The following morning arrived with unsettling reports. After sending several men to investigate the remaining mines scattered across the mountain range, they returned pale-faced, insisting every single mine that shut down shared the same eerie signature: the dark magic was gone — completely erased as if someone wiped the slate clean. No residue. No curses. No lingering mana trail. Only silence, emptiness, and an odd, unnatural stillness that made even seasoned knights uneasy.
I don't even know what happened but there was something more powerful than dark magic that made it possible.
It should have been a moment of deep strategic discussion, but fate — or perhaps pure chaos disguised as destiny — had different plans.
Night fell, and once again we set up camp near the foothills. A peaceful evening might have been possible… if Seraphine was not Seraphine. But of course, peace was a luxury she never allowed the universe to enjoy.
The campfire crackled, wolves howled faintly in the forest, and the smell of sausages filled the air. The men were quietly eating dry bread and tea like normal warriors.
Lady Seraphine?
Very Huge Person? I mean Lady?
Well, beautiful in her own way.
She took one bite, paused dramatically, stared at the sausage, sighed like a betrayed lover and declared: "Where. Is. The. Ketchup."
Everyone stopped mid-chew.
I blinked.
My vice-captain blinked.
Even the fire blinked emotionally. The cricket stopped. The wolf from the distance stopped mid howl.
"What… is a ketchup?" one of the younger knights asked, terrified of the question.
She rolled her eyes like she was schooling newborns. "It is the divine, holy, sacred partner of fried food. A blessing. A treasure. A red masterpiece. You uncultured medieval chickens."
The silence that followed could have summoned ghosts.
Coffi nodded with the seriousness of a war general: "We must find tomatoes, my lady."
I still don't know what tomatoes have to do with holy blessings. But I heard them talking about tomatoes and something about vinegar and salt earlier.
*****
After breakfast, I approached her about the sword she found — the relic, legendary, heavy, glowing-with-mysterious-aura Divine Mountain Blade. Only a chosen warrior could wield it… and she had dragged it like a stubborn potato sack.
So when she casually handed it toward me like "here, take your free oversized kitchen knife" I nearly dropped my soul.
"You are giving this… to me?" I asked cautiously.
She shrugged. "It's heavy. I can't lift it without dying. You can have it."
Just like that.
Like she was giving me leftover cookies.
My men were staring like I proposed to her and she accepted dowry-free.
Then to be fair, I offered payment — something proper.
"One hundred gold coins," I said.
She agreed so fast I thought she didn't even hear the amount.
"Deal!"
The speed.
The enthusiasm.
The business talent.
Now my entire squad looked jealous enough to chew rocks because the sword is priceless — unique, indestructible, mana-reactive, and engraved with ancient runes.
But the worst part? She leaned slightly closer, voice soft but corners of her mouth dangerously smug: "And you won't tell anyone about my little water bending moment earlier… right, Sir Alex?"
My spine froze.
Blackmail.
Sassy, cute, chubby-cheeked blackmail. I didn't know whether to salute her or arrest her.
Internal Thought:
She may have no magic circle, no training, and no royal prestige aura… …but she is not naïve.
Not weak. Not clueless. She was full of secrets…something either I fear or admire.
She is a smiling hurricane wrapped in soft flesh and chaos.
And for the first time since meeting her…
I wasn't just confused. I was intrigued.
However, the next day arrived with good weather, steady morale, and renewed confidence.
My men returned from surveying the newly opened mines — ones that had supposedly been cursed for years — and confirmed something inconceivable:
No darkness.
No miasma.
No mana decay.
No lingering curse residue.
Whatever dark energy once strangled this land was gone.
Not weakened. Not suppressed. Completely erased.
And yet, the only thing occupying Lady Seraphine's mind that evening was— "Tonight, we make ketchup."
Of all the mysteries, wonders, and magical anomalies in this territory…
She wanted to create condiment history.
And when the sun dipped into orange hues, a gentle wind carried hints of seawater, wolves cried peacefully in the far mountains, and insects chirped harmoniously under the glowing twin moons.
My men had set up camp:
tents organized in formationfire pit steady and warmfresh water barrel readydried food preparedguards assigned to outer rotation
Perfect.
Efficient.
Disciplined.
Just when the men expected ordinary rations — bread so hard it could knock someone unconscious, dried meat with the emotional value of sadness, and soup that tasted like regret — Seraphine stormed into the cooking area holding tomatoes like sacred relics stolen from heaven.
She slammed them dramatically onto the table, both hands planted like she was announcing a royal decree. The tomatoes bounced, rolled, and wobbled like they feared her.
"My dear medieval potatoes," she declared, voice booming with supernatural confidence, "gather around! Tonight, humanity witnesses greatness!"
The entire camp froze. Every soldier, every knight, every squire — all turned slowly, like a cursed painting coming to life. Confusion spread faster than plague.
My vice-captain leaned toward me, whispering as if this moment needed sacred reverence, "…Is this… some kind of ritual?"
Before I could answer, Coffi stepped forward with the posture of a herald on coronation day. Chest puffed, chin up, eyes sparkling with ridiculous pride.
"My Lady," he announced, "shall now create a sauce that will forever alter civilization!"
Not dinner.
Not flavor.
Civilization.
Seraphine rolled up her sleeves — sleeves that had seen more chaos than a battlefield — and tied her hair with what looked suspiciously like a torn piece of rope. Determination radiated off her like heat from dragon fire.
"Step one," she announced, lifting a tomato with dramatic slowness, "Mash these like they owe you money."
And she did.
She crushed those tomatoes bare-handed with the fury of someone who survived childhood drama, student-loan-like trauma, and a lifetime of unsolicited diet advice. Juice exploded everywhere, splattering onto the table, on her cheeks, on the soldiers, and probably on someone's sword.
A rookie knight made a choked, terrified sound, clutching his chest as if he had just watched murder.
"Don't fear the fruit!" she barked, looking insulted.
She gathered supplies — sugar, vinegar, and salt — scavenged from trade packs, ration boxes, and whatever the men were hoping not to sacrifice. Inside a metal pot over fire, it all began to bubble with ominous, potion-like gurgles.
It hissed.
It frothed.
It threatened moral and physical safety.
Seraphine stirred the mixture like she was disciplining misbehaving soup, mumbling under her breath. At first, we ignored it. Until—
"Yes, yes… thicker is better… no, not like that, that's what she said— STOP SAYING WEIRD STUFF!"
We collectively decided not to ask questions. Survival instinct, I believe.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The pot simmered like it had secrets. Then finally, with a triumphant exhale, she scooped a portion into a wooden dish, paired it with grilled meat and bread like it was royal cuisine, and declared:
"Behold — KETCHUP. A masterpiece. A revolution. A legacy."
Silence.
She glared until someone volunteered.
A brave soldier — or perhaps an idiot with no will to live — stepped forward. He dipped. He tasted. He froze.
We readied ourselves for funeral preparations.
Then — with eyes widening like he just saw an angel descend —
"…It's… incredible."
Her smile widened slowly — the kind that made you believe villainy was a career she could excel in. Soon, everyone stepped forward, dipping their food into the red concoction, tasting, pausing, then experiencing a flavor revelation so dramatic some men almost cried.
Morale soared.
Spirits lifted.
Campfire songs suddenly sounded better.
Someone declared they found a reason to live again.
Seraphine leaned back with a smug smirk so radiant it outshined the moon and proclaimed, "When I become rich, I shall build factories. And you fools will be my first customers."
The camp roared like she offered free land, tax exemption, and lifetime leave benefits.
And me?
I simply watched her in silence.
Because as absurd as it seemed — as comedic, as chaotic, as ridiculously Seraphine as it was — I sensed it.
That surge of faint magic.
Not destructive, not violent, not dark.
Just… pure, gentle, creative power flowing from her hands into the tomatoes.
Magic disguised as cooking.
Destiny disguised as insanity.
A woman with no recorded magic, no noble talent, no formal skill — somehow producing history with a pot and stubborn imagination.
There was indeed something far more dangerous than power in her…
Possibility.