Lindholm takes his faculty card and steps out.
Teachers' cards comes with a weekly meal allowance of five pounds—more than enough if it is just for food.
——By the way, the buildings of the Royal Academy that Nephalem had introduced to him this afternoon… Lindholm has already forgotten most of them. What lingers vaguely in his memory is the location of the two cafeterias he passed along the way.
Relying on what he thinks is a decent memory, Lindholm manages to get himself lost for half an hour inside the Academy before finally swallowing his pride and asking passersby for directions to the cafeteria.
By then, he has realized the truth of it: he probably wouldn't be able to find his way back to the teachers' dorm on his own. Still, in the simple spirit of his homeland—South Aureland—he decides that filling his stomach should take priority.
The cafeteria has three floors. The first is fast food; the second, individual restaurants; the third, light meals, afternoon tea, desserts, and all kinds of non-standard or specialty dinners.
Since the first floor has long lines of students, Lindholm hesitates only briefly before heading upstairs.
The second floor resembles a shopping mall, albeit smaller, and without shared seating.
He sweeps his eyes across the scene… couples, friends, young men and women in pairs, people streaming by with quick steps and bright smiles. The energy of youth rushs at him head-on, as though it would drown him.
A sight to envy.
Thinking that, he scans the storefronts and names, trying to pick a place that suited his mood. Suddenly, one shop sign catches his attention.
'South Aureland Flavor'
Compared to the others, the shop's exterior seems more refined, the décor entirely different. It is reminiscent of South Aureland… but Lindholm immediately feels something is off. Yes, it is South Aureland in style, but the details aren't right. He can't say exactly what is missing—only that it isn't quite the same as the real thing.
Stepping inside, he lets out a soundless laugh.
The very first thing he sees are square wooden tables and long benches.
Outside, lavish South Aureland décor. Inside, the plain square tables and benches common in the countryside. So either all the money went into the outer decorations… or perhaps people's idea of South Aureland has been reduced to nothing more than square tables and benches.
If the latter, it is nothing short of sad. South Aureland's culture had once influenced the entire world. After the kingdom's fall, is this shallow stereotype all that remained?
After a moment of melancholy, his gaze lands on the restaurant's sole customer.
A pale, slender girl. She is small in stature, dressed in a tailored black uniform of remarkable quality. Her silver hair is tied in a bun at the back, with slanted bangs falling across her forehead. Though her features are delicate, her cold expression casts a gloom about her.
On her table are several dishes. Beside her stands a girl with twintails hairstyle, hands clasped nervously before her, staring unblinkingly at the cold-faced girl. Several cooks linger behind her, as if the twintails-haired girl were their leader.
"Tradition must be pursued," the silver-haired girl says, "but so must innovation."
She has taken only a few bites of each dish before setting down her chopsticks.
The twintails-haired girl grows even more nervous and blurts: "Please guide me!"
"I understand your wish to recreate South Aureland recipes. But your attempt is clumsy to the point of idiocy," the silver-haired girl replies in cold voice. "Out of this entire table, the only edible dish is the braised zym fish. But tell me—why didn't you use the newly cultivated sancha subspecies?"
"Eh… because… the recipe calls for zym fish…"
"This dish is priced at 80 evees—nearly a pound—because zym fish is expensive," she says icily. "zym fish live in shallow coastal waters, with a vitality so weak that it's practically tragic. Transporting them here drives up the cost. Yet sancha fish not only taste better and are easier to cook, they're cheaper, more abundant, and last longer even when frozen. Why not use sancha fish instead?"
"B-because the recipe is for braised zym fish…?"
"So you mean to say you want to market the authenticity of South Aureland recipes and can't change them? Then I regret to inform you—you're wrong again." Her voice is sharp as frost. "Ordinary students don't care if a recipe is from South Aureland or the moon. They want cheap, plentiful, delicious food. Tell them it's traditional, they won't care. All they care about is price, taste, and portion size.
"And even if you were truly aiming for authenticity, you've failed. The flavor isn't right. Transport delays dull the freshness, and your cooking skill is flawed. Those with the money and interest to care about authentic recipes would never choose your dishes as well."
Her eyes are merciless. "And clinging to recipes is idiocy. Recipes is just like a combater's style and art, they were created for specific times and environments. If the environment changes, the dishes must change. Outdated things—no matter how right they once were—become wrong in a new age."
Her verdict is ice-cold. "Anything that loses its value will be discarded."
Lindholm sits down at a table of his own, a waiter hurrying over with a menu and an embarrassed smile—it's understandable since their food and cooks had just been torn apart in front of a customer.
As he browses the menu, Lindholm keeps half an ear on the blizzard of scorn the girl is hurling.
"This dish—skip the cooking wine, use spices powder instead."
"At least thirty more minutes of simmering. Mark it for pre-order or drop it from the menu."
"Utterly terrible. Abysmal!"
"Slice deeper, let the flavor in."
"This plate? Even feeding it to a dog is cruelty."
"Long fish… small skill, big cowardice. Put it in the pot alive. Don't kill it early out of fear it'll thrash. Add more water after boiling."
"Your control of heat is inadequate. Practice the basics again."
"To serve a dish like this, you might as well boil noodles for a noose."
"Lard, ginger, soy sauce, rock sugar, wine, chili, star anise, cinnamon, peppercorns—how many did you forget?!"
"Cut thinner. What are you even doing with slices this thick?!"
Not even the rice escaped her wrath. Every item is criticized in turn. The twintails-haired girl, flustered, jots frantic notes in a little notebook while bowing her head in shame.
"At your level, you're not fit to be a cook. For selling a gimmick at the Academy, perhaps just enough—if you change this décor first."
"Eh… but we've no money left…"
"That's not my concern." She pulls out a card. "Where do I pay?"
"How could we possibly take your money, Teacher Monnunzio, when you've honored us by pointing out our mistakes?"
Monnunzio shoots the girl a glacial look, enough to make her stumble back a step.
"My reputation here is already bad enough. I don't need accusations of dining and dashing. Hurry up—I won't waste time on pointless courtesies."
"B-but, since I invited you, if I take money from you, won't I…"
"I don't repeat myself."
"…Yes, Teacher."
After his meal, Lindholm leaves the cafeteria. He stands at the entrance, thinks for two seconds, then decides to try heading back on his own.
Five minutes later, he finds a certainty: he lost his way.
"This won't do… doesn't the Royal Academy have a map or something…"
Asking for directions only sends him in circles due to his shit level sense of direction . Soon he ends up in a plaza.
Nephalem had given him only the briefest introduction before. There wasn't much to say—other than the statue of the Goddess at its center.
The Goddess, said to have created the sky, earth, sea, humans, alien races, and demon beasts—the origin of all, the maker of all. Her name had never been known, for the divine cannot be called directly, and no one knew her true form.
Yet this statue has a face.
It was already six when Lindholm first went to dinner, . After wandering and losing his way twice, night has fallen. Few people lingers at the plaza's edge. Which makes it all the easier for him to spot a familiar beauty—his guide from earlier today.
She stands beneath the Goddess, staring up at the stone face, hands clasped behind her back, lost in thought.
Lindholm definitely doesn't want to ask her for direction again. He shifts his gaze at once, planning to find someone else for directions.
But the wind still carries her satisfied voice to his ears.
"Such a beauty I am. How could even the Goddess compare?"
Arms folded, she snaps open a folding fan with a flourish, fanning herself leisurely as she departs.
Lindholm stands rooted, baffled.
This lunatic… had she really spent half an hour staring at the statue just to say that?
I must make sure other teachers don't have mental illness or something...
After many twists, he finally returns to the teachers' dorm—thankfully, he hasn't forgotten his room number.
Grinning with a "finally made it" expression, he stops at his door, pats his pockets… again… and again.
His grin freezes, and his hands claws frantically at himself.
No key.
He slumps to the floor, the false smile of self-deception vanishing. He remembers now. He'd left the key on the coffee table and only had taken his faculty card.
So… what now?
Option one: My room, my rules—smash the door down.
Option two: Sky as quilt, earth as bed—survival mode.
Option three: A wise man knows when to ask for help—summon Nephalem.
Option four: Find the dorm manager… except there'd been no one on the first floor earlier when he passed.
So stupid…
He'd been warned only this afternoon, and here he is already making such a blunder. Even Lindholm now seethed at his own idiocy.
Just as he decides to wait downstairs for the manager's return, a cold voice comes from nearby.
"You… you're the new teacher, aren't you? Why are you sitting here?"
Looking up, Lindholm sees the silver-haired girl from dinner.
He jumps to his feet with an awkward smile. "I, uh… left my key inside. I'm the new instructor for the Department of Combat."
"Department of Combat…" She looks him over, expressionless. "Show me your card."
New to the Academy and knowing no better, Lindholm hands it over without suspicion.
She rubs her thumb against the corner, then hands it back. "It's genuine. The manager isn't here. I'll open it for you."
"You'll open it…? How?"
She doesn't answer. She approaches the door, pulls a small box from her pocket, and presses a red button. A white glow shines, seeping into the keyhole.
Then she releases it. The box floats in midair. From it spills a dark-silver liquid, spreading into the glow, filling the lock. In seconds, the white was gone, replaced by solid silver.
She twists it gently. The door clicks open.
Another press of the button, and the silver melts back, retreating into the box.
Lindholm, whose studies about alchemy in South Aureland had been shallow at best, could do nothing but gaped like a fool. Despite he've seen many war machines based on alchemy on battlefields, this—this was on another level. Something utterly beyond his comprehension.
"…What the hell."
That is all he could say.
"What is that… amazing."
"Just a trivial gadget." She slips the box away, face still cold. "Don't make such childish mistakes again. It's stupid."
"Yes… thank you." Lindholm longs to retort, but the words sticks. He couldn't even find someone else to blame.
She turns to leave.
"Wait… um, what's your name?" Lindholm calls after her. "Feels weird, you helping me like that and me not even knowing your name. I think I overheard it back in the restaurant, but…"
"No need for chatter," she cut him off quietly. "It isn't a secret anyway."
A brief pause. Then she says:"Monnunzio. Vertin Monnunzio."