They keep their eyes on the young noble who's currently eating without stopping.
He then takes the bread. He tore it gently, the crust crackling softly under his fingers. Steam escaped in a warm cloud, fragrant with toasted grain and honey. The interior is soft, pillowy, airy, and tender. He dipped it into the mushroom stew, letting it soak, then lifted it to his mouth.
The stew is deep and earthy, like the quiet hum of the forest floor. Mushrooms that tasted of rain-soaked stone and autumn mornings. The broth is rich but not heavy, fragrant with herbs that melted harmoniously into the bread.
When he ate them together, bread dipped into the rich mushroom broth, pressing against the tender meat, something inside him almost wept. It's not just a satisfaction, not the relief of a starving man receiving food, but something far deeper and more startling.
It struck him so sharply he froze mid-chew, not because it's simply a good food. But because it tasted like heaven.
He had grown up in a noble household, surrounded by polished silver, embroidered tablecloths, and meals prepared by men who had trained for decades. Dishes that looked beautiful, decorated like little paintings, served with perfect posture and empty smiles. Yet those meals had always left him hollow, heavy, and unsatisfied.
This meal in this outskirt village is different.
He took another bite, and then another, almost frantic now, but not with desperation, rather with awe. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the bread again. The soft interior warmed by steam, the crust giving way with the gentle crackle of fire-kissed grain. He dipped it again into the stew and brought it to his lips.
Warmth. Earth. Depth. A kind of gentle richness that began in the tongue and sank directly into the chest.
His voice cracked as he swallowed. "This—" He tried again, but the words tangled in his throat.
The villagers watched him, not mocking, but quietly understanding. They had felt this same revelation not long ago, when Emilia first came and fed them stew and roasted meat with herbs, when they realized food could taste like something more than just survival.
Even the children, who once refused the bitter greens, now ate eagerly each night.
The noble wiped at his mouth, though his hand shook with each motion. His eyes glistened, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming warmth spreading through him. His jaw worked as though he might cry if he tried to speak too quickly.
"This…" he managed at last, his voice rough but soft, "am I… in heaven?" But he doesn't wait for an answer.
He simply began to eat again, unable to slow himself. Bread soaked in broth, meat that melted the moment it touched his tongue, and stew that felt like a memory of warmth he had forgotten existed.
He ate like a man rediscovering life.
Hikarimetsu leaned forward on her elbow, watching him as if inspecting a curious animal. Emilia stood beside her, arms crossed lightly as she observed him, not proud, not smug, just relieved that someone wounded is being healed.
He looked up then, cheeks flushed from warmth and renewed strength. "I have never tasted anything like this," he confessed, and his voice carried the weight of absolute truth. "Not even in my father's house. The bread we eat is always hard, dense, and tasteless. The meat is either tough or drowned in spices to hide its dryness. The stew… is just sadness in a bowl."
Several villagers snorted softly, trying to hold in laughter. Emilia blinked. "Sadness stew?"
"That is the most accurate description of noble cooking I have ever heard," Hikarimetsu said quietly, lips curling.
The noble's shoulders sagged, but this time, there's no fear in his posture. Just exhaustion. Relief. He felt a sense of safety. He took another slow bite, savoring it now. No longer rushing, because the hunger that had once consumed him had been replaced by something else entirely.
He lowered the bread finally, his breathing calm, the fever entirely gone from his skin. It took him a moment to realize what had changed. His trembling had stopped. The ache in his bones is simply gone. The cold heaviness that had weighed on his limbs like rusted iron had lifted as though it had never existed at all.
He stared down at his own hands, turning them slowly, astonished.
"My body…" he whispered. "…it doesn't hurt anymore."
Several villagers exchanged looks, nodding as if this confirmed something they had already known. They had seen the same miracle in their wounded people when fighting with the barbarians.
The man is stunned, his voice barely more than a breath. "My strength… it's returning. My wound—" He pressed a hand to his bandaged side, expecting pain, and found none.
"I feel…" He paused, searching for the word, something simple but impossible. "…stronger."
He looked at Emilia with something close to reverence. "You didn't just feed me," he murmured. "You fix me."
Emilia opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond to something that heartfelt.
The noble nodded once, firm and full of meaning. He shut his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. Then he reached into his tattered cloak and touched the crest pinned there, a broken thing now, scratched and stained.
"I'm Lucien of House Halvine," he said, lifting his gaze to the villagers and then to Emilia. "Son of Rowan Halvine, the count, and the heir to these lands."
The villagers shifted at once. Some in awe. Some uneasy. Some are outright fearful. The title heir carried weight, far heavier than any wounded stranger.
Lucien continued, voice rough but steady, "I came here because I was told this village had been wiped out. I came to see if there was anything left. But instead…"
His eyes moved to Emilia. "I was attacked by the barbarians," he said, breath catching slightly. "I managed to kill some of them and escape, but not without cost. And then I found… you."
The way he spoke the word "you" held a bewildered reverence, as though she were something he could not quite name. Something outside his world. "You are no ordinary village woman," he whispered.
Emilia blinked once, slowly. "I'm just a cook."
Before Lucien could respond, the elder stepped forward, leaning on his carved staff. "She isn't a villager, young lord. She is a pathbreaker." He touched the staff to the ground once. "She came from the sky."
Lucien went still, not in disbelief, but in recognition that something far beyond him is unfolding.
Hikarimetsu stepped forward at that moment, placing himself naturally in front of Emilia. Her posture held no aggression, only presence, being protective over Emilia.
Lucien didn't challenge it. He simply bowed his head again, slower and more sincerely this time. "I must know your name," he said, not demanding, but asking, almost pleading. "Please."
Emilia hesitated. "Emilia Kato," she said softly.
Lucien's eyes widened, not because he knew the name, but because it fit. Something in it sounded like the beginning of a legend.
He exhaled, long and steady, as though the world had just been set back into motion. "As soon as my strength returns," he said, lowering his head, "I will bring word to my father. What you have done here… what you are building… it is he must know of."
That single sentence was enough to shift the room again. A wave of unease passed through the villagers, quiet but sharp-edged. Because the nobles didn't observe miracles. They claimed them.
Hikarimetsu's hand rested on Emilia's shoulder, light and grounding. A silent promise for her.
Emilia's pulse quickened. Not from fear. But from the heavy understanding, whatever came next would change everything.
She knew that the quiet life she had begun to build in this village was about to end. And perhaps, it could be good news—a faster way to go back home to Japan.