After spending a night in the elven community, Franz and I finally made our way back to Count Gerhart's castle. Betha, the representative of the Wood Elves, had decided to accompany us to discuss the finer details of our agreement—as announced at the banquet last night. We brought along several gifts: whitebeans, the elven equivalent of soy; their specialty sauces; and jungle herbs with scents that reminded me of old-world apothecaries.
But best of all?
We brought home plenty of bitterbeans. Or in my world's terms—coffee.
When we reached the clearing, our horses were grazing peacefully, as if nothing had happened. Their harnesses and saddles had been replaced with intricate wooden gear—elegant, almost ceremonial, yet clearly functional. I climbed onto the new saddle. Soft. Cushioned. Like sitting on a handcrafted chair from a royal furniture house. I looked at Betha, who met my gaze and gave a graceful nod, as if she already knew what I was about to think.
"You can take my steed, Betha. I'll ride with Franz," I offered, halfway ready to dismount.
Funny, how I can ride a horse here without a second thought, when back in the old world, I wouldn't even dare to stand near one. Maybe it's magic. Or maybe it's just... adaptation. In this world, what used to be a luxury spectacle—horses galloping in a racetrack—is now just another Tuesday.
"There's no need for that, Leonhart. I have my own ride," Betha replied softly.
Then, she let out a whistle-like call, more melodic than sharp.
From the woods, a massive stag emerged. Horse-sized. Majestic. Its fur shimmered slightly under the sunlight, and its antlers were like twisted ivory, ancient yet alive. It trotted forward with a quiet elegance and bowed before Betha. She returned the gesture, gently, with both hands.
"This is my companion and faithful friend," she said. "I do not name him, but we know each other well."
I stared in awe. An elven Disney Princess with a giant deer for a best friend. Of course. Why not?
Franz mumbled something about "effective cross-terrain travel optimization," then pulled out his abacus and started calculating something furiously.
Our journey to the castle went smoothly. Almost too smoothly, perhaps. Clear skies, friendly weather, clean roads, and steeds that barely seemed to tire. Along the way, I found myself talking to Betha about other fantastic creatures that roamed the land.
"Hywel mentioned dragons before, Betha. Are there... other legendary creatures like them? I mean, clearly, I haven't seen any yet," I asked.
"No, Leonhart. There is nothing quite like the Dragons," she replied. "I've never seen one myself, but according to the lore of my kin, they are asleep—waiting for the song of the Elves to awaken them when the Old Kingdom is in danger. Perhaps the Phoenix of the Old Kingdom comes close in scale, but I've only seen one who had already lost its flame. The elder ones. They breathe not fire—but freezing winds."
Okay. An ice-breathing phoenix. So presumably there's also a fire-breathing kind. Note to self: never mess with the Elven Kingdom. No amount of pitchfork-wielding villagers can do jack against that.
"And in the woods? Aside from this majestic stag and the forest spirits from yesterday?" I asked further.
"There are others. A colony of Centaur-drakes, endemic to the forest. They resemble centaurs, but with reptilian torsos. They were here long before we arrived. Sometimes we share communal spaces. They don't speak—not in any language we know—but they gesture, nod... observe."
She has to be making this up, right?
"And then," she continued, as if she wasn't done blowing my mind, "there's the Great Eagle. Another close companion to our people. They never set their talons on the ground, save for rare moments when they visit us—perched atop the tallest trees in the woods. We ride them in battle, or when we must travel across the realm."
I gulped. I knew some pretty big birds back in the old world. But rideable? By elves?
"...What do they eat, if I may ask?"
"Animals," Betha said simply. "Horses. Cattle..."
...Okay. So we've got a colony of airborne carnivorous beasts the size of light aircraft. Note to self: seriously, just don't ever mess with the Elves. Ever.
"One thing I've been wondering, Betha… Do the Woodkin have their own language? Everyone seemed fluent in the human tongue."
"We are trained in the lingua franca of this land. Stahlmarkese in the Empire. Lysellish in Lyselle. Even the tongues of the Bovinids and other sentient races. But yes, you guessed right, Leonhart—the song you heard yesterday was sung in the native tongue of our people."
I smiled and tried to imitate part of the chant from the rain spell last night, laughing a little.
"Let the rain wash the stains from the face and soul of all beings. Let holy waters cleanse all evil omens and intents. May all sickness and poisons be lifted from their bodies… and... I forgot the rest."
Betha turned to me. Her expression changed. Her eyes locked onto mine—unblinking.
"...How do you know the ancient tongue of the Elvenkin?" she asked, quiet and sharp. "Where did you—who are you?"
Great. Universal Translator Moment. Time to come clean...
"Yeah... that's a... uniquely inexplicable condition I seem to have," I admitted sheepishly. "I don't know how, or when it started. But I seem to understand any language. Even Bovinid. Somehow."
Betha reached out and touched my hand, her voice almost reverent.
"You carry the gift of our Supreme Deity, Leonhart Aldric. You can discern the meaning behind all speech and all scripts. You are the Chosen of Nullarion—the Father of Nothingness."
Riiiight. A foreign god gives a legendary language cheat code to a clueless guy who woke up in a magical land. For what? Who is this guy?
"I… don't think it's that special," I muttered.
"You are mistaken, Leonhart. Others can learn many tongues. But to be given the knowledge of all languages and scrolls without study... that only exists in legend," Betha said solemnly.
I could feel my cheeks burn. Was this really that big of a deal? I mean... Sure, it's neat being able to talk to everyone. But Betha could probably learn every language given time.
Maybe that god just wants me to be... extra friendly?
Time flies as we make our way to Count Gerhart's castle.Before we know it, Karl is already at the front gate, welcoming us with his usual jovial grin.
"You brought foooood? AWWESSOME!" he exclaims, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Then his gaze shifts to Betha. Yes, Karl. It's an elf lady. No, Karl. She's not edible... At. All.
"Greetings, Lady. I am Karolus Magnus, Chancellor of Tharros Vale, servant of Count Gerhart. You can call me Karl..." he mutters, suddenly looking smitten. This is the first time I've seen Karl interested in something other than food.
Betha chuckles and places her hand gently on Karl's shoulder."Greetings, Karl. I am Betha, representative of the Wood Elves."
Oh boy. If Karl ever shares a purification chamber with Betha, I swear he'll spontaneously combust.
The welcoming "ceremony" proceeds without any hiccups. Although, to be fair, it's hardly a ceremony—just Ziegler giving a formal salute and Karl falling head over heels for our diplomatic guest.
Inside the Throne Room, Count Gerhart looks positively ecstatic, like a boy meeting Santa Claus for the first time. Standing beside him is Bishop Austin, trying very hard to look solemn while being—how do I put this delicately?—completely hammered.
"Welcome, Betha, to Tharros Vale," says the Count warmly. "I am Gerhart Ironwill, appointed Count of Tharros Vale by the grace of His Majesty, the King of Stahlmark. I believe Franz and Leonhart have reached an agreement with your people, and we wish to express our sincere intent for a lasting friendship?"
"Precisely, Count Gerhart," Betha replies with grace. "Leonhart and Franz have indeed come to an agreement, and we offer our kinship in return. We believe in your ideals—equality, just treatment, and a shared path to the future."
Count Gerhart sneaks a glance at me—obviously—and gives me a thumbs up.
Please, for the love of Solarius, do NOT do that in front of our guest. I am so embarrassed right now...
A short while later, Franz reads aloud the contents of the treaty. Everyone claps, even the half-sober Bishop Austin. I swear I heard him mutter, "Hell yeah…" under his breath.
Then, Count Gerhart decides it's time for an "important" diplomatic discussion with Betha... which turns out to be him asking what she'd like to eat at the feast tonight.Betha seems a bit flustered—but her smile says she appreciates the gesture.
I glance around and spot Mathilda standing behind the Count. She gives me a little wave and smile. I try to wave back—probably too fast, too stiff, and definitely too awkward.
"Leo, Karl," says the Count casually. "Please prepare a suitable dish for tonight's dinner to welcome Betha. Something meaningful, and delicious. Let's make this a symbol of our new friendship."
Meanwhile, he turns back to Betha and Franz. "Now then, let's talk about the trade agreement and our future plans, as Franz proposed."
Excuse me, what?Why is it the scribe's job to prepare food for our diplomatic guest? An elegant Wood Elf emissary, no less?
She feasts on roasted venison and mystical herbs back home.I can barely cook for one lazy human man in my old world...
I walk into the kitchen hesitantly, while Karl seems way too excited—like a schoolboy trying to make the best Mother's Day card of all time.
"Come on, Leo! Let's make the best food for our best guest!" he says, face flushed, eyes gleaming with childlike determination.
Count Gerhart's kitchen is... a mess. A chaotic, barely functioning mess. No cooks in sight, just an old gentleman—probably the only soul preparing every meal in this entire castle. We must've worked this poor guy to the bone.Note to self: draft a proper remuneration contract for him.
I scan the area for anything usable. Maybe—just maybe—there's some instant ramen stashed somewhere...
Chickens. Lots of them. Twenty, to be exact. Fresh, plump, and neatly stacked in a wooden crate. Not bad. I inspect one. The meat's firm. Good texture. Could work.
Next, I check the seasonings. Salt—coarse, but decent. I taste a pinch. Surprisingly... not terrible.
Then, the vegetables. Lettuce, onion, garlic, cucumber... And there it is.Sitting innocently between the piles: a leek.A memory flashes in my mind—back to the old world. Leeks and grilled chicken... That could work.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes.I dash to the crates of Elven tribute gifts and uncover a small barrel of their specialty sauce. I pop the lid, take a whiff—and grin.
This is perfect.
Admittedly, I was a lazy cook back home. But when it came to drinking food? That was my territory. Barbecue, skewers, spicy bites—anything that goes well with alcohol. That's my domain.
"All right," I start, slipping into work mode."Mister—please slaughter the chickens, pluck them, and clean them properly. Karl—find me sticks. Not thick ones—thin. Like long toothpicks. Lots of them."
To my surprise, they move fast. The old man is sharp and experienced, like a retired veteran forced back into service. Meanwhile, Karl vanishes like a hunting hound on a mission to fetch sticks.
I wash and cut the leeks into bite-sized chunks. Then I grab a sack of charcoal and begin crafting a makeshift grill using whatever is available in this medieval chaos. A large metal strainer? Perfect. An empty wooden crate? Even better. I begin assembling my Frankenstein grill like it's second nature.
About twenty minutes later, Karl returns—sweaty, but triumphant.
"This is all I could find, Leo!" he says, dumping a pile of wooden shafts—about a dozen dozen.
I stare at them."...Karl. These are arrow shafts."
"I mean... they're kind of stick-shaped?"
I sigh. Whatever. I instruct him to sharpen the ends into usable skewers. Given his swordsmanship background, this shouldn't be too hard.Later, I'd learn that these sticks were part of a new arrow stockpile meant for Franz and Ziegler. They're understandably furious.I'm... not sorry.
Meanwhile, I ask the old cook to chop the cleaned chickens into skewer-ready chunks. I also fetch some of the elven mushrooms we received—slightly sweet, earthy, and fragrant.
In about an hour, the prep work is done. Skewered meat, veggies, and mushrooms are lined neatly like soldiers in formation. I kneel down beside the grill, fan the charcoal, and begin cooking.
Smoke rises. The scent of grilled chicken, caramelized leeks, and elven sauce fills the air. I grin to myself.
I hope they're ready for a taste of modern street food greatness.
...Though, wait—this is an isekai story, right?Why does this feel more like a food manga all of a sudden?
Everyone's already gathered in the dining hall by the time we arrive—me, Karl, and our old cook—bringing in dish after dish of freshly grilled yakitori.
Chicken breast with leeks, juicy thighs, crispy tails, golden skin, every part imaginable. I even made chicken meatballs, all basted in the sweet-salty elven sauce and seasoned just right with coarse salt. Grilled to what I'd modestly call... perfection.
As we unveil the dishes, a wave of "ooh" and "aah" spreads across the room.
They dig in. Eyes widen. Forks and skewers fly. Karl is practically glowing from their reactions, while the old cook looks like he's ready to retire on the spot.
"Very delicious, Leo," Count Gerhart says between bites. "What do you call this dish?"
I almost say Yakitori, but realize it'll probably sound like Yucky Tories to their ears... So I scramble for a better name on the spot.
"This... is the Grilled Chicken à la Woodkins," I declare. "A traditional Tharros Vale recipe. Our finest local chicken and vegetables, chopped finely to suit the dietary habits of our woodland neighbors, basted with Elven sauce and salt, grilled over an open flame. It's meant to represent friendship. And it's served on a stick, so you can eat while discussing treaties—keeping both your hands, and your conscience, clean."
I say it like a MasterChef contestant making up the backstory of their grandma's lasagna. But it works.
Betha looks genuinely impressed—by the food, or by my flair, I'm not sure.Ziegler crunches a piece of cartilage like it's holy communion.Franz nods solemnly while chewing on chicken liver.Mathilda gives me a smile and a blink that makes me wonder if she just winked.Karl, meanwhile, is chowing down like he's trying to relive every bite for the rest of his life.
"Damn, son… These are good..." Bishop Austin mutters after biting into a thigh.He pauses, his eyes lighting up. Then he bolts out of the room.
Moments later, he returns—carrying a gigantic barrel, which he thuds dramatically onto the dining hall floor.
"This," he declares, "will go perfectly with your food! My finest creation—Smokin' Barrel's own ale, brewed by yours truly!"
He pours a round. I take a sip.
And damn.This isn't your average tavern grog.It's like an IPA from home—bright, hoppy, crisp, with a lingering bite.Still not quite as strong as I'd like, but miles ahead of anything else in this world.
I bite into a piece of chicken, then sip the ale.
Perfection.
"You know how to drink, son!" Austin shouts. "Now—give this ale a name! A proper one! Or I'll start whooping asses!"
He drops all diplomatic pretense like a boulder through stained glass.
I think for a second.
"How about... Stunner, Austin?" I say.
His grin stretches across his whole face. Then he slaps—I mean, pats—me on the back so hard I nearly choke on my skewer, and bursts into laughter.The whole room joins him. It's loud. Rowdy. Warm.
Another successful diplomatic mission, sealed with fire, meat, and ale.
Now, all that's left...is making sure Count Gerhart doesn't sign a treaty so absurd it drains our treasury faster than we drained that barrel.