Chapter 28: The Swordsman Cooks?
**THREE DAYS AFTER PRINCESS NERISSA'S RECRUITMENT**
Morning came with the peculiar weight of normalcy attempting to reassert itself over cosmic revelation. The Ironforge palace stirred with life—servants moving through halls carved from living stone, the distant ring of hammers on metal echoing from the forges below, and the scent of breakfast wafting through corridors that had witnessed centuries of dwarven history.
Nerissa was already in the royal kitchen when Hexia arrived, flanked by Sirenia and Lhoralaine. The princess wore practical training clothes rather than royal finery, her violet hair bound back in a warrior's braid. She was in deep discussion with the head chef—a stout dwarf whose beard contained more flour than hair.
"—and I'm telling you, the proportions need to be exact. This is for the festival, not some tavern—" She stopped mid-sentence as Hexia entered, her purple eyes lighting up. "Hexia! Perfect timing. I was just explaining—"
"That you can't cook," Durgan interrupted, appearing from behind a massive iron stove with a wrench in one hand and what looked like a mechanical egg-beater in the other. His gear-embedded beard clicked and whirred as he spoke. "Every year. Every festival. You try. Every year, you fail spectacularly."
"I can too cook!" Nerissa's indignation was immediate and adorable. "I just... prefer delegation."
"You burned water last month," Durin rumbled from where he stood by the pantry, his massive frame making the doorway look child-sized. "Actual water. In a pot. How does one even—"
"The pot was enchanted! It reacted poorly to void magic!"
"The pot was *iron*. Basic. Unenchanted. You just forgot about it for three hours."
Hexia watched this exchange with something that might have been amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. It was refreshing, seeing Nerissa as just... a person. Not a princess. Not a hero. Just someone who apparently couldn't cook to save her life despite mastering void magic.
"Can I help?" The words emerged before he could stop them.
The kitchen went silent. Every head turned. Sirenia and Lhoralaine exchanged glances that clearly said *oh no, he's being helpful again*.
"You cook?" Nerissa's skepticism was palpable.
"I do." Hexia's voice remained flat, but there was something underneath—a quiet confidence that came from skill rather than bravado. "My mother from my previous life taught me how to cook. While my mother in this life taught me something better, a warrior who couldn't feed himself was only half-prepared for survival."
The head chef—who'd been watching this entire exchange with growing interest—stepped forward. His name was Burin Ironheart, and he'd been the palace's master chef for forty years. His eyes held the sharp assessment of someone who'd seen countless nobles claim cooking ability they didn't possess.
"What would you need?" Burin's tone was carefully neutral.
Hexia moved to the prep table with the economy of motion that characterized everything he did. "Chicken. Beef. Vegetables—specifically potatoes, onions, garlic. Soy sauce or something similar. Vinegar. Bay leaves. Black pepper. Sugar if you have it."
"Those are... oddly specific requests for someone who claims general cooking ability." Nerissa's curiosity was evident.
"I'm making dishes from my old life. From before reincarnation." Hexia's hands moved as he spoke, already organizing the workspace with practiced efficiency. "They Don't exist in this world. But the ingredients do, or close enough."
"This I have to see," Durgan declared, abandoning his mechanical project to watch. "The legendary Swordsman of Rolling Heads, reduced to kitchen work."
"Reduced?" Hexia's eyebrow rose fractionally. "Cooking requires precision, timing, understanding of how elements interact, and the patience to see processes through to completion. It's not that different from swordwork."
"That's the most Hexia sentence I've ever heard," Sirenia murmured to Lhoralaine.
"He's comparing cooking to murder. Of course he is."
"To be fair, he did just compare it to swordwork, not specifically to killing people."
"The implication was there."
Hexia ignored them, his focus narrowing to the task at hand. His hands moved with the same precision he brought to combat—measuring, cutting, preparing. The kitchen staff watched in fascination as the man who'd slaughtered forty monsters without breaking a sweat deboned chicken with surgical precision.
"What are you making?" Nerissa had moved closer, drawn by genuine curiosity.
"Chicken adobo. Beef steak. Balbacua. Beef pares." Hexia's voice took on a different quality when discussing cooking—still flat, still controlled, but with an undercurrent of something almost like warmth. "Traditional cultural dishes from Earth. They don't exist here, but they should."
"Earth? What Nation?" Durin's confusion was evident.
"My original world. Island nation. Thousands of islands, actually. Complex history, beautiful people, food that could make you weep." Hexia paused, his hands stilling for just a moment. "I miss it sometimes. The food, mostly the food."
The admission hung in the air—rare vulnerability from someone who guarded his emotions like a dragon guarded gold.
"Then let's bring a piece of it here," Nerissa said firmly. "Show us."
And he did.
The kitchen became his domain. Chicken pieces marinated in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves, and peppercorns. Beef sliced thin, seasoned with precision. The balbacua—a rich oxtail stew—set to simmer with ingredients that would take hours to meld properly. The beef pares prepared with careful attention to the balance of savory, sweet, and aromatic.
The scents that began to fill the kitchen were unlike anything the dwarven staff had encountered. Rich. Complex. Aromatic in ways that made mouths water and stomachs growl despite the early hour.
"That smells..." Durgan trailed off, apparently speechless for once.
"Illegal," Durin finished. "That should be illegal. No food has a right to smell that good."
Sirenia and Lhoralaine had moved to opposite sides of the kitchen, watching Hexia work with identical expressions of fascination. There was something mesmerizing about seeing him in this context—the deadly swordsman transformed into something softer, more human, more *present*.
"I didn't know he could do this," Lhoralaine whispered.
"Neither did I," Sirenia admitted. "I've seen him kill. I've seen him heal. I've seen him fight and plan and strategize. But this? This is..."
"Domestic."
"Intimate."
They shared a look—brief, complicated, acknowledging the strangeness of finding domesticity attractive in someone who could decapitate you without blinking.
Hexia, oblivious to their observations, continued his work. His movements were meditative, almost ritual. This was muscle memory from two lives ago, from a mother's kitchen in a world that no longer existed, from a time before reincarnation and prophecy and apocalypse.
"Tell me about these dishes," Nerissa requested, settling onto a stool to watch. "The stories behind them."
Hexia was quiet for a moment, then: "Adobo is considered the national dish. Every family has their own version—some cook it dry, some keep it saucy. My mother in my previous life, made it with a bit of sugar to balance the sour and salty. She said food should have all five tastes if you wanted people to remember it."
"Five tastes?"
"Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, umami." He gestured to the ingredients. "The balance is everything. Too much of one destroys the others. Like... like fighting, actually. All offense and no defense gets you killed. All defense and no offense means you never win. Balance."
"He really does relate everything to combat," Lhoralaine observed.
"It's endearing," Sirenia countered. "In a deeply concerning way."
The cooking continued. Hexia moved between stations with the same efficiency he showed in combat—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes, just purpose translated into action.
King Murin entered the kitchen with Queen Brunhilde, drawn by the impossible smells. "What in the name of the ancestors is—" He stopped, staring at Hexia working at the stove. "Is the hero... cooking?"
"He is," Nerissa confirmed with barely suppressed glee. "And Father, you're going to want to taste this."
"I'm the king. I don't eat from kitchen prep—"
"Father." Nerissa's tone brooked no argument. "Trust me."
Breakfast was served in the royal dining hall thirty minutes later.
The tables groaned under platters of food that looked and smelled unlike anything most present had encountered. The chicken adobo gleamed with its dark, glossy sauce. The beef steak sat in pools of savory liquid that made the meat glisten. The balbacua's rich broth steamed invitingly. The beef pares nestled beside perfectly cooked rice.
Hexia sat between Sirenia and Lhoralaine, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the attention his cooking had garnered. The dining hall had filled beyond just the immediate royal family—word had spread, and now various nobles and palace officials had found excuses to attend breakfast.
Murin took the first bite of chicken adobo.
The hall went silent, everyone watching the king's face for reaction.
His eyes closed. His expression shifted through several stages—surprise, confusion, understanding, then something approaching religious revelation.
"Sweet merciful ancestors!" His voice was reverent. "What sorcery is this?"
"Just cooking, Your Majesty." Hexia's tone suggested he didn't understand the fuss.
"This is not 'just cooking.' This is..." Murin took another bite, chewing slowly, savoring. "This is art. This is history. This is emotion made edible."
Brunhilde had tried the beef steak. Her reaction was only slightly more controlled than her husband's. "The balance. The flavor. How did you—" She looked at Hexia with new respect. "Young man, if you ever tire of being a hero, I will personally fund a restaurant for you."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm contractually obligated to save the world. Angels and demons were very clear about that."
"Pity. The world could use more of this and less of apocalypse."
The meal continued, and the reactions multiplied. Durgan made noises that were borderline inappropriate. Durin actually smiled—a rare thing that made his beard crackle with electricity from the emotional effort. Nerissa looked smug, as if she'd personally discovered this culinary genius.
And Sirenia and Lhoralaine found themselves in the strange position of being proud of and attracted to someone's cooking skills. It was bizarre. It was unexpected. It was absolutely happening.
"This is delicious," Sirenia said quietly, leaning slightly toward Hexia. "Genuinely amazing. I had no idea you could do this."
"I never mentioned it. Didn't seem relevant to fighting monsters and preventing apocalypse." He paused. "But my mother(present) taught me that a person should be more than their primary skill. That being good at one thing and terrible at everything else makes you fragile. Specialized tools break easily."
"Your mother sounds wise."
"She is. I should visit her more."
"She'll probably cry if you show up and cook for her."
"Probably." Something that might have been warmth flickered in his eyes. "Worth it, though."
Lhoralaine, on his other side, was having her own revelation. "The beef pares. The sauce. The way the meat just falls apart. Hexia, this is..."
"Good?" he prompted when she trailed off.
"Revolutionary. This is going to ruin me for other food. Nothing else will compare now." She took another bite, closed her eyes in appreciation. "How am I supposed to go back to tavern stew after this?"
"You could learn to cook."
"I tried once. The kitchen caught fire."
"How does a kitchen catch fire from cooking?"
"I'm still not entirely sure. There was oil, and flames, and then suddenly everything was on fire and people were screaming."
"That's... impressive, actually. In a horrifying way."
"I contain multitudes."
The breakfast continued with a warmth that felt almost surreal. Nobles who'd been intimidated by the legendary Swordsman of Rolling Heads found themselves asking for seconds, thirds, more rice, more sauce, could he please write down these recipes?
Hexia deflected the requests with practiced ease, but Nerissa caught the slight curve of his lips—not quite a smile, but close. Pride in craft well executed. Satisfaction in work that brought joy rather than death.
"You're happy," Nerissa observed quietly, speaking under the general conversation.
"I'm... content. Temporarily. It's novel."
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
"I intend to. Tomorrow we have to figure out how to find four more heroes and prevent apocalypse. Today, I got to cook breakfast and not think about destiny for three hours. I'll take that trade."
"Fair." She paused, then added with mischief coloring her tone: "I'm absolutely bragging about this to the other heroes when we meet them. 'My hero can cook better than yours' is going to be my opening statement."
"Please don't."
"Too late. Already planning the speech."
"I regret helping."
"No, you don't."
"No. I don't." Hexia took a bite of his own cooking, considering. "But I might regret giving you ammunition for future teasing."
"Definitely too late for that."
Across the table, Sirenia and Lhoralaine were having a similar conversation, their earlier rivalry temporarily set aside in favor of shared appreciation for unexpected domestic skills.
"Did you know he could cook like this?" Lhoralaine asked.
"No. I knew he could make basic field rations edible, but this?" Sirenia gestured to the nearly empty platters. "This is something else entirely."
"It's attractive."
"It really is."
"Are we terrible people for finding his cooking skills hot?"
"Probably. But I've accepted worse things about myself." Sirenia's lips quirked. "Though I have to admit, watching him command a kitchen with the same authority he uses for combat? That was unexpectedly compelling."
"The knife work especially."
"The precision in measuring."
"The way he organized the workspace."
"We're definitely terrible people."
"Absolutely."
They shared a grin—brief, complicated, but genuine. Finding common ground in unexpected places, building bridges over shared appreciation for a man neither fully understood but both cared for deeply.
The breakfast concluded with King Murin making a proclamation that Hexia had earned "honorary dwarven citizenship through culinary excellence alone" and that his recipes would be preserved in the royal archives "for the benefit of future generations who deserve to know what proper food tastes like."
Hexia accepted this with the same blank expression he used for everything, though Nerissa swore she saw him fighting a smile.
As the dining hall emptied and servants began clearing the massive quantity of empty dishes, the core group remained—Hexia, Nerissa, Sirenia, Lhoralaine, Durgan, and Durin.
"So," Durgan said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Now that we've established Hexia can do more than kill things—"
"I also heal things."
"—right, kill things and heal things, where do we actually start with this whole 'save the world' business?"
"Good question." Hexia's expression sobered, the brief lightness of the morning fading into the weight of reality. "We have six years to find four more heroes, master our elements, figure out how to seal Ancients, and prepare for a threat that burned the world once before. Suggestions?"
"Register with the Adventurer's Guild," Nerissa said immediately. "We need legal standing to travel between continents, access to information networks, and the ability to recruit help without being arrested as suspicious vagrants."
"She's been thinking about this," Durin observed.
"I've had three days. Of course I've been thinking about it." Nerissa pulled out notes—actual written plans. "The guild operates on all six continents. Their intelligence networks are better than most kingdoms'. And if we register as a party called Hexagram and use the mark as our symbol, word will spread. The other marked ones will hear about it."
"That's... actually brilliant," Lhoralaine admitted.
"Thank you. I'm occasionally useful beyond being able to create void portals."
"Only occasionally?" Durgan's grin was wicked.
"Shut up or I'll tell them about the time you blew up your own workshop because you forgot to account for dimensional compression."
"That was ONE TIME and it was a LEARNING EXPERIENCE."
"It created a crater visible from three miles away."
"A VALUABLE learning experience."
Hexia held up a hand, forestalling what promised to be an extended bickering session. "So. Adventurer's Guild registration. When?"
"This afternoon," Nerissa confirmed. "IronForge has a major guild hall. We register, get ranked, officially join hexagram, become a party. Then we start planning how to reach the other continents and find the other heroes."
"We'll need better equipment first," Durin rumbled. "Your current gear is adequate for bandits and minor monsters. But Ancients? You need legendary weapons. All of you."
"Can you make legendary weapons?" Sirenia's skepticism was evident.
"I'm Durin Thunderbeared, girl. I could make weapons that would make gods weep with envy if given the right materials." His pride was palpable. "But that's the catch—materials. We need to hunt. Gather components from powerful monsters. Then I forge. Simple."
"He says 'simple' but last time he made legendary weapons the process took three months and involved stealing dragon scales," Nerissa interjected.
"The dragon was *dead*."
"You killed it specifically to make weapons."
"That's called efficient resource management."
"That's called premeditated dragon murder."
"Dragons are technically sentient beings that need to learn not to hoard treasure."
"You're terrible."
"I'm practical."
Hexia listened to this exchange with growing amusement. These were the people he'd be spending the next six years with. Possibly dying with. Definitely suffering with. And somehow, despite the apocalyptic stakes, they made it feel... manageable. Like maybe saving the world didn't have to be lonely torture from start to finish.
"Alright," he said, cutting through the banter. "Summarize the plan. Short version."
Nerissa ticked off points on her fingers. "One: Register with the guild this afternoon. Establish legal presence and start spreading word about one more hero with her companions joining Hexagram. Two: Hunt for materials to create proper legendary equipment. Three: Train together, learn each other's fighting styles, build actual teamwork. Four: Gather intelligence on the other heroes' possible locations. Five: Travel to the next continent and find hero number three."
"Which continent?" Lhoralaine asked.
"The Verdant Empire," Nerissa said with certainty. "The Fae. Logically speaking the Wind Hero might be or should be there—they have the strongest wind magic traditions. Plus, their Grand Imperial Magus Princess has been making waves in magical theory circles. If anyone's been marked, it would be her."
"A princess," Sirenia said dryly. "Another royal. What are the odds?"
"High, apparently. Marked ones seem to come from positions of responsibility." Nerissa's expression turned wry. "Lucky us."
"Before we search for hero number three," Hexia interjected, "we need to actually become a functional party. Which means training. Together. Learning how to not kill each other."
"We won't kill each other," Durgan protested.
"You tried to shoot Durin last month because he criticized your latest invention."
"He called it 'mechanically unsound garbage.'"
"It WAS mechanically unsound garbage," Durin countered. "The barrel would have exploded on first firing."
"WOULD HAVE is different from DEFINITELY WILL."
"Not when it comes to explosive devices, it's not."
Hexia rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. "This is going to be a long six years."
"Look on the bright side," Lhoralaine offered. "At least we're entertaining?"
"That's one word for it."
"What's another word?"
"'Concerning' comes to mind."
"Fair."
The conversation shifted to logistics—what supplies they'd need, how to coordinate training schedules, who would handle what aspects of preparation. Plans formed, arguments erupted, compromises were reached.
It was messy. It was chaotic. It was loud.
It was also, Hexia realized with something approaching wonder, exactly what a functional team looked like. Not perfect. Not polished. Just people figuring things out together, trusting that combined they'd be better than any individual could be alone.
"We're doing this," he said quietly, the words feeling like a vow. "Actually doing this."
"Damn right we are," Nerissa confirmed with fierce certainty. "And we're going to succeed."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because failure means the world ends. And I'm too stubborn to let that happen." Her purple eyes blazed with determination. "Also, my father would be very disappointed if I let reality get unmade. The paperwork alone would be terrible."
"That's your motivation? Disappointing your father and paperwork?"
"Those are VERY strong motivations in dwarven culture."
"I'm learning so much."
"Good. Keep learning. You're going to need it."
The morning stretched toward afternoon with the easy rhythm of new alliances forming, plans being made, futures being shaped by hands that refused to accept destiny's decree of doom.
And in the royal kitchens, servants carefully preserved Hexia's recipes, copying them with the reverence usually reserved for religious texts. Because in a world facing apocalypse, sometimes the small victories—like food that made you remember joy existed—mattered as much as the large ones.
---
**TO BE CONTINUED...**
*Breakfast has been served. Alliances are solidifying. Plans are forming.*
*But first—guild registration. Where being legendary is about to become official. And the women adventurers under garments fall for hexia's angelic beauty.*
*Where signatures become contracts with destiny.*
*Where everything becomes real.*