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After the toast, Simon, unable to wait any longer, reached eagerly toward the large plate dominating the table. The Groß Nacktschnecke (also known as the Eunice Great Slug) sat there, steaming hot and golden brown in color.

“—Oh? Pardon me. How exactly is this meant to be eaten, Miss Clara?” he asked, holding a small plate with a perplexed expression.

If this were a noble’s party or a high-end restaurant, the dish would likely be cut and served by an attendant, but there was no way such thoughtful service would be available in a run-down diner like this.

In fact, most of the patrons here didn’t even use metallic utensils like knives or forks. Introducing them would only invite the risk of theft. As a result, meals were consumed in a survival-of-the-fittest manner—grabbed, torn apart with bare hands, and devoured by the quickest. Given Simon’s unmistakable upper-class upbringing, it was no wonder he was at a loss.

Still, why is he asking me specifically? I wondered internally, tilting my head slightly in confusion. Setting down my ceramic cup of vegetable juice, I glanced toward him.

Coppelia leaned over and whispered, “It’s flirting. Flirting. Leave it unchecked, and one day he’ll have you pregnant.” Naturally, I pretended not to hear her usual nonsense.

“I’ll cut it for you. Coppelia, please take out a knife and fork,” I said, gesturing toward Coppelia, who was holding the bag containing our utensils.

I used to put all my belongings in a subspace using the Close Magic Art, but everything vanished without a trace when we were transported to this era. Now, as a precaution, I split up small items and money between myself and Coppelia.

“Yes. The tools for cutting and stabbing flesh, is it. Please wait a moment… Ah, I will handle the process, so please remain seated, Sir Simon.”

With a tactful look on her face, Coppelia stood up, brandishing a butcher’s knife large enough to sever a human head and a gleaming, polished trident.

Reflexively, I grabbed her wrist firmly to stop her.

“—What’s the matter, Lady Clara?”
“Are you planning to march off to war? And while we’re at it, what’s that peeking out from your wrist there?”

From the cuff of her maid uniform, a small bottle filled with a green, viscous liquid was poking out conspicuously.

“…It’s a special seasoning. A secret ingredient.”
“Ohhh, how fascinating. Might I have a taste?”
“…you could neutralize neurotoxins, Lady Clara?”

I knew it—it was poison.

“You’re making too much fuss. Just cut it up and eat it with your hands.”

While Coppelia and I were busy trying to restrain each other’s wrists—what might appear to be playful scuffling between two girls, but in reality, a life-or-death struggle—Cestlavie pulled out the hefty knife he kept at his waist (primarily for butchering prey) and crudely sliced the meat into chunks.

“Well, that’s…bold,” Simon remarked. He widened his eyes slightly at the sight of a slab of meat about ten centimertes thick on a wooden plate. It looked like an oversized steak. “So, you just tear it apart with your hands to eat it? Wow. I bet the castle chef and my fussy valet would faint if they heard about this. Let’s see—hot, hot…oh, delicious!”

Simon —no, I probably should call him Sir Simon like Coppelia does, judging from the word “castle” that slipped out of his mouth. He must be the son of an aristocrat, a naughty one at that— narrowed his eyes in joy as he savored the rustic dish.

As I watched his somewhat careless attempts to handle the food, my attention was inexplicably drawn to the ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

It was a simple design, suited for a man, but its shape and engraved family crest looked familiar. It resembled the one belonging to my family —the Aulanthia Frontier Count— though it seemed to be a simpler, cheaper version.

Maybe there’s a connection? And just as I was wondering at Sir Simon, who, displaying an unexpected appetite, finished off the whole piece of meat in one go and then reached for a second serving, I suddenly heard the sound of the restaurant door opening and a loud voice rang out.

“So this is where you were, Your High… young master.”
“Oh, Emil. You’ve sniffed me out already?”

As he continued eating, Simon glanced at the exasperated young man. Then, with a knowing glance in my direction, he added, “This is the fussy valet I was just talking about.”

The valet—Emil—seemed to have overheard that comment. He furrowed his brows slightly and began to speak. “…Honestly. Leaving the coachman and guards behind only to wander off to such a lowly—”

The moment the word ‘lowly’ left his mouth, the air in the tavern grew heavy with murderous intent.

The lizardmen mercenaries dining nearby and the beastfolk adventurers seated around the room subtly reached for their weapons. Even from the kitchen, the gleaming tip of a hefty cleaver peeked out ominously.

It was an imprudent remark, especially from someone so out of place here. If Emil dared to continue with another misstep, the tension would almost certainly erupt into violence.

I found myself silently offering a prayer to the somewhat unreliable saintess.

“—No, I mean, venturing out alone in an unfamiliar area is far too careless,” Emil corrected himself instantly, his expression unchanging, likely realizing the peril of the situation.

It seemed his sense of self-preservation had kicked in just in time. As expected of a noble’s valet. He deserved an award with how fast and brazen he changed gears.

“Even so, I couldn’t exactly pull up in front of this place with that ostentatious carriage for all to see—wait, you didn’t seriously bring the carriage all the way here, did you!?”

Simon stretched forward in a panic, peering through the saloon-style swing doors that hung at the tavern’s entrance, trying to glimpse outside.

“Of course not. That overly pristine thing is practically an open invitation for thieves. It’s not even military-grade. I left it at a designated lot one block over, with half the guards stationed there for security. The rest accompanied me on foot.”
“I see… Still, how did you even find me?”
“I simply described a ‘country bumpkin that’s dressed like an aristocrat’ and handed out a few copper coins to locals along the way, and they directed me right to you. It seems you made quite an impression. Lucky you weren’t targeted as an easy mark, my lord. But still, what in the world brought you to a place like this—?”

Emil’s gaze wandered unabashedly around the tavern. He scrutinized the chaotic decor, the rustic dishes, and the clientele—mostly demi-humans and dubious regulars who looked like they had more than a few skeletons in their closets.

Eventually, his eyes settled on us—specifically, on me—sitting at the same table as Sir Simon. The moment his gaze landed, Emil froze, stiff as a board.

This was a reaction I’d encountered many times from strangers meeting me for the first time. Deciding to pay it no mind, I calmly sipped from my cup of vegetable juice.

After a span of time long enough for the second hand of a clock to make a full revolution, Emil finally broke the silence.

“…I see. So that’s what this is all about,” he muttered, nodding repeatedly, his expression suddenly brimming with understanding.

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