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The night of the second day of the fifth loop found Link in a situation that, according to Subaru, could only be described as "culinary kidnapping with noble aggravating factors."
It was not a complete exaggeration.
After having taken part in Subaru's tasks during the afternoon, Link had discovered two important things about himself inside the Roswaal mansion. The first was that domestic chores were not as bad for him as he expected. He could carry baskets, move furniture, clean high areas, hold tools, bring water, and organize spaces with quite decent efficiency if he remembered three basic rules: don't squeeze too hard, don't move too fast, and don't let Subaru encourage him from afar with phrases like "use the tentacles as butler octopus mode!" The second was that his strength was still a ridiculous problem even when his intention was good.
He broke a broom handle on the third try.
He didn't split it in two with dramatic violence. That would have been more dignified. He simply held it with his hand, received a dry indication from Ram about the correct sweeping angle, corrected the movement, and, when he applied what in his head was normal pressure, he heard a miserable crack. The broom was bent at a point where a broom should not bend. Ram observed the corpse of the instrument with a serenity so offensive that Link would have preferred a scream.
—The gardener has murdered a domestic tool —she dictated.
—It was self-defense —said Link.
—The broom had no means to attack you.
—Its fragility was provocative.
Rem, who was on one side with a basket of clean clothes, closed her eyes for an instant.
—Link, Rem recommends reducing the force even more.
—Rem, if I reduce the force any more, I'm going to have to ask the air for permission before touching it.
—The air would probably feel safer.
Subaru, who was supposed to be resting and not opining from a corner where Emilia couldn't see him, raised a hand.
—As the legal representative of fragile objects, I support that motion.
—Barusu —said Ram.
—Yes.
—Silence.
—Yes.
Link looked at Rem. That was the second mistake. The afternoon light entered through a side window and touched her blue hair with a softness that seemed offensively unfair to Link. Rem held the task list against her chest, her face serene, her posture perfect, as if she had just asked him something as simple as moving a sack. But for Link, cooking was not just cooking. It was memory. It was home. It was pride. It was one of the few things he could still claim without the loop, the blood, or death completely dirtying it.
And besides, Rem was looking at him.
—I can prepare something —he said, knowing he had just condemned himself.
Rem nodded.
—Then Rem will guide Link to the kitchen.
—I'm coming too —said Subaru.
Ram grabbed him by the back of his uniform before he could take a step.
—Barusu is not going anywhere if his presence reduces the quality of the food.
—I contribute atmosphere!
—The kitchen already has fire.
—It's not the same!
—It's more useful.
That was how Link ended up in the kitchen under direct supervision of Rem, critical surveillance of Ram, occasional intervention from Subaru from the door and, after half an hour, curious attention from almost the entire mansion.
The kitchen of Roswaal Manor was large, well-equipped, and much more organized than any space where Link had cooked before. It had clean surfaces, sharp knives, containers of different sizes, local spices he didn't fully know, good quality meats, fresh vegetables, herbs, flour, eggs, milk, sugar, and a number of utensils that would have made a real cook cry with emotion. Link was not a professional chef. He was not going to lie to himself. But he was Latino. And there were things one learned not only with technique, but with hunger, family, street, market, improvisation, and the ancestral certainty that a tasteless meal was a lack of respect against life.
He chose three things.
The first, lomo saltado.
He didn't have all the exact ingredients from his world, of course. There was no soy sauce with a family label nor the same vinegar, nor potatoes cut like at home, nor yellow chili with that aroma that could wake a dead man from bed. But there was meat, onion, sour fruits that could work, tubers that fried well, strong herbs, and a local dark sauce that smelled close enough to deserve a chance. Link took the meat, checked it with his fingers, asked for a heavy pan, and looked at the fire with the seriousness of someone about to enter a duel.
Rem placed herself beside him.
—Link should indicate what he needs.
—A good knife. A cutting board. The hottest pan they can withstand without calling Roswaal. Onion cut thick, those red fruits there, potatoes or the closest thing, and if you have something sour, strong, that is not poison or regret, bring it to me.
Rem processed every word without flinching.
—Rem can provide fruit vinegar.
—Perfect.
Ram crossed her arms.
—The gardener cooks speaking as if giving battle orders.
—Cooking well is a battle against sadness.
Subaru, from the door, raised both thumbs.
—That was beautiful! It moved my soul and my stomach!
—Barusu —said Ram.
—Yes.
—Silence.
—Yes.
Link began.
The first cut made Rem blink.
Not because it was perfect. Rem probably cut with cleaner, more constant, more domestically impeccable precision. But Link had a different speed. It wasn't the reckless speed of someone who wants to impress. It was muscle memory. He cut meat into strips, onion into wedges, tubers into sticks, fruits into suitable segments. Once he almost squeezed the knife too hard and the handle cracked. Rem noticed before it broke.
—Less force.
Link loosened immediately.
—Yes, Rem.
Ram observed him with a barely raised eyebrow.
—Interesting. The gardener obeys that phrase with too much speed.
—Rem's voice has a high survival rate for my utensils.
—That sounds like coquetry hidden in an explanation.
—I didn't hide it that much.
Rem looked at him.
—Link should focus on the meat.
—I'm focused. The meat also deserves respect.
—Then respect it without getting distracted.
—Yes, Rem.
Subaru covered his mouth to keep from laughing.
The pan received the meat with a violent sound. The oil jumped, the aroma rose suddenly, and the kitchen changed. Until that moment, everything had been curiosity. After the first blast of heat, it was true attention. The meat sealed quickly, the onion entered without losing firmness, the fruits provided acidity, the dark sauce and vinegar raised steam with a deep, salty, sweet, sour, and hot smell. Link moved the pan with a wrist that was too strong, almost throwing part of the contents into the air more than necessary, and Rem extended a hand by reflex. A kagune came out of Link's back, thin and controlled, catching a piece of onion before it fell to the floor and returning it to the pan.
The entire kitchen fell silent.
Link did not stop cooking.
—Five seconds out of the pan don't count if it returns with dignity.
Rem looked at the kagune, then at the pan.
—That was… efficient.
—I accept that disguised praise.
—It was evaluation.
—I accept that evaluation with an aroma of praise.
Ram closed her eyes.
—The food is not ready yet and the gardener has already become unbearable.
The second preparation was tacos.
That one was more complicated. He didn't have corn tortillas as it should be. He didn't have a comal. He didn't have all the condiments, nor exact lime, nor identical cilantro, nor sauce prepared as the gods of craving commanded. But he had flour, fat, water, salt, a hot surface, and stubbornness. He prepared a simple dough, improvised thin tortillas, and cooked them one by one. Subaru, from the door, watched as if witnessing a sacred ceremony.
—That —he whispered—. That does look like from our world.
Link did not turn.
—Don't start crying on the dough.
—I promise nothing.
Rem held a freshly made tortilla between her fingers, evaluating texture and flexibility.
—It's very thin bread.
Link looked at her as if she had wounded an ancestor.
—Rem, out of respect for everything I love, do not call a tortilla bread again while I'm listening.
Ram spoke from the side table.
—Ram does not understand why the gardener seems more offended by that than by the death of a broom.
—The broom had no culture.
—The broom had service.
—I do respect that.
For the tacos he used meat seasoned with local spices, thinly cut vegetables, an improvised spicy that he first smelled carefully so as not to murder anyone, and a fresh sauce made with sour fruits, salt, and herbs. Subaru insisted on trying the sauce. Link gave him a minimal amount. Subaru turned red, cried from one eye, and declared that he had seen his spiritual grandmother. Ram took the bowl from him before he could ask for more. Rem, curiously, tried a drop with a small spoon. She did not change expression, but her eyes opened slightly.
—Spicy —she said.
—Yes.
—Intense.
—Also.
—Not unpleasant.
Link smiled.
—That, in some countries, would be a declaration of love.
—Then those countries are imprudent.
—Very much.
The dessert was quesillo.
There the kitchen stopped being an evaluation and became a test of patience. Eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla or the closest thing, caramel, heat bath, texture. Quesillo did not forgive as much as tacos. It was not just mixing and trusting. If the caramel went too far, it became bitter. If the eggs were beaten badly, the texture suffered. If the heat was too strong, the dessert was ruined and Link would have to live with a shame that no kagune could defend. Rem observed him with more attention than before. Ram, although pretending disinterest, did not leave. Subaru started saying something about "high-rank Latin flan" and Link threatened to expel him using a spoon if he interrupted the caramel.
The preparation of the dessert was quieter.
Link slowed down. He spoke less. He moved his fingers with care, measuring the sugar, smelling the caramel point, removing the container from the fire just before the color crossed toward bitterness. Rem approached a little.
—Link seems more serious with the dessert.
—The dessert is the last word of a meal. If it comes out wrong, everything before is left under judgment.
—A strict philosophy.
—A correct philosophy.
—Nee-sama usually considers dessert unnecessary.
Ram looked at Rem as if she had just revealed private information.
Link slowly turned toward Ram.
—Unnecessary?
Ram held his gaze without fear.
—Dessert does not fulfill an essential nutritional function.
Subaru took a step back.
—Oh, no.
Link set the spoon on the table with worrying calm.
—Ram.
—The gardener should not use Ram's name with that tone.
—You just declared war against the emotional closure of a meal.
—Ram declared a practical opinion.
—A sad opinion.
—Sadness does not alter nutritional value.
Link placed a hand on his chest.
—Subaru, tell me that in this place there are laws against this.
—I can't read them, but there should be.
Rem lowered her gaze to the quesillo container.
—Rem considers that dessert can be useful to improve the mood of those who eat.
Link pointed at Rem with the spoon.
—Thank you. Rem just saved civilization.
Ram closed her eyes.
—Rem is too kind to foreign culinary cultures.
—Rem only observes that Subaru works better when he expects something sweet afterward —she responded.
—I accept that description of my character! —said Subaru from the door.
Dinner was served later than usual.
That was not entirely Link's fault, although he received most of the looks. The kitchen, which normally functioned with the silent efficiency of Rem and Ram, had transformed into occupied territory by unknown aromas. Roswaal appeared before the dishes came out, attracted by the movement and perhaps by the information Ram would have already transmitted to him. Emilia arrived with Puck on her shoulder, curious about the strange smells. Beatrice appeared at the kitchen door with her book in her arms, declared that the noise was unbearable, and then did not leave, which Subaru interpreted as "library culinary interest."
The dining room received three dishes that did not belong to Lugunica.
First, lomo saltado: hot meat, onion still alive in texture, golden tubers, dark and shiny sauce, sufficient acidity to lift the whole, and an aroma that made Subaru fall silent for the first time in hours. Then tacos, served with improvised tortillas, hot filling, fresh sauce, and a spicy that Link warned must be respected like a wild animal. Finally, quesillo, cooled enough to hold shape, bathed in caramel, trembling and shiny, with a softness that made Puck try to advance his dessert turn until Emilia stopped him with a hand.
Roswaal took the first bite of lomo saltado.
His smile stopped.
It did not disappear. But it changed.
—Ooooh.
That sound was more sincere than Roswaal probably wanted to admit.
Emilia tried it carefully. Her violet eyes widened, surprised by the mixture of meat, acidity, and sauce.
—It's very different… but it's very good.
Subaru closed his eyes when he tasted it.
For an instant, the mansion disappeared from his face. Not completely. It was not a return home. Nothing could be that. But the flavor hit a part of him that had been feeding only on survival for too long. Sautéed meat, something like potato, deep sauce, acidity; it was not Japan, it was not exactly Link's world either, but it was Earth in some way. It was proof that they had come from a place where meals had history, noise, family, and streets full of smells.
—Brother —murmured Subaru—. This is illegally good.
Link, from one end of the table where he had tried to stay as server and not as center of attention, shrugged.
—It's not perfect.
—Shut up before I hit you with gratitude.
Rem tried it afterward.
That was the judgment that mattered to Link more than was reasonable.
Rem took a small portion, chewed with attention, and lowered her gaze to the plate. There was no exaggerated gesture. There was no wide smile. But she took longer than normal to speak.
—The meat preserves texture. The sauce has strength, but does not cover the ingredients. The acidity balances the fat. The preparation is noisy, but the result is coherent.
Subaru looked at Link.
—That was poetry in Rem language.
Link did not take his eyes off her.
—So it's good?
Rem looked at him.
—It's very good.
Link remained still.
The phrase hit him stronger than any praise from Roswaal.
Ram tried the taco with an initial dignity that the spicy betrayed in a matter of seconds. Her face did not change much, but Subaru saw how her visible eye moistened slightly. Link saw it too. Rem did too. Puck floated to one side to observe better.
—Nee-sama —said Rem—, are you okay?
Ram swallowed with heroic slowness.
—Ram is perfectly fine.
Subaru pressed his lips to keep from laughing.
Link did not have as much mercy.
—Ram, if you need water, I won't judge you.
—The gardener is imagining things.
—Of course.
—The dish is… acceptable.
—Acceptable with tears?
—They are tears of disappointment.
Subaru bent over the table.
—Tears of disappointment! That's new!
Ram looked at him with wounded dignity.
—Barusu laughs because he hasn't tried enough spicy.
Link lifted the bowl of sauce.
—That can be fixed.
Subaru stopped laughing.
—Let's not betray our friendship.
The taco became the field where Ram lost her first visible battle of the night. Not because she didn't like it. That was the problem. She liked it. Enough to take another bite with the same severe expression, as if pleasure were a fault that should be punished with discipline. The spicy made her drink water. Subaru declared that that moment should be recorded in the annals of the mansion. Ram ordered him not to use words he couldn't write correctly.
The quesillo finished breaking the table.
Not in a noisy way. In a worse way.
Beatrice tried a spoonful after saying she didn't understand why humans insisted on turning eggs and sugar into excuses for wasting time. The texture melted in her mouth. The caramel, sweet with a slightly bitter edge, cleaned the milk and the improvised vanilla. Beatrice said nothing. She took another spoonful.
Subaru pointed discreetly.
—Beako approved.
—Don't call me that.
—And she kept eating.
—The repetition is necessary to evaluate defects, I suppose.
—You've done five evaluations.
—Then it has many defects.
Puck tried to steal a sixth spoonful from her plate. Beatrice pushed him away with a hand without stopping looking at her dessert.
Emilia laughed.
That laugh relieved something in Subaru. Not enough to erase the pressure of the day, but enough for him to breathe with less pain. Rem, seated only when Roswaal insisted that she formally taste what she had supervised, evaluated the quesillo with almost professional seriousness. After the first spoonful, she looked at Link.
—Rem would need to repeat it to understand the technique.
Link smiled.
—Does that mean you want to learn?
—It means the recipe must be recorded if it is going to be served again in the mansion.
—Of course. Technical record. Nothing of personal interest.
—Exactly.
—I understand.
—You understand nothing. You're floating.
Link kicked him gently under the table.
Dinner became, for a while, something dangerously close to peace.
That was what made it so valuable.
Roswaal asked about the ingredients with too much curiosity. Emilia wanted to know if those meals were common in Link's country. Subaru intervened to say that Link came from a place where food had enough power to start family wars, reconciliations, and discussions about which version was the true one. Link stated that he would not answer geopolitical questions about tacos while sitting in front of improvised ingredients, because there were limits even for diplomacy. Ram declared that Link's cooking was effective but unnecessarily scandalous. Rem said that some methods were unorthodox, but the result justified part of the disorder. Beatrice disappeared through a door that perhaps should not lead to her library, taking a tiny portion of quesillo that she denied taking.
Subaru and Link finally remained alone in a stretch of the hallway near the gardener's room.
The atmosphere changed.
The peace of dinner did not disappear completely, but it stepped aside to let reality enter.
Subaru had a less pale face than in the afternoon. He had eaten, he had laughed, he had rested on Emilia's lap, and he had managed to go several hours without vomiting from anxiety. That was good. But his eyes still carried something new, information he had not yet shared. Link knew it before he spoke.
—Beatrice told you something —said Link.
Subaru let out air through his nose.
—It gets scarier every time how well you read my face.
—Your face has emotional subtitles.
—I wish I could turn them off.
They entered Link's room. The candle was lit, the door closed with care, and both took positions almost equal to the night before: Subaru on the chair, Link near the window. Only now the room smelled of sauce, smoke, caramel, and tiredness. It was better than smelling like fear.
Subaru did not waste time.
—It's not an assassin inside the mansion.
Link remained still.
—What?
—What was killing us. What killed Rem in the previous loop. It's not someone entering at night with a dagger nor Rem acting alone nor Ram closing the case with wind. It's a curse.
Link rested his fingers on the table.
—Beatrice confirmed it to you.
Subaru nodded.
—I went to see her after what happened with Emilia. After… you know, falling asleep on her lap and collapsing like a defective protagonist.
—You slept. You didn't collapse.
—I slept on Emilia's lap while my dignity packed its bags.
—Your dignity left several loops ago.
—True.
The joke died quickly.
Subaru leaned forward, lowering his voice.
—Beatrice said that curses are like an unpleasant branch of magic. Something from shamans, from the north, from Gusteko or something like that. They are not normal spells. They serve to harm. They steal vital force, limit the body, empty you. That matches how I died the first times. Tiredness, cold, blood… the body shutting down without a fight.
Link felt the room become narrower.
—Can it be defended?
—If it has already been activated, no.
The answer fell with horrible weight.
—That's the important thing. If it hasn't been activated yet, someone with skill can clean it. Beatrice can. Puck too, apparently. Roswaal perhaps. But after it activates, it's over.
Link understood why Subaru had that expression. The information was not relief. It was a clock.
—How is it launched?
Subaru raised his gaze.
—Physical contact.
The room fell silent.
Link processed the phrase slowly. Contact. Not a look from afar. Not poison in the food. Not an assassin hidden under the bed. Physical contact. Someone had to touch the victim. A hand, a bite, a brush, something.
His mind immediately went to the village.
—The dog —he said.
Subaru shuddered.
—We don't know.
—But you think it.
—Yes.
—The puppy bit your hand in other loops.
—Yes.
—And in the loop where you didn't go, Rem went out and died from the curse.
Subaru closed his eyes.
—Yes.
Link walked to the window, although he did not open the curtains. He needed to move or something inside him was going to break a nearby object.
—Then the shaman is in the village.
—That is the deduction. Beatrice said physical contact. I went to the village in the lines where I died from weakening. In the previous loop I didn't go. Rem did. Rem died. That means whoever places the curse is there, or uses something there. It could be someone from the village, but Beatrice and I think it's more likely an outsider. Emilia's candidacy is recent; infiltrating for years would be too much. A stranger would stand out in a small village.
Link turned toward him.
—Did you tell anyone?
—Not yet. Not everything. I can't say how I know. And if I go shouting that there is a shaman in the village without proof, Rem and Ram are going to suspect me again. Or worse, Roswaal will move pieces in a way I don't understand. I need them to trust me enough to follow me when it's time to act.
Link nodded.
—I can cover the exterior. Or accompany her. Or accompany you. But if the dog tries to bite you, I stop it.
—Without killing it.
—Subaru.
—Link.
—If a cursed dog tries to bite you and with that condemns us all, my patience with animal welfare is going to be limited.
—We can't make a scene. If you attack a puppy in front of children, Rem marks us as psychopaths before lunch.
Link clenched his teeth.
He was right.
Damn it, he was right.
—Then we avoid it without violence —he said.
—I hope so.
—And if it doesn't work, I use a kagune as a barrier.
—That sounds better.
—And if the barrier fails, I kick the dog all the way to Gusteko.
—There you made it worse.
Link took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
—Fine. Barrier. No international kick.
Subaru leaned back in the chair, exhausted.
—We have a real clue.
—Yes.
—That should make me happy.
—But it also means there is a shaman in a village full of children.
Subaru closed his eyes.
—Yes.
The room fell silent again.
Outside, the mansion was still alive in that silent way that only large houses had at night. Rem would be finishing tasks. Ram might be informing Roswaal. Emilia would sleep with Puck nearby. Beatrice was probably eating the stolen quesillo and denying everything under oath. And the two of them, in a room that smelled of food from another world, had just named part of the enemy.
Curse.
Contact.
Village.
Subaru opened his eyes.
—Tomorrow starts for real.
Link looked toward the door.
He remembered Rem noting down recipes, trying lomo saltado, calling his food "very good" with that seriousness of hers. He remembered the same Rem dead in Subaru's story. He remembered the chain. He remembered the forest. He remembered that loving her didn't make her simple.
—Then tomorrow we don't fail —he said.
Subaru let out a low laugh.
—I wish it were that easy.
—I didn't say it was easy.
Link dimmed the candle a little, leaving the room in a lower light.
—I said we don't fail.
Subaru looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded.
Not because he believed that a phrase was enough to defeat the world.
But because, for that night, after hot food, small laughs, shared tiredness, and a clue torn from Beatrice, he needed to accept the useful lie that willpower could sustain them until dawn.
The second day ended with the enemy still hidden.
But it was no longer invisible.
And in Roswaal Manor, two idiots from another world, one with a curse over memory and the other with four kagunes under his skin, prepared in silence to follow the trail of a death that began in a village.