Chapter 113 The Idiot Trapped in the Kitchen
His memory is not very good.
Sometimes, memories come uninvited, and in the worst moments, he doesn't know his last name.
Sometimes, after a brief period of numbness, he would suddenly remember that his name was Rozim Premki.
From the moment he was born bathed in the sunshine of this world, he was Rozim Premki.
He couldn't remember when that happened, it should have been a long time ago, longer than the lifespan of quite a few mortals...
Every time he thought of this, he thought of fire.
He loved fire, and he loved the crunching and crackling sound they made when they burned things.
He could still smell the leather on his shoulders. Although they were now covered with animal skins, they smelled like ashes.
His shoulders were also much different than he remembered them being - they were twice as big as before.
If he returned to his home now, he would look like a monster.
If I could see my two brothers again, I would probably be able to scare their souls out.
Who are they?
Who are the brothers?
He is not sure anymore, maybe they are dead, or maybe they are just a dream.
He sometimes dreamed of fires—of how they shone.
So maybe this is all a dream!
He looked down at the task at hand, something he knew all too well because he was very good at it.
While working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, nor misses the smell of alcohol. He just knows to "work".
Cheer up and focus, it helps.
He tossed the heavy metal pot up and down.
It was heavy, like a large piece of rock, even in my huge hand.
He couldn’t remember its ingredients. What was it called?
He could tell it before, but now he can't remember it.
Not iron, not stone, not anything else.
He just called it "pot" and everyone else knew what he meant.
This is his job.
He took a deep breath, picked up the pot, put it into the huge stove, and turned the heat to the highest level.
Then he began to grease the surface of the pot, a thick layer, to make it easier to use.
It took him a long time to do this, and once it even took him two days to get it perfect.
He liked to look at the smooth pot under the firelight. It was as smooth and soft as skin, not like his own skin, but like girls' skin.
Just like the skin of those girls in his impression——
What does it look like?
What the hell.
Then he picked up the spice box and started working.
This also takes a lot of time, sometimes even several days, but he really doesn't notice it because he has to concentrate on it, and there is no sun or moon visible in this place - only fire and heat, and people come and go. Take a walk.
They never look at him, unless they want to give him a portion of the prepared ingredients, or take away the portion that has been prepared.
He doesn’t look at them often either because he is happy at work.
Only at this time can he temporarily get rid of his thirst for alcohol.
Various spices from different regions are mixed in his box. This is his unique memory. He calls it Gali, which sounds like green stuff.
Well, actually, he thought there was nothing wrong with the green-skinned stuff, at least those farts were more reliable at doing things than these extremely stupid servants.
He bent down as hard as he could, with his eyes almost glued to it, and then poured the spices accurate to milligrams into the mixing box.
Well, this smells so pleasant.
It reminded him that he was working now, and he never thought about home and the fire while working.
If you make a mistake in this step, you have to start over, but due to the long period of wandering, many materials are left.
So he couldn't make any mistakes, even if it was just a little bit, even the tiniest bit, the flavor of the spices would be weakened.
After he failed once, he beat up everyone in the kitchen, including the servitors.
But his thoughts wandered away again.
If he had not failed, if he had become the existence he expected to be, he would not have wanted the first meal to be defective. He thought about those who succeeded and hoped that this dinner would be perfect, even though he would never be able to eat it as he had expected so long ago.
Thinking about it, he continued to work, following ancient recipes, and painted sacred patterns in the pot.
After the liquid in the pot boiled, he used the secret spices.
When the fragrant powder fell into the pot, the boiling liquid hissed like a snake.
He must be careful with this step. If he puts too much, the whole pot will be scrapped. If he puts too little, the flavor will not be outstanding enough.
He urged himself to be quick with his hands and feet, and shook off half of the spices before stirring to the twentieth round.
Soon the boiling liquid turned to roiling goo, and he lifted the pot off the stove with his large gloved hands.
He took out a plate and took out a ball with a spoon.
Watching the dark brown liquid flowing along the edge of the dish, he would sometimes lift it up and point it toward the firelight to admire what he had created.
Nodding, he picked up a piece of cloth and gently wiped the stain on the edge of the plate.
Then he walked towards a servitor who was controlling a cart. He put the plate on the cart and then went to get the second plate.
Other subordinate staff are also busy, each operating their own dishes, but none of them are more important than his work, so he can only do it himself.
It made him proud.
Because he will feel that he has become useful, which is enough to make his heart disease go away most of the time.
Most of the time, he served in the mess hall of the Astartes
He could often see those tall warriors enjoying his food after taking off their armor, and said to He was full of praise.
But no matter what, he should leave in the end.
He also knew that he had to leave, but he always wanted to stay a little longer, always wanted to stay a little longer with these great warriors.
After all, he was once so close to greatness——
This is his heart disease.
When he saw the ignorant boys coming from the academy to the makeshift trial base, he recalled the test he had undergone and how close he had come to succeeding.
He recalled how they had strengthened their bodies and the crushing pain of failure.
Although he was certain to die, he still survived.
As a failure.
How he wanted to die at that time, he wished they would give up on him.
The servitor's soulless eyes looked at him, and he filled the last plate, then nodded, just once.
Then the servitor looked away from him and pushed the cart away, while the others were still busy.
He returned to the stove, and the assistant gave him a new pot, a pot for cooking.
He looked down at the task at hand, something he knew all too well because he was very good at it.
While working, he neither dreams nor forgets things, he just knows "working".
Simple, serious work.
But sometimes he still has worries, and sometimes he stays up all night or thinks about things he doesn't want to think about.
But he also has a favorite dream.
He once saw the Astartes walking in the star sea, saw them fighting, and saw them wearing armor and fighting.
I am among them, just like what they wear, perfect.
When he wakes up from his dream, he is always satisfied.
But he still remembers his past failures, but he also remembers that he still has the strength to give himself.
Maybe this is his reward: he can still give his own strength.
Even if he sometimes seems like an idiot in the eyes of others.
But he doesn’t know how long he will be here, maybe forever, maybe until the end of the world.
His memory is not very good.
His name is Rozim Premki and he likes fire.
He wished he could fight, which had been his dream.
But the Astartes fought, and he assisted them, and sometimes he thought that maybe—
That would be enough.
(End of this chapter)