Just A Cook

"No way, they must be mistaken! He doesn't look like it at all . . ."
"But people saw him defeating the Demon Lieutenant and its group . . ."

Whispers followed me as I accompanied the Saint and her Coren, those chosen by her to perform purification with. From what I can sense, they all have the highest concentration of mana out of everyone around, resulting in really powerful and effective Sors—magic, if you will.

Two people flanked me as we made our way to the Saint's tent: Adeline Charbonneau, the one who controlled the ropes made out of Erthe charged with Holy Sors, and Rita D'Angelo, who made purple flames out of Pyra with a little bit of Curso. They were silent, a contrast to their earlier behavior when they happily introduced themselves to me, but I could feel their stares drilling into my skull.

I can't blame them. I owe them an explanation for my dishonesty.

I decided to ignore their gazes and march ahead, keeping my eyes on the Saint's back instead. She walked with such purpose that people parted before her, looking intimidated and scared, but I could tell she's upset and tense, if her clenched fists were anything to go by.

Again, I can't blame her—she must be thinking about the lives lost today. If I wasn't selfish and had just stepped up earlier, they wouldn't have died, and we could've had less casualties.

Not a mind-reader, since it's not part of the job description, but I know—I was thinking about it too. It's one mistake I didn't want to repeat, one that weighed too much on my mind and conscience, despite wanting nothing to do with it.

We arrived at the largest tent of the camp where the Saint and her companions were staying for this campaign. Personal items were scattered around, like beddings, weapons, and bags. There's even a carpet on the ground.

Only two Coren accompanied the Saint out of the eight I heard about, but somehow they made the tent homely and warm. While food awaited us on the tables, I wrinkled my nose at the thought of eating something made by others, and it seemed that my escorts weren't in the mood to eat as well.

When the flap of the tent closed us off from the outside world, the Saint moved to the back where her desk was, framed by a large map of Literra Kingdom hanging from the canopy, red circles decorating the surface—places with high demonic concentrations, I'm guessing. Some were crossed out, some weren't, and some were encircled twice, indicating urgency.

I heard the Saint sigh and saw her take off her jewelled headband, more like a tiara than anything, before putting her long hair into a messy bun. Then she picked up a pen and crossed out a single-lined circle on the map, before finally turning to me. Looking like the way she did now, with strands of hair carelessly framing her face, she didn't seem like the Saint everyone was looking up to. However, if I didn't have mana that could rival her own, I would've shivered and cowered in my boots.

Power emanated from her.

"So I had been right the whole time. I was suspicious when I sensed a large amount of mana aside from my Coren and my own," her tone was even, silver gaze piercing. "No normal person would have that much mana, and to use it for such mundane things . . . would you like to explain yourself?"

For context, the Saint and her companions arrived at the camp yesterday as scheduled, and a dinner feast was ordered to welcome them. I and the other cooks were assigned to kitchen duty, with me butchering and portioning the meat needed for such a large crowd, as well as taking over the assembly of some dishes when I was done. I had been barbequing some skewers outside the kitchen tent, trickling a bit of Pyra and Aura from my fingers to control the grill, when I saw the Saint moving towards me with a stormy look on her face, her eyes cold like metal.

The rest was history.

I sighed when I remembered. I could hear the Coren behind me, checking their equipment, but I knew they were listening in, looking out for any signs of deceit or danger. "I really don't want to, but I guess I owe you one. When you confronted me yesterday . . . I lied about not being the Salvator because I didn't want to be one. You can say I'm not really the Salvator, since I didn't earn it."

Her silver eyes narrowed, hardening once again like a blade. She put down the pen on its holder, her jaw tense as she propped her hands on the table and leaned closer to watch me. The birthmark on my sternum, a sign of my gift, prickled the longer we stared at each other, but with what, I don't know. "Then if you're not the Salvator, pray tell me, who are you?"

That made me stop and ponder.

Who am I?

In my past life, I was Yoshinaga Junpei.

A pro-gamer. World-class team ELYSIA's most prominent player.

With my surname written as lucky (吉) and eternal (永), my former parents made sure to give me everything I would ever want—a good life full of opportunities and happiness. But because of that, I was also always under scrutiny, groomed and educated to be the next holder of the corporation they built from the ground up. I had never known struggle and suffering like they did, but they also subjected me to my own hardships as a conglomerate heir.

You're not allowed to do that, you can only do this. Be friends with this person, you can't be seen with that person. Learn this, that's just a waste of time. 

Isolated, monitored, restricted, suffocated.

I wished I wasn't born lucky, and I turned to games to ease my loneliness.

My experiences might seem shallow to most people, as the splendor and extravagance of my life was something they would die and kill for. They'd think it wasn't so bad, that I don't really have the right to complain, but all I ever really wanted was simple (淳) peace (平).

So in this life, I took the name Junpei with me, and whatever that god did, they successfully bent this world's laws to let me have it.

Yet I'm still trapped in the whirlwind that was my fate as Literra's Salvator, as a legendary hero who could defeat the Demon King, fighting alongside the Saint of Salvare.

Very ironic. After all, what was funnier than putting someone named peace into war?

Still, I can't say I hated that god too much. Because of them, I have a lot to be thankful of. Though I assume the Saint wouldn't want to hear all of it, and I haven't answered her question yet.

Pro-gamer. Heir. Reincarnator. Salvator.

A good son and a lousy hero.

I didn't choose these identities, and yet they're tacked on to me like burrs you get from waddling into a patch of weeds—prickly, annoying, numerous, persistent.

So, which one am I? I have no idea, but . . .

Coming to a conclusion, I hummed a little, and she frowned at me, brows furrowing. I may not know who I truly am, but I knew what I loved doing, what I'm pursuing, what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Guilt might eat at me for it, but I already knew I couldn't save everyone as a hero.

"I'm just a cook named Junpei, Your Grace. One with too much mana and free time."

That's all.