Day Three of the Great Chicken Quest.
The sun had barely risen, and already a line had formed outside the manor.
Villagers who were once too tired to walk without groaning now stood upright with eyes gleaming and bowls in hand.
Some had combed their hair. Some wore shoes. One even had a flower tucked behind her ear. It was like a festival. A strange, crispy-skinned, deep-fried festival.
And it was all because of a single bite.
I stood on the steps of the manor, staring at the crowd.
"They're… smiling," I whispered.
Timothy adjusted his monocle and surveyed the scene. "They are. It's unsettling."
"Is this what hope smells like?" I sniffed the air. "Because it still kinda smells like oil."
Behind us, Bento stood proudly on a barrel, wearing a red bandana and a smug expression. He was now the official mascot and morale officer.
And he knew it.
A child ran up to him and handed him a tiny biscuit.
Bento sniffed it once… and then turned his nose away.
The child burst into tears. The mother bowed in apology.
"Even the dog's become a food critic," Timothy murmured.
I nodded solemnly. "We've created a monster."
The night before, I had spent the entire night prepping.
The secret spice blend dubbed "Cluckle Dust" was mixed and sealed in a velvet pouch. The flour had been shifted eight times. The oil was bubbling with that holy sound:
SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-CRACKLE-POP!
The first batch hit the pan like a prophecy.
I dipped the seasoned, brined pieces into the flour, then back into buttermilk, then again into flour—a double coat, as the ancients intended.
As the skin crisped and browned, the golden-brown surface shimmered like blessed armor forged by kitchen gods.
I held the first piece aloft, grease dripping, the aroma swirling like a seductive fog.
"Behold," I whispered, "the wing of destiny."
Behind me, villagers were pressing their faces against the windows.
We didn't even get the stall set up properly before we were swarmed.
Timothy stood at a makeshift counter with a chalkboard that read:
"Fried Chicken – 1 Silver per piece. No bartering. No goats."
It didn't matter. People were tossing coins like confetti.
"Three wings and a thigh!"
"Do you take cabbages?"
"Name your price—I'll sell my neighbor!"
I handed out pieces as fast as I could fry them. Each time, I watched.
First, the sniff. Then the nibble. Then the moment.
Every time, the eyes widened. Knees buckled. Hands trembled.
One elderly man bit into a drumstick and let out a moan so loud, pigeons flew off the manor roof.
"I can feel my youth returning!" he shouted, clutching his back as he started doing the moon walk.
Another woman just wept into her napkin.
Timothy leaned over. "Milord… I believe you've triggered several religious experiences."
Then came Bardrick.
A local bard known more for volume than talent, Bardrick always carried a lute( a medieval guitar) and a tragic backstory.
He tried a thigh, stood completely still for ten seconds, and then fell to his knees.
"Oh sweet poultry gods above!" he cried. "This… this is art!"
He strummed his lute dramatically.
"Golden skin and sacred oil, Crispy love that makes me spoil, From this day, I'll live for thee, Fried delight of destiny!"
Bento barked in tune.
The crowd cheered.
Someone threw flowers.
I had created a phenomenon. No, a religion would be more appropriate.
Around midday, a fancy-looking carriage rolled up to the manor gates. Two guards in polished armor stepped down, flanking a round man in an embroidered tunic.
"I am Sir Goldfern of House Glazebrick," he declared, brushing chicken crumbs off his sleeves. "I've come for your chicken."
"…How do you know about it already?"
He pointed at a traveling singer singing near the cabbage stump.
"Oh," I said.
Sir Goldfern approached with a smug smile. "I will buy your recipe. Three hundred gold. Final offer."
I stared at him as Timothy raised an eyebrow.
Bento growled.
"…No."
The noble frowned. "I see. Then perhaps you need… persuasion?"
He signaled behind him as four guards drew their swords.
I calmly reached into my pouch… and slapped him with a fried wing.
The grease left a mark.
He gasped. The crowd gasped.
Bento barked.
"You dare assault a noble?!"
"I dare protect the sacred crunch," I said, channeling all my inner drama. "This chicken belongs to the people."
The crowd roared.
He left in a huff. But not before buying two pieces to go.
By evening, the entire village square was transformed.
We'd moved the operation to a stall, now painted bright red with a banner that read: THE HENHOUSE – Home of the Legendary Fry
Bento wore a tiny paper hat. Timothy had created a ledger with six columns. I had grease in places I didn't know I had.
But the money was real. And the joy was even realer.
People sang. Laughed. Hugged.
And the children, oh, the children had smiles wider than any cabbage ever managed.
One small girl looked up at me with saucer eyes.
"Baron?"
"Yes?"
"…Can I have another piece?"
"…Of course."
But just when things seemed perfect, it happened.
A shadow passed over the square. It wasn't clouds. It wasn't doom.
It was a... chicken.
It stood on a rooftop.
It had black feathers with a scar that ran across its beak. An eye patch covered one of its eyes, while a red bandana fluttered on its head.
It stared down at me with judgment and raw fury.
It didn't cluck. It didn't move.
It just stared.
Timothy noticed. "That one looks… intelligent."
Bento growled.
The chicken narrowed its eye… then vanished behind the chimney.
***
That night, I counted coins.
Then I counted the villagers' smiles.
Then I counted how many eggs we'd harvested without being pecked (the answer: not many).
As I lay in bed, Bento snuggled beside me, I whispered:
"Did I… actually do something right?"
He licked my nose.
That was a yes.
Tomorrow, we'd fry more.
Tomorrow, we'd serve joy.
But something in my gut told me—
Tomorrow… the chickens would respond.
And I was right.