Day Two of the Great Chicken Quest.
The manor now smelled like ambition, deep oil, and a questionable number of unwashed aprons. Something had changed. The air shimmered with possibility.
Villagers lingered closer to the manor grounds now, pretending to "trim weeds" or "collect eggs" while subtly sniffing the air like bloodhounds on a mission.
And it was dangerous. Because I, Baron Harry of Nowhere Important, still had absolutely no clue what I was doing.
But gods be damned, I was going to fake it until my arteries exploded.
The dining table, once a noble place for awkward political discussions and cold cabbage, had transformed into a battlefield of herbs, roots, and powdered regret.
I slapped down a notebook, its cover reading: "Chicken Codex, Vol. I – In Grease We Trust."
"Gentlemen," I said to my council of two, "today, we change culinary history."
Timothy placed a wooden crate on the table. "I secured whisper root. Don't ask from where. Don't ask why it's humming."
Bento trotted in and dropped a sticky bag at my feet.
"…And where did you get spices?" I asked.
He wagged his tail. Then sat down and looked away like a criminal feigning innocence.
Timothy leaned over the notebook. "We should begin with a baseline. Salt, pepper, a touch of fireleaf. No magic plants. No cursed roots. No more cabbage."
I nodded. "Agreed. We can't risk another Incident."
***
I dumped salt in our first batch of the day. Followed by a little more salt. Then just a little more.
Then just a sprinkle more for good luck.
The result was a crunchy salt lick that doubled my blood pressure.
Timothy took one bite and froze. "My mouth has turned to sand."
Bento sniffed it and started digging his own grave under the rug.
"Okay, okay," I said, frantically scribbling. "Too much salt. Got it. Attempt two, bring the fire!"
This one was Timothy's idea. A daring attempt to salvage dried cabbage powder as a seasoning. "For umami," he'd said.
For trauma, I say now.
We coated the wings. They looked… green.
Then we fried them.
The smell hit us before the taste.
Tears streamed from our eyes.
"This…" I wheezed, waving smoke from my face, "This is chemical warfare."
Bento bolted out of the kitchen. A chicken passed out in the hallway. I swung a ladle blindly in the haze.
"No more cabbage," Timothy rasped. "Ever. I don't care if it's the last plant on earth."
***
Mid-experimentation, a knock echoed ominously through the kitchen.
I opened the door to reveal a shadowy figure. He was wearing a cloak with fingerless gloves. He reeked of smoked paprika and unresolved trauma.
"You're the one cooking?" he inquired while molesting me from top to bottom.
"…Who's asking?"
He slid a leather pouch across the table. "Spice blend. Illegal in four kingdoms. Made a duke cry once."
I blinked as I asked in a serious tone, as if I was involved in a nuke deal. "How much?"
"Ten silver," he said. "And half a leg."
I paid, and he vanished.
We never saw him again.
Inside the pouch was gold. Not literal gold, but powder that shimmered with a sinister twinkle.
Bento sneezed once, then sat perfectly still, eyes wide with holy reverence while looking at the spice.
"This is it," I whispered.
We breaded the chicken lovingly, with reverence. Into the bubbling oil it went.
SSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-CRACKLE-POP!
The entire kitchen inhaled as the scent blossomed.
Not just food.
Prophecy.
Timothy took the first bite.
His pupils dilated.
He dropped the fork. "Milord…"
"Yes?"
"…I can taste time."
"What does that mean?"
"I just saw my childhood. My first love. The day I lost my toy sword. I saw my ancestors farming and crying at the same time."
Bento devoured a leg whole. Then rolled over in a full dog coma, tongue out, paws twitching as if he was dreaming of infinite meat.
I took a bite.
CRUNCH.
Crispy, hot, seasoned to perfection. This was it.
I felt it in my bones. A full-body tingle. Like a thousand grandmothers were blessing me with spice wisdom.
We immediately transcribed the recipe.
Every detail mattered. Timing. Spice ratio. Fry temperature. Wind direction. Lunar phase. Optional sacred chicken dance to please the Frying Spirits™.
Timothy rolled the parchment and sealed it in a glass jar.
On the label it said:
"RECIPE OF LEGENDS – Touch and Die (Seriously, Timothy Will Bite)."
I held the jar in trembling hands. "This isn't just a recipe. This is a second chance. At life. At business. At flavor."
Bento sneezed on the jar. I took that as his blessing.
***
That night, I dreamed of a kingdom.
No swords. No taxes. Just feasts.
My crown wasn't gold. It was crispy, greasy, and spiced. A divine drumstick with royal glaze was in my hand.
The people chanted my name.
"Harry the Fryer King!"
Bento stood beside me, wearing armor made of oven mittens. Timothy held a spice scepter. Chickens knelt before me in surrender.
And behind it all, a divine sizzle filled the sky.
Sssssshhhhhhpop. Sizzle-crackle. Crunch.
I awoke in my flour-stained robe, sweating and smiling.
This was destiny.
Tomorrow, the villagers would eat.
Fried chicken.