ebookslot Chapter 605 - 604- Dara’s Food tastes Delicious
Chapter 605 - 604- Dara’s Food tastes Delicious
The younger sister.He remembered now — or rather, he didn’t. In his past life, Evriana had been a footnote. A minor character. The younger sister who existed in the background of the Ktorian family’s drama, who appeared at ceremonies and disappeared from relevance.
’What was her ending?’ he thought.
He couldn’t remember.
The past life — the memories of the game, the story, the timeline he had lived through before — was foggy on the details. Evriana had died. That much he recalled. But how? When? The circumstances escaped him.
He filed the question.
"Starting today!" Evriana’s voice rang out. "We rout the demons that have been plaguing our citizens!"
The formation roared.
Expressions of rage, of patriotic fervor, of the particular, performative anger that common men displayed when a princess told them to be angry. Viktor watched the men around him — the clenched fists, the gritted teeth, the shouted agreements — and felt nothing.
"Are you with me, men?!" Evriana yelled.
"YES!" The roar was deafening.
"I, Evriana Ktorian, will go with you! So fight! Drive them out of our land! Make them pay for messing with the Ktorian name! We will be victorious!"
The way she yelled — her back arching, her chest thrusting forward — her heavy tits jiggled beneath the formal dress, the fabric straining, the motion visible even from three rows back.
Viktor looked down.
At his crotch.
The armor plate was pressing uncomfortably against his cock, which had stirred at the sight of a princess’s tits bouncing on a horse.
"Ah, shit," he said.
The horse moved.
The formation moved.
The march began.
The column stretched long.
Viktor walked in the middle, his cheap armor clanking with each step, his eyes scanning the terrain with the lazy, patient awareness of a man who was not worried about demons but was mildly concerned about boredom.
The road was dirt, flanked by trees, the canopy overhead filtering the morning sun into dappled, shifting patterns. The air smelled of pine and dust and the sweat of a hundred bodies marching in armor.
The women rode.
He noticed this — the few women who had come as cooks or support staff were seated in the carriages that rolled along behind the knights, their bodies swaying with the motion, their voices carrying in the quiet forest. The men walked. It was the old arrangement — the practical, unexamined, deeply embedded hierarchy of a world that had decided long ago that women rode and men walked and neither questioned it.
Around him, the soldiers talked.
"You think the demons are big?" one said — a thick-armed, sunburned man with a cheap sword and the nervous energy of someone who had never fought.
"Heard they’re demon kin," another replied. "Not full demons. Half-breeds. A brother and sister."
"Half-breeds are worse," a third cut in. "Full demons are animals. You know what they do. Half-breeds are smart. They think."
"Smart demons. That’s just what I wanted to hear."
"Did you see the princess’s tits?"
"Bigger than my head."
"The captain’s are bigger."
"The captain wants to fuck the new recruit."
"The pretty boy? The one with the violet eyes?"
"Yeah. She had her tits in his face during formation. Didn’t you see?"
"He rejected her."
"He what?"
"Rejected her. Said he’s not into bitches."
"Ha! He’s either the bravest man I’ve ever met or the stupidest."
"Maybe he doesn’t like women."
"With those eyes? He definitely likes women. He’s just picky."
"Or he’s already got someone."
Viktor ignored them.
He had walked through enough armies in his past life to know that soldiers talked. They talked about everything — the enemy, the food, the weather, the women, the officers, and each other. The talking was not information. It was noise. The nervous, continuous, compulsive noise of men who were about to face something that might kill them and needed to fill the silence with words.
He walked.
He observed.
The forest thickened.
They arrived at the staging area — a clearing near the forest edge, where the trees thinned and the ground flattened into a rough, usable space. Tents were pitched. Fires were lit. The organized, chaotic process of a military camp establishing itself played out around Viktor with the familiar, unremarkable rhythm of a process he had witnessed a hundred times.
Food was being distributed.
The smell hit him — roasted meat, stew, bread. The cooks — the professional ones, the Ktorian family’s retained staff — were working at large iron pots over open fires, the steam rising, the aroma rich and heavy.
Viktor walked toward the nearest pot.
A line had formed. Soldiers waited, bowls in hand, shuffling forward with the patient, hungry resignation of men who had marched for hours and were now governed entirely by their stomachs.
Viktor reached the front.
The cook — a heavy, red-faced man with stained apron and the particular, territorial aggression of someone who had been given a small amount of power over food and had decided to exercise it — looked at him.
Then looked at the pot.
Then looked back at him.
"It’s not for you," the cook said.
The words were flat, dismissive, the verbal equivalent of a door closing.
"It’s for the Ktorian family knights," the cook continued. "Their food. Separate. You commoners get the common pot."
He pointed to a smaller, sadder pot across the clearing — the kind of pot that produced food that was technically edible and nutritionally present but carried no ambition beyond sustenance.
Viktor looked at the good pot.
At the common pot.
At the cook.
He was calm.
Behind him, a voice — one of the soldiers who had been talking during the march — piped up.
"Oh, does he think he is a knight or something?"
The tone was mocking, the particular, crab-in-a-bucket mockery of men who saw someone step out of line and wanted to pull them back.
"Filthy peasant," another said. "What are you staring at? Got a problem?"
They were all staring at him now. The soldiers who had been behind him in line, the ones who had heard him rejected by the captain, the ones who had decided that a pretty boy in cheap armor who thought he deserved knight’s food was an acceptable target.
Viktor ruffled his hair.
The gesture was casual, bored, the motion of a man who could kill every person in this clearing with a thought and was choosing not to because the paperwork would be tedious.
’Ah, I forgot,’ he thought. ’Yes. I am a peasant.’
He lifted his hand — the slow, unbothered, theatrical lift of a man performing his own insignificance — and turned away.
"Fuck off, you idiot," the cook said.
The words followed him as he walked.
Viktor sighed.
He walked.
’Even here,’ he thought. ’The gap. Peasants, knights, common men. The hierarchy. The crabs pulling each other down.’
He was a count. In the ranking, in the blood, in the reality of his station — Viktor Redwood was a count, the son of a count, the nephew of princesses, the grandson of matriarchs. He had walked through palaces. He had fucked royalty. He had stolen the bloodline of a commander.
And here, he was a peasant in cheap armor being told to fuck off by a cook.
He didn’t care.
The hierarchy was not his problem. The crabs were not his concern. He had larger things to manage — women to support, a guild to secure, a baby to prepare for, and a demon hunt to complete for money.
He walked to the edge of the camp.
And found Dara.