Mr. Magical Girl

Chapter: 101. Someone Who Shouldn’t Die (2)

“It’s out. Hurry up and eat, and just go to sleep, what are those so-called heroes doing?”

An old man holding a frying pan appeared from the kitchen. At the same time, the buttery scent that filled the lodging intensified, almost tickling my nose.

“Aren’t you going to work now?”

“That’s true, but then you should eat quickly and sleep well to recover and do your job properly. You’re going to have to work for the meals you get, right?”

As he said this, the old man pulled out a Chicken Kiev dripping with butter from the sizzling cast-iron pan, serving it onto our plates and disappearing back into the kitchen.

He didn’t even think about plating or cleaning up the grease.

Watching the grease drip from the food started to make me understand why the counter was dirty. He must have served food like this several times.

Breaking away from such thoughts, I looked at the Chicken Kiev on my plate.

There were two pieces of meat sitting there, devoid of any sides. No common vegetables, beans, or even potatoes or bread, it looked decidedly greasy.

Normally, you’d try to deceive the eye by draining oil during plating, but the old man seemed far from that kindness.

In truth, I didn’t mind. Buying fried food and downing beer was my daily life.

The problem lied in the oxymoron.

As I turned my head to the right, I confirmed my expectations.

The oxymoron seemed bewildered, struggling to believe the greasy mass in front of her, her expression clearly flustered even behind a mask.

If I were to interpret it, it could be something like, “Fried food at this hour? Besides, I eat very little…”

“Still not eating? The kids living around here devour the food before it’s even ready.”

The oxymoron looked quite flustered, unable to take her eyes off the plate even when the old man returned to the counter.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Looks like she didn’t expect something this greasy at night.”

Seeing the oxymoron’s reaction, the old man seemed equally taken aback, stirring the pot in his hand as he asked back.

“Well, that’s a good thing.”

What does that even mean? The old man said that while pouring a white sauce over my Chicken Kiev.

A rich cream sauce made from butter, just ladled from the pot.

I don’t mind rich flavors, but I wondered how the oxymoron, who was already put off by the greasy food, would react.

I felt tempted to say something but hesitated, unsure if I should disturb the old man, who seemed proud of his cooking.

“Do you dislike greasy food?”

The old man moved to serve the oxymoron, leaving the pot in front of me as if implying I should scoop some out if the sauce ran out.

“Yes. I was trying to rest, but this is a bit much. Especially at night…”

The oxymoron replied straight to the point without hesitation. No consideration for herself at all.

After all, the kid who injects syringes into others wouldn’t know the meaning of consideration. A lot had changed in 20 years.

I didn’t feel like interrupting and focused on the food in front of me.

As the knife slid through the lightly cooked breadcrumb coating and then the somewhat tough meat, melted butter oozed out, moistening the meat.

“This spicy mustard sauce will cut through the grease. Give it a try. It shouldn’t be as greasy as it looks.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the oxymoron receiving a different yellow sauce. Did they make them differently?

But my focus was on the dish in front of me, so I stabbed the cut edge with my fork and took a bite.

After chewing for some time, the tender meat and the exquisite flavor of the butter spread wonderfully in my mouth. The salty and sweet balance of the butter complemented the meat, while the crispy breadcrumbs added a nice texture.

They did a great job.

“Is there no beer here?”

“Just grab any liquor rolling around and drink it.”

Why is he treating me this way? He’s all soft and sweet to the oxymoron. Not that I’m giving up alcohol, though.

There’s still some left in this bottle, so I mixed it with whatever was left.

The mixture turned into a strange black color, no matter how you looked at it, it wasn’t a proper drink, but I was thirsty for alcohol, so I poured it into my mouth.

A shot of alcohol with a sharp, peculiar taste. One bite of the salty, greasy Chicken Kiev.

This is heaven.

For too late a night wandering the city, it was more than enough in return, so I kept stuffing meat and drink into my mouth.

“Ah, it’s not as greasy as I thought?”

“Glad to hear that. The meat’s seasoned with herbs, and the sauce is made with mustard seeds, so it should definitely be different.”

Why does it feel like the atmosphere is different there?

But herbs? What do you mean? There aren’t any in mine?

“There are no missed herbs; isn’t that a mistake?”

“It’s enough for someone who eats food as a side dish.”

My treatment is gradually becoming more miserable.

It hasn’t even been an hour since we met, and here I am, what a state. I don’t mind being scolded; I’m just satisfied.

By the time I finished a piece of meat, he commented, “You sure eat well with that body.”

“If I want to eat, I could probably clean out an entire storage room.”

Does it turn everything I eat into energy at an endless pace? In truth, food had now become more of an option than a necessity.

“Hm, my eyes don’t lie.”

I suppose if it’s not stimulating food, it doesn’t feel like I’m eating properly.

That’s rude.

“You know well. That’s why you gave me something so greasy.”

“I’ve lived off this for over half a century. During a time when those idiots were causing a ruckus, one of these was all it took to fill me up. I know well how to eat and how to cook.”

A craftsman? Something like that, I guess.

I’ve been here a lot, and thinking back on it makes me regret not hearing him out then.

“Still, why come this way? Shouldn’t you talk over there instead?”

As I said this and turned my head slightly, I could see the oxymoron slowly eating her meat at the edge of my vision.

Where did her initial reluctance about the greasy food vanish to? She was gradually slicing the meat with a knife and putting it into her mouth.

…A knife?

Let’s ignore that.

“That lady seems to prefer eating quietly. You, on the other hand, seem different.”

How can an ordinary person be this observant? Almost levels of Shakespeare or Infinite Architect insight.

“Then let’s talk. Why are you being so harsh with me?”

“Inside you is an old man, isn’t there? Hiding it behind your appearance, you can’t hide from my eyes. You’re no different from my son, who storms in and gets drunk every evening.”

Ah, I see? Well, then I have nothing to say. It’s been a while since I was treated like a man.

“Let’s skip this topic; it seems like there’s a good supply coming in, huh? With the butter-soaked meat and herbs being slathered on. Not that I’m asking in a bad way. We’re not under charity from your kind.”

Pure curiosity.

How could there be such ample supply in a city where most residents have left, with candles lit due to a power outage? It’s only natural to be curious.

“It’s thanks to the Association. After eating my food once, they redirected supplies here automatically. They say it’s tough to restore electricity, though.”

Hmm? Isn’t that a violation of regulations? Redirecting supplies to civilians?

…Well, does it matter? As long as it’s labeled as civilian cooperation or relief supplies, it should work.

“Well, you must have some goodwill towards the Association then? They’re keeping your shop running.”

“Not like it’s charity; is it a front for the Association? Why are you asking like that?”

Well, I’m being called an operative of the Association.

“Hey, I’m just trying to talk here. Let’s drop it. I’m going to eat now. Please give me something decent to drink.”

“You’re the one who’s been drinking whatever liquor you want. Sure. Speaking of the Association…”

As I said that, the old man pulled a bottle of liquor from the back shelf, popping the cap and pouring it into my glass while lost in thought.

What a real foul-mouthed grandpa.

“I don’t have much goodwill towards the Association; after all, this city wasn’t always dying like this.”

Oh. I didn’t expect something this heavy to come out.

“The gray plague, right? These days, it seems like the kids don’t know, but it was quite the uproar.”

The moment that word escaped the old man’s mouth, I felt the oxymoron beside me subtly tremble.

Though she hid her feelings, the slight shiver could not be concealed.

“While that incident was happening, not long after, the Association swooped in. People thought they would recover and restore the place, but…”

I know the backstory, as I’m involved in the aftermath myself. The Association concealed that information and peacefully relocated the surrounding people. Of course, some like the old man here resisted until the end.

“They said it was due to a lack of power; but looking at how they’ve maintained control until now, that’s not it. They must be hiding something, or perhaps, we were their thorn in the side.”

…The Association gave out relocation compensation, if I know it right.

They must have paid quite handsomely. They likely had a lot of money during the establishment phase.

“Money? More than that, I just wish they’d protected our hometown. I’ve lived here for several years now, so what good is a relocation? Because of that, everyone left, making this place somewhat of a ghost town.”

The old man poured forth his emotions like a waterfall, as if he had been waiting for this day to express himself. To us, strangers.

The conversation continued, slightly heated, revealing inner worlds.

And then, once the food on the plate had vanished, our dialogue ceased, and we walked into Room 101.

Though old, it was a clean room, meticulously maintained without a speck of dust.

Two single beds took up most of the room, but it wasn’t bad as lodging.

There was no musty smell typical of bad accommodations.

Though it did carry a slight moldy scent due to its age, it wasn’t bothersome, and rather, considering the state of the city, it could be considered satisfactory.

However, right now, what mattered was not the state of the room, but the state of the oxymoron, sprawled across the bed.

“Are you worried about what the owner said? About why the end plague couldn’t be cured?”

“No.”

The oxymoron, still clothed, wrapped herself in the bedspread and spoke.

“It’s been too long for me to get caught up in such things. I consider that disease not my fault but rather, the task I must fulfill.”

The oxymoron responded flatly, as if there wasn’t any incident at all.

As if there were no thoughts.

As if there were no emotions—

However, my senses picked up the tremor that seeped into her voice. Twenty years. A child growing into an adult’s time.

She is still chained.

Since the moment she reached out in the air.

“Don’t worry too much. There was no way to solve it anyway.”

I left my bed and sat at the edge of hers, speaking.

“There wasn’t no way.”

Sure, there was a way.

You sacrificing yourself.

I’m still skeptical about that.

Well, do heroes and Awakeners always have to sacrifice?

That’s a statement that might twist my fundamental principle. Yet, I have the conviction that I must say these words now.

“I think it’s fortunate that you didn’t die back then.”

How many people would have died if she hadn’t been there? Could we have endured this long? Her S-Rank skill, ‘Hospitality’, had proven to be extremely effective in maintaining the frontline.

Neither Awakeners nor veteran soldiers. They absolutely will not perish in one go.

Even if they suffer enough pain to die and scream for an end, as long as their bodies aren’t shattered to pieces, they’ll find a way to stay alive.

Is there an old proverb about this? Even rolling around in a dung heap, it’s still life.

Thus, if we consider simple numbers, there likely isn’t anyone who has saved as many lives as the oxymoron.

“Strategically speaking, of course?”

Was my thought that obvious?

A subtle smirk rose on the oxymoron’s lips.

Strategic, huh?

Surely, my thoughts were clouded by such emotions. But was that all?

I turned my head briefly and looked at the oxymoron behind me.

A person who rejects others and the outside world, wrapping herself tightly.

Not displaying a single bit of skin, she wore clothes that seemed even tighter with belts attached here and there.

Still wounded, she remains the Savior of the battlefield, crying out.

I raised my hand and gently stroked her head.

“No, but personally, I think it’s fortunate that you didn’t die back then.”

This is my sincere feeling.

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