It was noon when the villagers gathered in the square.
A folding table had been hastily dragged out from the manor's cellar. It still had cobwebs and three mysterious stains that Bento refused to sniff.
On it sat a single platter.
And on that platter… lay twelve golden pieces of fried chicken. Glorious, steaming, and spiced to the heavens.
I stood behind the table with an apron on, hat crooked, holding a ladle like a scepter.
"I present to you," I declared dramatically, "the first miracle this village has seen in years—Kingdom Fried Chicken."
The villagers stared at me like I had announced the second coming of cabbage.
Timothy stood to my right, arms folded and eyebrow twitching. Bento sat proudly beside me in his new tiny chef's hat, which he refused to remove.
Rightly so. He'd earned it.
"Will it taste like cabbage?" a small girl whispered.
"Will it taste like disappointment?" an old man countered.
"Will it taste like chicken?" said Widow Gerda, the oldest and most feared woman in the village. Her cane had ended bar fights.
Gerda stepped forward first. She gripped a drumstick like she was selecting a sword for battle.
"Do I… bite it raw?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. It's already cooked."
She sniffed the chicken as her eyes widened.
"Oh… gods," she whispered. "It smells… like warmth."
And then, she bit into it.
CRRRRRRUNCH.
The sound echoed, like a sacred bell ringing in a silent cathedral, like the gates of heaven were opening, like destiny fried itself to perfection.
Gerda froze mid-bite.
Time stopped.
A wind blew through the village square, even though no wind was scheduled for that day.
Her pupils dilated like she'd just unlocked a memory from fifty years ago. Her cane fell to the ground.
Everyone watched, horrified and fascinated, as she slowly sank to her knees, clutching the chicken like it was a love letter from her first crush.
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"…My taste buds… are dancing…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can feel… feelings again."
Someone gasped. "She hasn't felt feelings since the cabbage riots of 2003."
Gerda opened her arms to the sky. "It's like biting into the soul of a summer evening! It's crispy passion! It's golden redemption! It's—oh, heavens help me—it's spicy!"
And then it happened.
The rest of the villagers surged forward like a tidal wave of desperation and curiosity. I held up my hands, yelling, "ONE AT A TIME," but it was too late.
Drumsticks vanished in flashes of movement.
Thighs were gone in seconds.
Even the wings, tiny, humble, usually overlooked, were devoured like divine relics.
An old man bit into a piece, and his mustache stood straight up like it had seen God.
A mother sobbed openly into her own embrace. "It tastes like dreams I forgot I had…"
A teenager took a bite and screamed, "I'M NEVER EATING CABBAGE AGAIN!"
A child cried actual tears. "It's like if hugs had a flavor…"
And Bento? That good-for-nothing, adorable betrayer? He was dancing in circles, tail wagging so hard it could power a windmill.
Timothy took a cautious bite of his second piece.
Then, without warning, he unbuttoned his coat and shouted to the heavens, "I CAN FEEL JOY!"
I stared at the empty platter.
It was gone. Every crumb. Every crispy flake.
One of the villagers was licking the table.
Someone else tried to bribe Bento for seconds.
I clutched the ladle to my chest, trembling. "They loved it…"
"They more than loved it," Timothy said, adjusting his collar and wiping tears from his cheeks. "They transcended."
Then came the moment that changed everything.
Someone—maybe it was the shoemaker, or the bard, or one of the cabbage orphans—started chanting:
"More! More! MORE! MORE!"
The chant spread like wildfire.
The villagers stomped and clapped, still licking their fingers and singing in harmony:
"Golden skin and secret spice, Bless our tongues, oh food so nice!"
I blinked at Timothy. "I think we started a religion."
"You started an economy," he said. "And probably a war."
I looked down at Bento.
He gave me the same look a dog gives a man who just found bacon for the first time.
Hopeful and loyal to say the least.
"…We'll need more chickens."
***
That night, I sat on the manor roof, legs dangling over the side. The stars were brighter than usual, or maybe it was just grease in my eyes.
Timothy sat beside me, sipping hot root tea.
"The first batch," I said softly, "is gone."
"And the villagers are already asking if we're taking pre-orders."
We watched as two farmers argued over who should have the first official fried chicken cart.
From below, I heard a young boy scream, "I'LL GIVE YOU MY GOAT FOR A BUCKET!"
"…A goat?" I whispered.
"We're entering the barter phase."
Bento climbed up, curled beside me, and let out a satisfied huff.
I ruffled his ears.
"This isn't just about food anymore, is it?" I asked.
Timothy shook his head. "This is the start of something. Something bigger."
"…Bigger than the barony?"
"Bigger than the cabbages."
My eyes widened. "Impossible."
But even I knew it wasn't impossible.
Not anymore.
Tomorrow, we would fry again.
And the world would never be the same.