The sky of the Shadow Realm hung oppressively.
Eternal dusk where time did not flow; in that oppressive air, Kay panted raggedly and glared around.
"Let me go! I have to get back! My sisters are waiting for me!"
Kay screamed, a vein bulging in his neck.
But standing before him, [Scáthach] looked down with a bored expression, as if watching a whining child.
"Going back isn't what you want. Leaving is my decision."
She let the spear's tip thud against the ground.
"And… I refuse to send you back in that pathetic body. I can almost hear the mocking laughter of the nightmare that sent you here."
Her red eyes seemed to pierce through everything; she saw right through his every excuse.
"Pathetic? Me?"
Kay bit his lip.
It wasn't pride. He'd spent sixteen years fighting beasts and fiends across Britain, even crushing a Pict's skull with his bare fists. By any normal standard, he counted among the strong.
But [Scáthach] scoffed.
"Warriors of your caliber were as common as dirt in old Ulster. Even a peasant plowing a field, if he picked up a spear, would fight better than you."
"Is this for real…!!"
Kay couldn't stand it any longer.
He dropped into a low stance, sucked air deep into his lungs, and tightened every muscle. His heart hammered like an engine.
"Hah!!"
He drove off the ground and lunged forward.
He had no sword. But his fists struck with more force than most morning stars.
He threw a full-powered punch at [Scáthach]'s face.
Whoosh!
Crack!
But Kay's punch sliced only through empty air. [Scáthach] held her ground and just tilted her head to evade the strike.
"Too slow."
Kay didn't stop and unleashed a barrage of strikes.
A hook, an uppercut, a kick—battle techniques he'd perfected on the hunting grounds.
But [Scáthach] brushed aside every attack with the back of her hand or let them flow past like water. It was as if she was dancing.
"You seem to know how to use your strength. Breathing techniques to boost your physical capabilities… not bad. I had a few students like that."
[Scáthach] caught Kay's fist in her palm and assessed him calmly.
"But you're unrefined. Your power's flow is clumsy and wasteful. You try to be efficient by cutting waste, but your method is flawed. And your pure strength… it's not even a fraction of Fergus's claws."
"Shut up!!"
Kay summoned the last of his energy and charged. [Scáthach]'s crimson eyes glinted coolly.
"Lie down."
She reached out and lightly struck Kay's hollow chest with her palm.
Bang!
It was like being hit by a cannonball.
"Ugh…!!"
Kay tumbled tens of meters through the air and crashed to the ground without even a scream. He lay paralyzed, as if his whole body had gone numb.
An overwhelming defeat.
It was a different wall. A different dimension.
[Scáthach] walked slowly toward the fallen Kay. Her eyes were not of this world but deep and weighty, reserved only for those who had touched the source.
"Listen carefully, Kay."
Her voice drilled into Kay's mind.
"With that level of strength, you won't survive the chaos in Britain. Your precious family… in the end, you will become their burden. The obstacle you fear most will be yourself."
"…!"
Kay's pupils trembled.
It was the same words Merlin had said.
Incompetent. Dead weight. Obstacle.
That cruel truth tore at his heart once more.
But [Scáthach]'s next words were different from Merlin's curse.
"So learn."
"…What?"
"The nightmare abandoned you, but I will take you in. I will teach you."
[Scáthach] extended her hand to the fallen Kay.
"If you are dead weight, then you must have your own way of fighting. So I will train you as my disciple so you can protect your family. You won't leave without my permission anyway. Decide: will you rot away here, or claw through hell to become stronger?"
Kay stared blankly at her hand.
There was no choice. And a stubborn pride rose within him.
He thought, "Alright. Let's see. Merlin, I'll prove you wrong."
Kay grasped [Scáthach]'s hand with his bloodied fist.
"…Fine. Let's do this. But tuition is on credit."
Thus began Kay's exiled life of martial study in the Shadow Realm.
Just because it was the Shadow Realm didn't mean he'd starve.
[Scáthach] was a great witch who wielded primordial runes. Procuring ingredients for a meal was nothing to her.
"The disciples take turns cooking. That's your job."
[Scáthach] sketched runes in the air, and a massive black hog plopped to the ground. It was a well-muscled pig of uncertain origin.
"…Understood, Master."
Kay sighed and rolled up his sleeves.
Given ingredients, cooking was instinct and profession carved into Kay's bones over the past sixteen years.
Three hours later, the courtyard of [Scáthach]'s castle was filled with hearty aromas.
Kay disassembled the pig with practiced proficiency. The meat would be smoked, but the leftover offal posed a problem.
Normally it would be discarded, but Kay's penny-pinching mind balked at waste. It was the curse of a poor household and common sense from his previous life.
"The entrails and congealed blood look good. Maybe I can make something with these."
He washed the pig intestines clean, salted them, then stuffed them with blood pudding, minced meat, and assorted vegetables.
It was a dish that didn't exist in Britain—a recipe only known from memories of his past life.
He was making sundae—a traditional blood sausage.
He filled a cauldron with pig bones and boiled until the broth turned milky. Then he sliced the head meat, offal, and the freshly made sundae into it.
"…Oops."
When he came to his senses, the pot was bubbling with enough sundae soup to feed fifty people.
"Damn, old habits die hard… I guess three-year-old habits really are scary."
Kay scratched his head. Only he and [Scáthach] were here to eat.
Of course, he could just let it cool and reheat later; the temperate weather meant it wouldn't spoil quickly.
Just then, drawn by the aroma, [Scáthach] emerged from the castle.
"Hmm? What's that smell?"
She peered into the cauldron.
Grayish broth swirled around unidentifiable lumps. It didn't look particularly appetizing, but the aroma was incredible.
"It's soup made from pig offal. It might not suit a refined palate."
Kay ladled the soup into a stone bowl and handed it to her.
He then set out several small dipping dishes beside it.
"This is shrimp paste made from the shrimp you provided, and this is chili paste and seasoning base. Add as you like—there's no seasoning in the broth, so it'll taste bland."
[Scáthach] curiously scooped up some broth and tasted it.
Slurp.
The rich, hearty flavor of bone broth.
Following Kay's instructions, she added a bit of the shrimp paste and then mixed in the red chili seasoning. The broth turned red and released a sharp, spicy aroma.
Another sip.
"…!!"
[Scáthach]'s eyes widened.
Her palate, dormant for centuries, awoke with a vengeance.
The chewy texture of the intestines, the savory richness of the blood sausage, and the spicy broth that cut through the greasiness.
This was… this was…!
"…Liquor."
[Scáthach] whispered softly.
"Huh?"
"Bring me liquor! At once!"
[Scáthach]'s eyes gleamed as she shouted, savoring another mouthful of the broth.
"This taste… it makes me crave drink like nothing else! It's deeper and more stimulating than the meats Celtic warriors ate at their feasts!"
She popped a piece of sundae into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
"Fascinating—filling intestines with blood and meat. It's bizarre, but… delicious. Absolutely excellent."
"…Good to hear."
Kay forced a bitter smile and ladled himself some soup.
The hot broth eased the ache in his solar plexus a bit.
Before he knew it, [Scáthach] had summoned a vat of mead with her rune magic and was downing it.
A faint flush rose on her cheeks.
"Kay."
"Yes?"
"You said you had no talent."
[Scáthach] set down her empty bowl and chuckled.
"You may be inept in battle… but you're overflowing with talent when it comes to cooking. In all my long years, I've never seen anyone coax such flavor from pig offal."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Tomorrow, I'll double the training intensity. You must eat well to fight well."
"Why does every conversation end up like that?!"
"Quiet. Tomorrow, make something that goes well with alcohol. I'll be looking forward to it."
The night of the Shadow Realm.
Under the ashen sky, the legendary Godslayer and the so-called dead weight disciple forged a peculiar master–student bond over sundae soup.