novelraw Chapter 113: The Idiot Trapped in the Kitchen
Chapter 113: The Idiot Trapped in the Kitchen
His memory wasn't very good.
Sometimes, memories would come uninvited. And when things were at their worst, he didn't know his own full name.
Sometimes, after a brief period of numbness, he would suddenly remember that he was named Rozim Pulimki.
From the moment he was born, bathed in the sunlight of this world, he had been Rozim Pulimki.
He couldn't remember when that had happened. It must have been a very long time ago, longer than the lifespans of quite a portion of mortals...
Whenever he thought of this time, he thought of fire.
He liked fire. He liked the creaking and cracking sounds they made when burning objects.
He could also smell the scent of those leathers on his shoulders. Although he currently wore animal skins draped over his shoulders as well, they smelled just like ashes.
Compared to the self in his memories, his shoulders had also undergone a major change—they were twice as large as before.
If he returned to his home now, he would look like a monster.If he could see those two brothers of his again, he could probably scare the souls right out of both of them.
Who were those two?
Who were his brothers?
He wasn't sure anymore. Perhaps they were already dead, or perhaps they were merely an illusory dream.
Sometimes he would dream of fire—dream of how they shimmered brightly.
So perhaps all of this was a dream!
He looked down at the work at hand. He couldn't be any more familiar with it, because he was very skilled at doing this.
When working, he neither dreamt, nor forgot things, much less yearned for the taste of alcohol. He only knew "working".
Perking up and concentrating his attention; these were all very helpful.
He tossed this pot forged from heavy metal up and down.
It was very heavy, like a large boulder. Even in his massive palms it still looked very heavy.
He couldn't remember what material it was made of. What was it called again?
He used to be able to say it, but now he couldn't remember.
It wasn't iron, it wasn't stone, and it wasn't anything else.
He just called it the "pot", and everyone else understood what he meant.
This was his vocation.
He took a deep breath, picked up the pot, placed it into the giant stove, and turned the heat up to the maximum.
Then he began to coat the surface of the pot with grease. He had to apply a thick layer so that it would be handier when used.
He had to spend a long time doing this. Once, he even took two days to achieve absolute perfection.
He liked to scrutinize the smooth pot set against the glow of the fire. It was as smooth and soft as skin. Not like his own skin, but like the skin of girls.
Just like the skin of those girls in his impressions—
What was that like?
Who cares.
Next, he picked up the spice box and began to work.
This also required a lot of time, sometimes even several days. But he truly didn't notice it at all because he had to completely focus his attention. Moreover, neither the sun nor the moon could be seen in this place—there was only fire, heat, and the comings and goings of people.
They never looked him straight in the eye unless they needed to hand him a prepped ingredient, or take away an already finished dish.
He didn't look at them often either, because he was very happy in his work.
Only at times like these could he temporarily cast off his thirst for alcohol.
Various spices originating from different regions were mixed in his box. This was a unique memory of his. He called it Curry. This sounded like some Greenskin stuff.
Well, he actually felt there was nothing bad about Greenskin stuff. At least those Gretchin were more reliable at getting things done than these unbelievably stupid Servants.
He bent down with all his might, his eyes nearly pressed against it, and then poured the spices—precise down to the milligram—into the mixing box.
Mhm, this smell was truly comforting.
It reminded him that he was currently working, and he never recalled his home or hearth while working.
If an error occurred in this step, he would have to start over. But due to their prolonged drifting, many ingredients had very little left.
So he couldn't have even a bit of error. Even if there was just a little, even the most minuscule amount, the flavor of the spices would be weakened.
Once, after he failed, he violently beat up everyone in the Kitchen, including the Servitors.
But his train of thought drifted far away again.
If he hadn't failed, if he had become the existence he had wished to become, he also wouldn't have wanted his first meal to have any flaws.
He thought of those who had succeeded, hoping this dinner would be perfect enough, even though he would never be able to eat it like he had anticipated a long time ago.
As he thought, he continued his labor, following the ancient recipes, drawing out sacred patterns within the pot.
When the liquid inside the pot boiled, he used those secret spices.
When the powder exuding an exotic fragrance fell into the pot, the boiling liquid hissed like a snake.
He also had to be extremely cautious with this step. Add too much and the entire pot of stuff would be ruined. Add too little and the flavor wouldn't be prominent enough.
He urged himself to be more nimble with his hands and feet. Before stirring for the twentieth revolution, he had to shake loose half of the spices.
Soon, the boiling liquid turned into tumbling slime. He used his large gloved hands to lift the pot off the stove.
He took out a plate and used a ladle to scoop out a dollop.
Watching that dark brown liquid flow down the edge of the plate, sometimes he would raise it up and point it toward the firelight, admiring all that he had created.
Nodding, he picked up a cloth and gently wiped away the stains on the edge of the plate.
Subsequently, he walked over to a Servitor. The other party was operating a pushcart. He placed the plate onto the pushcart, and then went back to dish out a second plate.
The other subordinate staff were also busy, each operating their own dishes. But none of their jobs were more important than his, so he could only do this personally.
This made him feel proud.
Because it made him feel that he had become useful. Most of the time, this was enough to sweep away his heartache.
Most of the time, the people he served were the dining halls of the Astartes.
He could often see those tall warriors enjoying his delicacies after removing their armor, and heaping praises upon him.
But no matter what, he should leave in the end.
He also knew full well that he had to leave, but he always wanted to stay for just a little while longer, always wanting to spend a bit more time with these great warriors.
After all, he had also once been so close to greatness—
This was his heartache.
When he saw those ignorant boys arrive at the temporary testing base from the academy, he recalled the tests he had undergone himself, and how close he had been to success.
He recalled how they had augmented his body, and also recalled the heart-piercing agony when he failed.
Although he should have undoubtedly died, he still managed to survive.
As a failure.
How much he had wanted to die back then, wishing they had simply given up on him then.
The Servitor's soulless eyes looked toward him. He filled the last plate, then nodded—just once.
Afterward, the Servitor shifted its gaze away from him and pushed the cart away. The others were still busy too.
He returned to the side of the stove. His assistant handed him a new pot, a pot used for stir-frying dishes.
He looked down at the work at hand. He couldn't be any more familiar with it, because he was very skilled at doing this.
When working, he neither dreamt, nor forgot things. He only knew "working".
Simply and earnestly working.
But sometimes he still had concerns upon his mind. Sometimes he would suffer from sleepless nights, or recall things he was unwilling to remember.
But he also had a dream that he liked.
He once saw the Astartes treading amidst the sea of stars; saw them in combat, and saw them donning armor and wielding sharp weapons.
He was right there among them, wearing exactly the same things they wore, flawless and perfect.
When he woke from the dream, his heart would always be fully satisfied.
Yet he still remembered his past failure, but he likewise remembered that he could still offer up his own strength.
Perhaps this was his reward: still being able to offer up his own strength.
Even if, in the eyes of others, he sometimes seemed like an idiot.
But he didn't know how much longer he would be here. Perhaps until forever, perhaps until the end of the world.
His memory wasn't very good.
He was named Rozim Pulimki, and he liked fire.
He hoped he could fight. This was what he had dreamed of for his whole life.
But the Astartes were fighting, and he assisted them. Sometimes he felt that, perhaps—
This was already enough.