บท 20: Cooking

It was summer now, and the forest had transformed from the cold, harsh environment I'd grown used to into something almost peaceful. The air was warm, the snow long gone, and the trees were full of life. But despite the change in the season, there wasn't anything left on this mountain that could challenge me. The beasts that came my way were easy to take down, barely a distraction. I'd long since stopped thinking of them as threats.

It had been months since I'd seen another human being, aside from my father, and while I'd explored almost every inch of this mountain in my free time, I couldn't help but feel restless. This place had become my prison—isolating, empty, and unrelenting. I had grown stronger, faster, more capable than ever before, but it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

From the way the last few training sessions had gone, I could tell something was changing. Yuujiro was preparing for something, wrapping things up. Were we finally leaving? It seemed like that was the case, and I was ready for it. My body could handle whatever my father threw at me, but my mind—it was tired. Tired of the isolation. Tired of the silence that only the wilderness offered.

I needed more. More challenge. More life.

Yuujiro, standing with his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the sky, finally spoke. "We're being picked up. Helicopter's coming soon. If you've got anything to take with you, now's the time to grab it."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, not really bothered by the fact that I had nothing to pack. "Finally," I muttered, my voice more sarcastic than relieved. "I was actually going to escape if you didn't get us out of here soon. It's so boring."

His eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch of irritation crossing his face. But that was it. He didn't respond with his usual taunting smirk or a snide comment. Maybe it was because he knew I meant it, or maybe because, by now, he understood that nothing he did could shake me anymore. I'd already faced everything he had to offer—physically, at least.

The whirring sound of the helicopter's blades soon filled the air, the wind kicking up dirt and leaves as it descended into the clearing. Finally. It was time to leave this mountain behind.

We climbed aboard the helicopter, and I leaned back in my seat as the forest shrank beneath us, watching it fade into the distance as we rose higher into the sky. The place that had been my cage for months, where I'd fought, bled, and survived, was finally disappearing from view. I felt a mix of relief and exhaustion wash over me.

The trip back to civilization had finally begun.

As the helicopter continued its descent, I caught sight of the mansion—the place I once called home. The sprawling estate came into view, its towering walls and immaculate grounds standing in stark contrast to the raw wilderness I'd just left behind. It should've felt like a relief, like I was returning to safety, but there was no comfort in it for me. Not anymore.

After months of isolation on that mountain—where I'd fought, bled, and survived—this mansion didn't represent peace. It represented another cage.

When we landed, the familiar sight of my mother standing outside greeted me. She was waiting with the same look on her face, like she was ready to rush over and smother me with affection, as if all those months apart could be erased by a single embrace. But the truth was, I didn't care anymore. How could I? This was the same woman who allowed my father to do the things he did—who stood by as he put me through hell, all in the name of some twisted idea of strength.

She moved toward me, her eyes filled with tears, her arms outstretched as if to embrace me, but I stepped aside. I didn't even look her in the eyes.

She called out my name, her voice trembling, filled with concern and emotion, but I wasn't in the mood to listen. I couldn't even stomach her presence.

Without a word, I walked past her, ignoring the desperate pleas that spilled from her lips as she tried to close the distance between us. The sound of her voice, once familiar, now felt distant—like an echo of a life I barely remembered. I knew she meant well, but that didn't matter. She let it happen.

I headed straight for the house, the cool marble floors beneath my feet as I entered. The scent of the mansion hit me—a mixture of polished wood, expensive furniture, and luxury. Things I used to be familiar with. But now? All I wanted was to scrub the memories of that mountain off my skin.

A shower. Real food. That's all I needed. I had no interest in catching up, no desire for any family reunion. I missed human contact, sure, but not this kind. I didn't miss the monsters.

The servants scurried away when they saw me, giving me space. I didn't mind. I preferred the silence anyway. In that moment, all I cared about was getting away from the noise, the emotions, the stifling sense of false normalcy that this mansion reeked of.

I headed straight for my room, my footsteps echoing down the empty halls. My muscles ached, my mind was clouded, but none of it mattered. The shower was waiting, the hot water that would wash away the grime, the blood, the memories of those endless nights spent in the wilderness.

And once I'd had that? Then maybe I could think. Maybe I could figure out what was next. But for now, I just needed to be alone.

As the hot water cascaded down my skin, I could feel the tension begin to slip away, bit by bit. The grime, the dirt, and the blood that had accumulated over the months washed off easily enough, but I knew the scars underneath—both the physical ones and those buried deep in my mind—wouldn't fade as easily. The heat of the water dulled the ache in my muscles, but nothing could touch the exhaustion that clung to my soul. The kind of exhaustion that comes from surviving, not just living.

The pounding of the water almost drowned out the sound of the knocking at the door. Almost.

"Baki! Baki, please, talk to me!" My mother's voice, frantic and sobbing on the other side of the door, cut through the moment. I closed my eyes, letting the water run over my face, wishing I could drown out the noise. Her cries, her desperation—who was the child here, really?

In the past, her crying might have meant something to me. Might have tugged at something inside me. But not anymore. She was part of this. Part of the reason I'd been thrown into that hell, into Yuujiro's insane version of "training." She let it happen, even encouraged it in her twisted way. And now she wanted sympathy? Understanding?

Be thankful I don't beat you up.

I wasn't sure if I thought it in anger or in cold detachment. Maybe it was both. Maybe it didn't matter anymore.

I stayed under the water longer than I needed to, savoring the heat, the feeling of something familiar. Something human. When I finally turned off the faucet and stepped out, I was greeted with more of her. Emi was still there, sitting outside the bathroom door like she hadn't moved an inch, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for me.

"Baki, please—"

I cut her off before she could finish. "Where are my clothes?" My voice was steady, but I could feel the irritation rising. The makeshift clothes I'd been wearing in the wilderness were in tatters now, barely more than scraps. The ones the hikers had left me with hadn't lasted long either. I wasn't about to walk around in rags in this ridiculously luxurious mansion.

Emi seemed taken aback for a second, her eyes widening slightly as if she didn't expect me to speak to her, let alone ask for something. But then a smile broke across her face—small, tentative, as though my simple question had given her some flicker of hope. Like I was giving her a chance to feel like my mother again.

"Follow me," she said, her voice trembling with excitement. "You still have the same room as before. I didn't know how much you'd grown, but I had the maids buy clothes in all sizes, just in case."

I didn't wait for her to say anything more. Without a word, I brushed past her and made my way to my room. I didn't need to hear her sobs anymore. The sound grated on me, the pathetic way she clung to the idea that this house, this life, still meant something.

My room looked the same. The same immaculate walls, the same perfectly arranged furniture, the same suffocating air of wealth and privilege. Everything was the same.

Except me.

I wasn't the same kid who left here. I wasn't the same kid at all.

I rifled through the clothes she'd laid out, finding something that fit, something simple, practical. As I dressed, I could hear her still hovering outside the room, trying to work up the courage to say something more. I didn't give her the chance. I slammed the door behind me, shutting her out.

She wanted to pretend everything was fine, that we could go back to normal. But there was no normal anymore. Not for me.

I made my way to the kitchen, the echoes of Emi's sobs fading behind me as I descended into the more practical parts of the mansion. I couldn't stand the façade anymore. The idea that things could just go back to how they were, as if everything I'd been through was just some temporary nightmare. But the truth? There was no normal anymore. Not for me.

I didn't have the patience to wait for the house's cooks to prepare something for me. I couldn't bear the thought of sitting down at a formal dinner table, waiting to be served like a child. Not after everything I'd been through. Not after months of surviving in the wild, where every meal had to be fought for or scavenged.

So, instead, I walked into the kitchen and took charge. The cooks, startled to see me, stood there unsure of what to do. Their expressions were a mix of confusion and hesitation, but I wasn't in the mood to explain.

"You." I gestured to the nearest one, a middle-aged man with a neatly pressed uniform. "Get me some oil heated up. I'm making fried chicken. And you," I pointed to another, "grab the flour, eggs, and rice. I need everything prepped fast."

For a second, they just stared at me, blinking as if they couldn't quite process the idea that the master of the house's son was giving them orders in the kitchen. But then they moved, scurrying to follow my instructions like obedient soldiers.

I wasn't being rude—at least, I didn't think so. I was just doing what needed to be done. I was hungry, starving actually, and after months of eating Tasteless food, I wanted food—real food. And if that meant taking over the kitchen and making the cooks my assistants for the day, so be it.

The fridge was stocked with everything I could have imagined—more than enough to create a feast. I grabbed what I needed: chicken, rice, vegetables, spices, tempura batter, and some fresh fish. My hands moved with a confidence and familiarity I hadn't felt in months. Cooking.

It was the one thing that felt like home.

Back in my previous life, I'd been a chef. And now, standing in this overly pristine kitchen, surrounded by more ingredients than I could ever dream of in the wild, I almost felt like a part of me was coming back to life.

I prepared Southern Fried Chicken—crispy and golden with just the right amount of spice. The oil hissed as I dropped the battered chicken pieces into the pan, the smell of fried goodness filling the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation. I threw together a quick tempura, too—light, crispy batter surrounding fresh vegetables and shrimp, served with a bowl of perfectly steamed rice on the side.

The cooks, who were now acting as my assistants, helped speed up the process, handing me ingredients and preparing the sides while I focused on the main course. It was like a well-oiled machine. I gave orders, they followed, and before long, the entire kitchen was alive with activity. It felt good—really good.

As the food came together, the smell of everything cooking—the fried chicken, the tempura, the rice—brought a rush of emotions I hadn't expected. The sheer joy of real food, of creating something that wasn't about survival but about pleasure.

I almost cried.

I was happy. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was doing something that wasn't about pushing myself to the edge of death. It wasn't about fighting or training or survival. It was about cooking, about taking care of myself in a way that felt... human.

I plated the food, setting it down on the kitchen island in front of me. The cooks watched, silent but clearly impressed by the way everything had come together so seamlessly. I grabbed a fork, not bothering with formalities, and took a bite. The crispy, salty, spicy flavor of the fried chicken hit my tongue, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, savoring it.

This—this was what I had been missing.

The food, the act of cooking, the small pleasure of eating something because I wanted to, not because I had to.

As I ate, I felt a strange sense of peace wash over me. It wasn't much, but it was something. A moment of happiness, a brief reprieve from everything else.