Honestly, while I’m not sure if one could find his tastes agreeable… well…” (Isabelle)
Watching Ivan’s usual meals, it was as if he was chewing on greasy, foul-smelling lumps of bricks coated with magic. To Isabelle, it seemed to be a sort of… wartime habit. (It was true.) It could be considered a cuisine born out of the direness of war.
Nevertheless, love conquers all obstacles.
Except for those bricks Elpheira unhesitatingly called dog food, she wanted to feed him warm, genuine ‘food.’
The first button was this rotten-vegetable series. Dishes with a grotesque mechanism of mixing already decayed ingredients with fresh vegetables to rot them again.
It’s ambiguous whether to call this cooking or alchemical experimentation. (There’s a theory that alchemy began in the kitchen.)
“Still, aren’t you guys a bit odd? Think about it. There’s no Krasilov cuisine in Tylesse? Or no Tylesse cuisine in Krasilov?” (Isabelle)
“…Huh…?” (Yuri)
“Food naturally evolves according to the culinary culture of that country. That’s common sense.” (Isabelle)
“No way…” (Oswald)
“Are you trying to teach us Earthlings about culture?” (Eugene)
Isabelle couldn’t understand why Ivan had gathered these lunatics in one place. Could there be some sort of magical force that attracts lunatics to each other?
But right now, she had a mission to guide one lunatic into a brighter and healthier path.
Being a hero doesn’t necessarily mean being the strongest. After all, a hero is a title bestowed upon the bravest.
Isabelle had never felt true terror even for a single moment since the train bombing. She delicately picked up a piece of pickled cabbage topped with smoked, dried chub.
“The essence of this dish you call ‘kimchi’ is this. Salting and fermenting vegetables, seasoning with seafood, chili, and garlic, and letting it ferment for several days is the basic idea.” (Isabelle)
“How do you…?” (Oswald)
“We incorporate it into Krasilov cuisine as a base. Anyway, you people seem like you’ve never cooked in your lives.” (Isabelle)
The lunatics shuddered collectively.
Eugene and Oswald, who were just ordinary Korean men who had tried instant noodles at best, were now high-ranking nobles in this world. Isn’t it usually the maids who handle cooking for the nobility?
Yuri, from an Earth perspective, was a game illustrator. Unfortunately, people in this profession didn’t have time to indulge in the luxurious hobby of cooking. And in Krasilov, there was no money to afford cooking. (She was an orphan. Except for the Basilica orphanage, Krasilov’s orphans lived in the slums.)
The pre-modern fantasy residents who glanced at them sighed pitifully.
“Well, you are nobles, so it’s understandable…” (Isabelle)
“No…”
“Me… a noble…?”
On the other hand, before the hero’s status was elevated, Isabelle was a troublemaker in the Tylesse palace. After her father, the hero, killed the demon king, she was treated as special by the kingdom, but when the hero went into hiding, she was treated like a parasite.
Living near the palace, even she couldn’t trust her own maids and had enough opportunities to learn cooking directly from her commoner mother.
Faced with the situation where modern people were receiving pity and being treated as lazy nobles by the locals of this world, the three lunatics were bewildered.
“Let’s skip the enchovy. The smell is too awful. Let’s use sheld instead.” (Isabelle)
“We’ve tried anchovy before! Sheld is too bland. If we’re going to use anchovies, it’s better to use surströmming…” (Yuri)
“If you’re talking about that rotten fish from Drovian, then shut up.” (Isabelle)
“Yes…”
Isabelle glared at the glass jar of pickled herring with a disgusted expression. The pickled herring, crawling from the depths of hell, emitted an odor in the kitchen that wouldn’t dissipate for two weeks once opened.
“Just match the seasoning with something else. After all, uncle is from Krasilov. Would he eat something with weak seasoning?” (Isabelle)
“Oh… oops…”
He’s Korean…? No, if he lived in Korea for 20 years and here for 30 years, is he considered Krasilov? But then he spent 20 years in the demon realm… Should he be counted as a demon?
Eugene, who was trying to determine Ivan’s nationality, was confused.
“Now, let’s prepare the basic ingredients and start with the stew.” (Isabelle)
“Isn’t that just pouring water and boiling it?”
“Sigh…”
As a Tylesse person who blossomed a brilliant culinary culture, Isabelle looked at these pathetic Krasilov nobles just like the pathetic Kalion elves. The Kalion guys are good at making desserts, but they’ve made no progress in cooking. What they proudly present as cooking is just fish pie, isn’t it? (No.)
On the other hand, Tylesse was a powerhouse of culture and art, so she had to teach these clueless non-gourmets what food really is.
“Watch closely. Start with the most common stew in Krasilov, and mix in these rotten vegetables. Let’s start with borscht.” (Isabelle)
In front of the pre-modern people of this world who possessed cultural relativity, openness to foreign cultures, and even creativity, the 21st-century noodle purists quietly sank.
Several weeks passed like this. At this point, the end of the vacation. Isabelle decided there was no longer any reason to continue her culinary research.
Finally, it was complete.
A Krasilov-demon realm fusion cuisine that had suppressed the stench to a level where it could be eaten.
“It’s… edible?!” (Oswald)
“This is cultural victory and nationalism.” (Eugene)
“For heaven’s sake, please stop, everyone. I’m getting embarrassed too.” (Yuri)
The lunatics thrilled. Was this the talent of the hero’s daughter, the prodigy of his talents?
