Chapter 119
Could he really have come all this way just to make me one of his believers? Going as far as to roll out some “special management” system?
You’re a god, don’t you have anything better to do? Oh, right. You did say you were bored.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d already pawned off my body to Marvas and that he ate Justina, I’d have run straight to that god by now, bowed down, and said, “Please call me your lackey. I’ll keep you smiling always,” and played the part of a charming little clown.
At least Marvas had clear goals and mutual interest, but he paid me in two choco pies and a piece of candy. And even those ended up in someone else’s mouth.
This was starting to feel like the difference between a low-yield but stable stock and some high-risk, high-return gambling share.
I was grumbling to myself when Enrique, who had apparently woken up, tugged at my sleeve and turned me to face him.
“Are you really going to that private meeting or whatever?”
“It’s not like I have a choice. Why?”
Enrique looked like he had something to say but just shook his head and let me go.
“It’s nothing.”
Meanwhile, Johann sat silently, scowling like something had really dissatisfied him.
* * *
After the service ended.
I stood in front of the bishop’s quarters with the priests and guards.
One priest spoke in a stiff voice.
“Sinner, show respect. One wrong move and you won’t even have bones left to recover.”
“The Bishop must be very foul-tempered, then?”
The priest didn’t answer.
I was left to fend for myself as I was shoved into the room.
The antique room, decked out in walnut-colored furniture and wood, barely registered compared to the figure in a black cassock sitting on the sofa. It was El. But what really caught my eye first was…
“Wow…”
My eyes widened at the luxurious feast laid out on the table.
The aroma alone was enough to naturally make my mouth water.
When all you’ve been eating is pig slop, dry black bread, and half-rotten potatoes, even greasy stir-fried potatoes start to feel like gourmet cuisine.
Now, a real gourmet meal sitting right in front of me?
“They’re dishes made by a former Imperial Chef.”
El, lounging on the sofa, lifted his chin as he explained.
A Michelin-starred meal from the royal palace?
With each blink, memories of brilliant and grand banquets shimmered through my mind.
Those feasts were really just networking events for nobles dressed to the nines. The food was ornamental, a pretext.
And since no one came to those events hungry anyway, it was considered improper to actually eat much. Most people only tasted a bit.
If I’d known this would happen, I’d have tossed pride out the window and shown up in a stretchy one-piece just to binge.
I’d have slurped up the pasta in one go.
Back then, I never imagined I’d one day crave those elaborate dishes this badly.
I could feel my stomach, starved to the point of rebellion, rumbled in wild delight.
When was the last time I actually ate until my stomach was full?
El smiled and motioned toward me as I stared in silence.
“Sit. Have you eaten? Last time, you looked like someone who’d been cursed when it came to food.”
“I have… but barely enough to count.”
I answered as politely as I could and sat across from him.
My eyes were glued to the perfectly grilled medium-well steak.
“I figured you weren’t eating properly here, so I made sure to prepare this.”
“May I, with my humble tongue, dare to taste such a magnificent dish?”
Whatever. I just wanted to eat.
You’ve made your point, now stop rubbing it in.
As I offered a string of awkward thank-yous to the roast chicken, he picked up a knife and asked,
“No suspicion? No hesitation? That’s unusual. You’ve always been a bit sly.”
“Did you maybe lace it with poison as a nice gesture? That kind of favor’s a bit much.”
He let out a low chuckle.
“You’re the one who poisoned it, not me.”
Hunger is a terrifying thing.
The thought that I’d probably survive most poisons anyway, and that I’d rather die full than live hungry, started to override my brain.
Luckily, a single shriveled potato still rolling around in my gut was enough to tug at the last thread of sanity.
No matter how grand my dreams and ambitions, death would reduce them to nothing.
“After you. I’m very polite.”
Probably the only human who’s ever asked a god to taste-test his own food.
El snorted and gestured for me to sit.
As he sliced the steak and placed it in front of me, I couldn’t tell if it was an act of kindness or an assassination attempt.
I took a seat, quietly scanning the spread, when he unfolded his napkin and said,
“All that ‘Specially Managed Devotee’ nonsense, it was just my way of looking out for you. If I gave you special treatment with no excuse, the other inmates might’ve gotten jealous and started something. Not that I expect a thank you.”
So he sets the stage for blatant favoritism and now wants to play innocent?
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