Chapter 17

“No matter how much you dislike the food, this is too much. We just met!”

“Want me to put another hole in your head?”

“Eek! Lord Argen!”

The chef hid behind Argen’s back. As Valen ignored him and took a step forward, Argen reached out her hand to stop him.

“If you have a recipe for the food you want, please share it. Enrit’s skills may be unsatisfactory now, but he’s diligent and will improve quickly.”

So that crap maker’s name is Enrit. A plain name, unlike the dishes he’s made so far.

“Y-yes, that’s right. If there’s anything you want, just let me know!”

“See? He’s a motivated kid.”

Valen relaxed his clenched fist. It wasn’t because he was swayed by Argen’s persuasion. He simply couldn’t stand the sight of the two demons standing side by side, their heads split open and blood spurting everywhere. The blood they sprayed like water guns was splattering all over Valen’s clothes and face.

“…First, stitch up your broken heads.”

  *

<Anyone Can Follow: Sweet Pumpkin Cheese Pie! _For Absolute Beginners>

Step 1: Put 10 spoonfuls of flour.

Enrit rummaged through a container filled with various cooking utensils. Then he picked up a spatula and scooped out ten spoonfuls.

Step 2: Mix in 300ml of milk!

“Lord Argen, do you know how much 300ml is? Ah, never mind. You don’t need to tell me. I’ll just estimate it with my chef’s intuition.”

Step 3: Spread butter in the pan!

“Hmm. There’s no butter…”

What caught Enrit’s eye was the grease left in the pan from yesterday’s steak. Recycling this would benefit the finances of the demon realm and be good for the environment—a win-win situation.

Step 4: Sprinkle salt on the sweet pumpkin.

He couldn’t tell which sack was the salt. Didn’t he have sardines in the freezer? Sea creatures should be salty. Enrit threw in the sardines.

“Just die already.”

“Aaah! Lord Argen, Lord Argen!!”

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of various utensils breaking and shattering. Valen’s expression was so fierce that even Argen couldn’t bring herself to intervene and quietly closed her eyes. She waited patiently for the commotion to subside.

After a while, things calmed down. Enrit’s limbs were bent in the wrong directions. Valen had done this with the intention that Enrit should never touch a pan again.

Unfortunately, Enrit was a demon. In less than an hour, with a series of cracking sounds, his joints returned to their original positions.

Enrit clutched his broken glasses and sobbed. Valen, still not satisfied, glared at the top of his head with a fierce look.

Then, his eyes caught sight of the awards flamboyantly displayed on the wall. This guy is a chef, and yet…

[Springtime Connections Writing Contest – Gold Prize]

[Autumn Symposium on Sea and Life – Gold Prize]

[Demon King’s Literary Award – Grand Prize]

[Demon Realm Writers’ Association Literary Award – Honorable Mention]

…What is all this? A list of awards that had nothing to do with cooking. He couldn’t understand why they were framed and displayed on the wall.

“What are those?”

“You noticed. They’re nothing special.”

Enrit, with tears welling up in his eyes, rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Why does a chef have those kinds of awards?”

“Poetry and cooking are just a hair’s breadth apart, aren’t they? It’s something everyone in the Demon King’s castle acknowledges.”

Valen looked at Argen with disbelief. Argen crossed her arms and nodded.

“Thanks to Enrit, the food in the Demon King’s castle has become more diverse. We’ve experienced flavors we never knew existed. It’s been a good learning experience.”

“And that diversity includes using sardines instead of salt?”

Enrit confidently gave a thumbs-up.

“It’s the poetic license of the culinary world.”

“Have you ever tasted the food you make?”

“I get so sick of the smell while cooking that I can’t eat it. You know the struggles all chefs face, right? Haha. I just grab processed food from the shops in the castle.”

This guy is a complete scoundrel. Without a word, Valen approached and snapped his right wrist.

  *

“Ugh…”

Why am I even doing this?

Valen skillfully handled the wok in front of the roaring flames. The white onions rose and fell like waves. Argen and Enrit watched the mesmerizing scene with wide eyes.

Valen poured in the tomato sauce he had prepared earlier, letting it simmer together with beef, carrots, potatoes, and various other vegetables. Finally, he plated the dish, filling the kitchen with a rich aroma.

“How is it?”

“……”

The continuous clattering sound served as the answer. After finishing her plate clean, Argen wiped her mouth.

“…To eat without feeling nauseous.”

Enrit suddenly stood up and hugged Valen’s waist tightly. This crazy bastard…! Valen felt a shiver run down his spine as he quickly pushed Enrit away.

“Master!”

“Who said I’m your master?”

“How can I make something that tastes like this?”

Should he be grateful for the enthusiastic question…? It seemed, as Argen had said, that Enrit was indeed eager to learn.

Valen responded concisely and clearly.

“Follow the recipe.”

No poetic license or nonsense—just follow the instructions to the letter. Enrit, listening quietly, pouted as if dissatisfied with his advice.

“That’s no fun. If I follow the recipe, I know exactly what the dish will turn out like… I’m more of a risk-taker who enjoys gambling on unknown outcomes.”

Valen had learned something during his time in the knights’ order: using his fists to manage subordinates often yielded quicker results than explaining things verbally. It seemed the kitchen would be no different.

As Valen grabbed Enrit by the collar, Enrit frantically waved his hands in surrender.

“Alright! I’ll cook without any poetic license!”

His urgent tone made it clear he was trying to defuse the situation. It wasn’t very convincing. Valen felt he needed to keep an eye on him to be sure. Just then, someone came looking for Argen.

“You stay here a bit longer. I’ll send someone else to open the door for you soon.”

“Fine.”

With Argen leaving, Valen felt somewhat deflated. It seemed he had invested more energy than necessary in the Demon King’s kitchen. Besides, after the thorough beating, any intelligent being should have gotten the message.

But that evening, Valen stormed into the kitchen with the dish in hand. The sound of rough blows echoed like dough being pounded, and Enrit’s blood splattered everywhere instead of tomato sauce.

“Open your mouth.”

“Ugh, ack…!”

Any hope for improvement was in vain as the food was still garbage. He didn’t even need to taste it to know. The foul smell assaulted his nostrils relentlessly.

“This time, I really followed the recipe!”

Enrit, pinned beneath him, struggled and shouted. Valen grabbed a handful of the fallen food and shoved it into Enrit’s mouth.

But why did it smell so rotten? He suddenly looked up and easily found the answer. The recipe was secondary; the fundamental problem needed to be addressed first.

Kitchen cleanliness.

The kitchen, filthier than a sewer, was the source of the foul smell that had permeated the food.

  *

A metal club found its place in Valen’s bedroom. Whenever a maid brought food, he would naturally pick up the club and place it beside him. First, he inspected the food visually, then he smelled it, and finally, he tasted it. After completing this process, Valen would grab the metal club and head to the kitchen.

Thud, thud!

It had been a week since Valen started relentlessly beating Enrit for educational purposes. Finally, a dish that resembled actual food appeared on the table.

Valen had beaten Enrit senselessly for the sake of his own tongue and stomach, but the demons also reaped the benefits. Those who used to carry packed lunches began flocking to the dining hall, resulting in an increased workload for Enrit.

Enrit, who had leisurely used the kitchen that once resembled a vast garbage dump, now found himself overwhelmed with work, unable to rest for even a moment. Naturally, the quality of the food deteriorated.

Eventually, Valen’s metal club came back into action.

“Ugh, ack! M-master, there are too many orders… Aah!!”

Thud. Valen delivered a final blow to Enrit’s head before dropping the metal club with a clatter. The sink was piled high with dishes, and the table was covered with a thick stack of order slips.

Even to Valen, it was clear that the workload was too much for one person to handle alone.