IOC - 6

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I heard a party of adventurers is coming through. We’re short-handed.”

“Don’t adventurers come through every day?”

I grumbled, but my hands didn't stop wiping the table. To be honest, the owner of this village inn, Gilbert, had complained that business was slow, but things had suddenly picked up after I'd been here two weeks.

When I asked why, he told me it was monster-subjugation season. Because of that, I hadn't even had a moment to peek into the kitchen, I was far too busy serving and cleaning. 

Maybe Gilbert hadn't taken me in out of pity, but because he genuinely needed the labor.

“The knights have been doing random inspections on the streets lately. From the look of it, these are some high-ranking individuals.”

“Then why do you look so grumpy? Shouldn’t you be happy to be making money?”

“I’m worried. Worried they’ll have picky palates.”

I let out a scoffing laugh at that.

“Boss, your cooking is great. What is there to worry about?”

Gilbert stared at my face for a long moment before reaching out to ruffle my hair again.

“Ack! Stop it!”

As I shouted and scrambled to fix my hair, Gilbert chuckled.

“I heard one of them is a real gourmet.”

“A gourmet? …Ah.”

For a second, the main characters of the original story flashed through my mind. Come to think of it, in the original novel, the Saintess was set up as quite the refined foodie.

My heart began to throb. Whether it was excitement or anxiety, I couldn't tell. Meeting the protagonist’s party meant stepping onto the threshold of the original narrative, and that realization felt like a weight tightening around my chest.

While I was busy counting my own racing pulse, Gilbert lazily toyed with his beard. His rough hand stroked through the coarse hair before finally stopping, as if he’d reached a conclusion.

“Anyway, if you’re going into the kitchen tomorrow, you’d better pin back those bangs. They’re sensitive about hygiene.”

“What about you? Are you going to shave that beard?”

“I’m going to tie it.”

“Gross...”

I recoiled with a shudder. Gilbert chuckled and used his massive hand to roughly sweep my bangs upward.

“Hey, what are you doing?!”

Caught off guard, I squeezed my eyes shut and flailed. I tried to back away, but my legs hit the edge of a table, pinning me in place.

“Just how ugly are you that you feel the need to hide like this? It’s a miracle you don’t bump into things with your eyes covered like that.”

“Seriously!”

Gilbert pressed down on my shoulders with his thick hands, anchoring me to the table. Even though it was a light touch for him, it took my breath away. 

Being pinned by that mass of muscle felt like being stuck under a heavy barbell. As I groaned and struggled, I heard a low gasp from Gilbert above my closed eyes.

“Kid, you’re actually...”

...Actually what? After making a mess of me, now he was judging my face? I felt a surge of irritation and snapped my eyes open to glare at him. Gilbert flinched, then hurriedly smoothed my bangs back down.

“What was that?! That look like you’ve seen something you shouldn't have.”

He pins me down just to get a look at my face, and that’s his reaction? My mood soured instantly.

Despite my sharp tone, he didn't snap back. Instead, he just pressed down on my bangs and muttered quietly.

“Kid... whatever you do, don’t show your face.”

“Why? Am I that ugly?”

Surely not. I’d been told I was fairly decent-looking back home!

But a seed of doubt sprouted. Standards of beauty differ, after all. What if, in this world, "macho" heaps of muscle and beard like Gilbert were the pinnacle of beauty, and someone like me was considered an eyesore? The grim thought began to creep in.

When I asked him seriously, Gilbert just shook his head.

“It’s not that. It’ll just lead to annoying trouble.”

“...Well, fine. I’ll just keep going like this then.”

I grumbled, smoothing my hair back into place. It’s not like I can’t see. What’s the big deal? Is being handsome a capital offense or something? Besides, his look didn't actually seem like he was repulsed.

Then, Gilbert, who had stepped away for a moment, returned from the kitchen holding out a ladle.

“Taste this.”

“Okaaay.”

I took a sip from the ladle and gave my honest feedback.

“It’s good, but it’s not amazing.”

Thwack!

The moment the words left my mouth, a ladle-flick landed right on my forehead.

“Ow...!”

“You were born to wag that tongue, weren't you?”

I was just telling the truth. I rubbed the red bump forming on my forehead, pouting.

We continued to bicker over the dishes and the cleaning until the day eventually wound down. By the time the last table was wiped, my back was stiff and my wrists were throbbing. 

Finally, my shift at Gilbert’s inn was over. After a brief goodbye and turning off the lights, I trudged back to my own inn across the border.

I immediately hopped in the shower to wash away the fatigue and threw myself onto the bed. Water dripped from my damp hair, soaking the pillow, but I didn't have the energy to care.

I tried to close my eyes, but for some reason, the image of Gilbert looking dejected all day kept flickering in my mind.

That annoying bearded jerk, seeing that mountain of a man looking so slumped and discouraged left a heavy feeling in the corner of my heart.

“Man, I wish I had some MSG here.”

It wasn't a grand wish, just a passing thought that slipped out.

It makes seasoning so much easier, and a single spoonful brings out that magical umami flavor. If I had just a bit of that, I could have filled that empty, discouraged vibe Gilbert was giving off today. It was moments like this that made me miss modern conveniences.

Of course, I had no idea that this mindless comment would become the prelude to the events of the following day.

Next morning. The moment I tried to roll out of bed to go to work, my foot caught on something, nearly sending me face-first into the floor.

“Whoa, gah, what is it now?!”

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked down. A large, silver sack was sitting right under my bed. It had a familiar shimmer that looked entirely out of place in this run-down inn. When I squinted at it, three letters burned into my vision.

M·S·G.

“…MSG?”

Why the hell is this here?

I stared at it blankly before opening the bag and cautiously dabbing a finger inside for a taste. The moment it hit my tongue, that familiar salty, savory umami exploded in my mouth.

“It’s the real deal.”

I was bewildered. No, "bewildered" didn't cover it.

MSG? It would have been less shocking to wake up back in my own studio apartment. Why on earth was MSG summoned here? How did it just appear in this world?

As I racked my brain, I remembered what I’d mumbled yesterday.

‘I wish I had some MSG here.’

No way.

But my expression quickly hardened. 

They say "be careful what you wish for." Besides, this is a fantasy world. And what is fantasy? It’s literally "things born from imagination." Does that mean from the moment I was transported here, my imagination becomes reality?

My heart began to pound. Was it excitement? Curiosity? Or... a shallow hope that I might actually be able to use magic?

With a mix of emotions swirling in my chest, I squeezed my eyes shut, balled my fists, and yelled:

“I want to go back to my original world!”

Nothing happened.

“Well, I guess that doesn't work.”

The sky didn't shake, space didn't distort... there wasn't even a hint of a breeze. A wave of emptiness washed over me, and I awkwardly scratched my cheek. Resigned, I stood up.

Even if I’m stuck in a fantasy world, I still have to go to work. I’ll try again tonight. With that resolve, I tucked a small portion of the MSG deep into my pocket.

Passing the desolate sand dunes, a few scattered trees and buildings came into view. According to Gilbert, the land near the border had been tainted by monster miasma, turning it barren like a desert.

The village area was only habitable because the corruption hadn't reached it yet. A few more steps and I saw the roof of the inn.

“I’m here!”

I called out a cheerful greeting as I opened the door, but the sight of Gilbert was... unsettling.

The man-mountain was slumped in a chair, his beard tied into two braids, with his face buried in his hands.

The sight was so grotesque it momentarily stunned me. I frowned and muttered.

“...What’s with that look? It’s creepy.”

“What am I gonna do, kid? I don't think it tastes good enough.”

“Have you been cooking all night?”

I asked, tying my apron strings. He didn't answer, still keeping his face buried in a fit of gloom.

I contemplated how to comfort him for a long time, eventually settling on:

“...There’s no guarantee they’ll even stay at this inn...”

But there was. Gilbert’s inn was the largest. So, I tried again.

“Even if they stay here, there’s no guarantee they’ll eat your food. There are plenty of other places to eat nearby.”

Gilbert looked up, his eyebrows twitching.

“When you go to the bathroom, do you only pee?”

“Ugh, please! Your metaphors are disgusting!”

I waved my hands in revulsion. Then, something occurred to me, and I glanced down at the MSG hidden in my clothes.

“Stick to soup. You’re good at that. And I also...”

“You also what?”

As Gilbert’s eyes narrowed, the words caught in my throat.

I could never tell him about the MSG. If he asked where I got it, I’d have no answer, and I’d look incredibly suspicious. Plus, would he even trust eating something this mysterious?

I bit my lip and looked away, finally squeezing out a weak reply.