Earlene steps first through a narrow wooden door. At the entrance, she exchanges greetings with a suited old-man, speaking the usual ‘Bonjours’.

“Monsieur, would there be a table for two?”

The gentleman walks to a high-rise counter, glancing towards a sheet of paper amidst a decor of wine bottles, a ham slicer, and shelves of cups. Checking something off with a pen, he then returns, offering a nod and directing us towards a table.

“Mind your footing.”

He pulls at the table, allowing a gap to move inside. Earlene takes it upon herself to do so, comfortably wedging herself against a backrest of wood. Her green eyes flutter to the entrance, the counter, and then back to me, all in under a second.

“Quaint little place, isn’t it?”

I nod. The restaurant we walked into, with its diminutive size, wooden furnishings, and checkered tablecloths, fits that description to a t.

“It feels really traditional. Cozy too.”

“You know. This one really reminds me of the bistros back in Paris. The red and white tablecloths, the little paintings hanging on the walls, the tiled floors, hehe, it’s pretty one-to-one.”

“You’ve been to Paris?”

“Stopped there for a bit before coming here. Maybe a week or two?”

The gentleman returns with a few paper menus. I take a brief look through it and decide on the ‘platter of the day’, only to find the elderly man back again—this time, with something under his arm.

“So, who’s the lucky lady this time?” he comments, propping a small blackboard on the table.

“The princess of a foreign country. I happened to pick her up during one of my escapades.”

I scan the blackboard, reading a list of names corresponding to courses in a meal. Feeling compelled to ask about some dishes, I only just remember to stop midway. All things considered, I’m still trying to hide my identity. So, if I spoke with my usual voice out loud, it’d just blow the cover, right?

At this moment, Earlene leans in. Pressing her ear just next to my mouth, I find the occasion to relay my questions.

“For starters, we’ll be having ‘oeufs en meurette’, and oeuf mayonnaise.”

“Understood.”

“And for the main course, tripes and steak frites.”

“As for your choice of water?”

“Sparkling.”

Earlene ends there. The gentleman scurries to the back, no doubt relaying orders to kitchen staff. While she and I face each other, now left to our devices in the gentle hubbub of everyday life.

“So, Yun, why exactly are you hiding that you are a boy anyway?”

“For lack of a better explanation, because I still wish to live.”

“A matter of life or death, huh?” The girl looks on in relative confusion. She takes a sliced baguette from a table-side basket and bites off a chunk, chewing on it in meditative thought. ”That said, you do look really cute even so.”

I cough in reply, looking away for a moment.

“I’m not terribly fond of that word, but thank you regardless.”

“Aw, why not?”

“It’s a term better suited for children, maidens, and animals, I find.”

That—and someone else used to use it. Even if it was in Japanese.

“Would you prefer something more manly, then? Like, handsome?”

“Yes.”

Earlene goes on, “Alright, handsome.”

“Urgh.”

As before, I find myself reddening at her description. Despite it being a simple compliment, something about the way she says it is making me uneasy.

“What’s wrong, handsome?”

Being peppered with all these compliments proves too much to handle. Fortunately, I have a tool called ‘my hand’, which I aptly employ to cover my face and look away.

“Is everything alright, handsome?”

The time to enter Phase 2 of ‘Operation Endure Embarrassment’ begins.

I faceplant. Becoming one way with the table, it takes until the sudden realisation I’m in a restaurant to jolt me back to life. By now, Earlene seems to have lost a bit of her prior enthusiasm and has a lick of pity on her face.

“If you give an inch, they’ll take a mile, Yun. Just tell me if you’re uncomfortable, won’t you?”

“I-I am aware of that time-old adage, however…”

“However?”

Phase 3 of ‘Operation Endure Embarrassment’ begins.

In other words, complete and utter breakdown.

“Let us just say that I may or may not enjoy your flattery. And that, despite blushing, that it is, um, quite pleasant.”

“...”

“So please, by and all means, do continue.”

A river of red jumpstarts from Earlne’s left nostril, becoming more and more intense by the second.

“Y-Yun…” She inhales deeply. The look in her eyes becomes that of a ravenous beast as if sizing up a morsel before her. “Hehehe, hehe.”

S-scary.

I take a sliced baguette, sampling it by itself before spreading some butter. European meals, from what I gather, take longer to prepare than Chinese, so, I’ll have all the time in the world to converse with Earlene.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

In the meantime, however, the girl seems content with just staring at me.

Watching.

Resting her chin on her left knuckle, saying nothing all the while.

Our situation proceeds as such for the next ten minutes, sharing only the occasional comment on how tasty the bread is or how lovely she finds me. This back-and-forth comes to an end with the presentation of our entrée, with what seems like poached eggs in some dark sauce for me and hard-boiled eggs with ‘mayo’ for her.

“Oeufs en meurette.” He points to my plate. “And oeufs mayonnaise.” Pointing to hers. “Please enjoy.”

I take my spoon and press it against the egg. Yolk begins to spill, coating the garnet sauce in mesmerising yellow. Tasting it as such, I slowly level the spoon into my mouth, making sure to absorb all the flavours.

And all I can say is…

Wow. Sampling this is like tasting the foods of the gods themselves!

The red sauce, clearly a wine reduction mixed with the creamy taste of egg yolk, makes for a combination that’d put even elixirs to shame.

“If thou tastest it with a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.”

Earlene winks. I take it as an incentive, avidly doing as she asks.

“Soo good…”

Bread, yolk, and sauce infuse in my mouth. Savouring the aftertaste of it all, I retrieve a notebook from my pouch and jot a series of notes, each one detailing specific flavours and textures.

“I didn’t know I was eating with a food critic.”

“Food enjoyer, in this case, since there’s nothing to criticise.”

“Wait—you don’t actually work that job, do you?”

“No. I just want to write down some things when the memories are still fresh. This way, I can try reproducing the flavour later. Next to martial arts, cooking’s one of my other pursuits in life.”

“Don’t tell me… Are you good at cleaning and gardening, too?”

“Apologies,” I reply, scooping what remains of the sauce with bread. “Is that rhetorical, or should I say something?”

“The latter!”

“Well, in that case, I am proficient in cleaning, flower arrangement, and gardening too. Though, they’re more passing interests than genuine pursuits.” I look to find Earlene staring approvingly. It feels unearned, however, and I endeavour to persuade her of such. “These pastimes were more of a necessity than anything else. Chores were distributed, and I fulfilled them as any well-meaning pupil.”

“And all this took place in that so-called sect of yours, right?”

“Right.”

“So, do you all huddle up and worship some kinda eldritch monster?”

Huh, where did she get that from?!

“Worship an e-eldritch monster?! We of the Snowcave Sect do no such thing! My martial siblings preach the virtues of heroism, train, and aim to become our best, nothing more, nothing less. You would find us dead before we commit to such vile veneration!”

“Well, clearly, something’s lost in translation here.”

I nod. “Clearly.”

“So, you’re more like mercenaries then.”

M-mercenaries?! How can she make such an insult with a straight face?

“We are not mercenaries! We abide by honour, extoll goodwill, and champion peace!”

“Look, Yun, unless money grows on bloody Chinese trees, you’ve gotta get funding one way or the other.”

“Yes, and we acquire that by way of Grandmaster and…”

“And?”

“And lending a hand to those who need it.”

“Like to the dynastic states in your home country, yeah? What’d you call them, Wu, Wang, Wong?”

Frustration takes hold in my heart. It gives rise to subtle palpitations, strumming against my eardrums. Invigorated by that very emotion, I munch angrily on a baguette, unwilling to meet Earlene’s eyes.

Wu, Wang, Wong?

What manner of insult is that?

First of all, there are Seven States, not three, and second of all, not a single one of them is called Wu, Wang or Wong!

“Hmph,” I vent, feeling quite insulted. “That’s not very nice of you.” And then, seeing her persisting grin, stuff my mouth with more bread—watching as Earlene shrugs—barely, if not sorry at all!

“Hey, hey, no need to be angry. I’m just taking the piss out of it.”

“Please do not urinate on my sect and homeland.”

Earlene scratches her head. Her eyes scan me up and down as if looking for some manner of appeasement.

“Alrighty, then, hero, why don’t you explain to dear Earlene why you’re here then? If not for money, why come all the way to France to exert your ‘heroism’? As I see it, you’d be well at home doing that back in China.”

“Because there’s something I need to do here.”

“And that is?”

“To avenge my Grandmaster.”

She chuckles. “And what, kill someone? Strangle ‘em, maul ‘em, and slice ‘em through and through?”

None of us say a word. There is no reply I can give, no answer so concise that I may reply with. It is the height of folly to speak when out of turn, and truth be told, even I cannot say for certain what my path is—what I plan to do when I meet her.

“Indeed.”

I break from my trance to meet the waiter. Watching him set down our main course, I offer a nod in thanks, waiting for his due explanation.

“Tripes with white wine,” says he, pointing to my plate. “And steak frites,” adds the man, pointing to Earlene’s. “Please enjoy.”

Reigning in my unsightly expression, I smile and look at my plate. Spread in an uneven pile, fraught with chunks of carrots and bits of onion, are firm, porous sheets. Tripe, it is called. The stomach lining of animals, and in this case, most likely one of cattle.

“...”

A sight plays back in my head. Perhaps feeling more sentimental than usual, I am taken back to the moment of my Grandmaster’s death—to the sight of his still-warm body, sliced shoulder to hip—as blood and offal caked the stone steps where he lay.

Such a sight implores my wait. My subdued hand, unwilling to take so much as a chunk of food.

…What am I doing here?

I have come all the way to Europe—and for what?

To amuse myself in the company of women? To indulge in the local specialities and savour their cuisine? Am I insane? To what virtues does a righteous hero serve, if not honour and loyalty?

And to what end does enjoying myself accomplish that? How can I make claim to such everyday joys when I cannot even protect my Grandmaster?

When I cannot even cut her down?

“Food’s gonna be cold as a witch’s tit, Yun.”

“...Apologies. I will see to it now.”

I devour my dish, savouring it with a measure of quickness. It is delicious, and as such, I offer a silent apology to the chef who made it—seeing as I cannot appreciate it wholly.

“And where exactly is this target of vengeance?”

“Somewhere in this city.”

“And how will you find her?”

“...In some manner, I have not yet conceived.”

“And what will you do when you kill her?”

“...Live well, knowing that I have seen to my duty.”

“Sounds an awful lot like you’re reading a script.”

Earlene has demonstrated remarkable insight. Yet, unwilling to confront that very truth, I take refuge in my pen, jotting down notes of the food, running away from the reality of it all.

Chewy. White wine (maybe from the local region?). Hints of parsley. Salty. Hard to swallow. Painful. Stupid. Foolhardy.

I stop at my seventeenth word. The waiter beside me flashes a courteous grin, and stares theatrically at my note-taking as if beholding some shoddy street-alley performance.

“Will you be having dessert?”

My appetite has run its course. I shake my head with a smile, offering my best ‘unfortunately, I’m full’ expression.

“And how about coffee or tea?”

Earlene replies in my stead, saying a quick ‘maybe next time’ and asks for the bill. Wanting to be at least somewhat well-mannered, I retrieve a measly sum of seven Francs, sliding it across the clothed table. Countering with her own deal, Earlene puts a ten Franc bill, flashing a wink that opens up negotiation.

“Let Dear Earlene pay, and she’ll leave you be. How about that?”

“...Was I that easy to read?”

“Oh, darling, you have no idea.”

What a disaster. Am I so sentimental that I cannot even hide such minor vexations?

Mournful of that fact, I linger in silence, waiting before the eventual payment and departure from the restaurant. Thus, at that small little entrance, bordered by tables and chairs, I offer a final thanks, parting ways with Earlene to the city beyond.

“Be careful, Yun, don’t let the Frenchmen bite!”