Altaïr followed Isis and Hayata through the gate, his limbs as stiff as those of a puppet with locked joints.
This house, already so familiar to him, now felt as dangerous and terrifying as an Elder Dragon's nest. More importantly, he had stolen away one of its "Elder Dragon cubs."
That was no exaggeration. The owner of this house had personally slain more Elder Dragons than one could count on two hands, so calling it an "Elder Dragon's nest" might actually be selling it short.
Would "Demon Lord's lair" be more fitting? No, the man was praised throughout the world as a "Hero," so perhaps it should be called a "Hero's lair" instead?
Altaïr's thoughts raced, but with part of his mind seemingly locked up, they soon devolved into meaningless rambling.
Amos, who was reading the newspaper in the living room, raised an eyebrow when he saw the three of them enter together, then turned his gaze toward the kitchen.
"Meow? Isn't that little Altaïr, meow?" The Felyne who had been curled up on the sofa, her fur gleaming like pure silver, sprang to her feet. "I knew staying here instead of returning to Val Habar was the right choice, meow! Now I get to watch this show!"
Clawdia, who had been walking beside Isis, instinctively shrank behind her, while Sajji waved a little paw. "Hello, Lady Shalan, meow!"
Shalan turned toward Sajji, then focused on his adorable Palico Armor, which resembled a Tigrex mascot suit. "Nice outfit, meow. Keep it up."
Sajji had no response.
After greeting Amos, Altaïr forced a smile and said hello to Shalan. "Lady Shalan, long time no see."
Standing on a sofa cushion with her paws folded, Shalan looked Altaïr up and down. "Not bad, meow. A Brute Tigrex Armor Set, and you've grown quite a bit too, meow. That's what I expect from a junior out of the Great Desert."
She leaped from the sofa, landed on Altaïr's shoulder, patted his head with one paw, then leaned close to his ear and whispered, "Don't worry, meow. I'll help you."
Altaïr shot her a grateful look. Then Shalan took a deep breath and yowled, "Hey, you! Little Isis and her boyfriend came home together, meow!"
Altaïr's eyes flew wide in horror.
Shalan's cry hit Altaïr like the roar of a Brute Tigrex, nearly stopping his heart and stealing the breath from his lungs.
Footsteps sounded from the kitchen, as heavy as those of an enraged Shen Gaoren...
The next moment, an exceptionally massive figure ducked beneath the doorframe and stepped out of the kitchen.
Altaïr swore he had never seen such a huge human. Until now, Ted had been the tallest and strongest person he knew.
But the man before him was another half a head taller than Ted, standing over two hundred and twenty centimeters tall.
More importantly, Ted had retired many years ago and no longer exercised much. His muscle mass had naturally declined, and much of it had been replaced by fat. His belly in particular had swollen like an oak wine barrel.
The man before him, however, had remained on the front lines. Every muscle was still in peak condition for high-intensity combat, and as he approached, it felt as though an entire city wall were bearing down on Altaïr...
He felt a scorching gaze, like a fiery breath, boring into him.
Altaïr drew a deep breath and fought against the combined pressure of the man's status, physique, and piercing stare, determined to greet him first.
The other man opened his mouth at the same moment, about to say something.
But Isis beat them both to it. "Ah! Dad! That's the apron I bought for Altaïr! You're about to burst every seam!"
Altaïr was speechless.
If you want me dead, just say so...
"Did you hear that? That's the apron your daughter bought for her boyfriend! Hurry up and take it off, meow!" Perched on Altaïr's shoulder, Shalan shouted down at the man from her higher vantage point.
The man lowered his head and stared at the ill-fitting apron stretched taut across his body. He fell silent, and his imposing aura seemed to deflate a little.
Uh, are they actually trying to help me?
Altaïr seized the opportunity and spoke in the politest, steadiest tone he could manage. "Hello, I'm Altaïr."
The man stared at him for two seconds before rumbling in a rough voice, "I'm Isis's father, Gordon."
Another silence followed.
Just then, Shalan sniffed the air from her perch on Altaïr's shoulder. "I think I smell something burning, meow?"
Gordon's expression changed, and he hurried back into the kitchen.
Amos, still seated on the sofa, gave Altaïr a meaningful look. Although uneasy, Altaïr took the hint and followed Gordon.
Shalan jumped down from Altaïr's shoulder and planted her paws proudly on her hips. "I caught a whiff of something burning ages ago, meow. I was saving that line for just the right moment!"
Hayata chuckled and rubbed her head.
The kitchen was not very large. Altaïr was a tall, broad-shouldered man by any ordinary standard, and Gordon was larger still. With both of them squeezed inside, there was scarcely room to turn around.
"What are you doing in here?" Gordon asked without looking back as he hurriedly pulled open the oven.
"Uh, I came to see if there's anything I can help with."
"Are you good at cooking?" Perhaps because they were now alone, Gordon became more talkative, and his manner was not as intimidating as before.
Altaïr's eye twitched as he watched Gordon pull the baking tray from the oven with his bare hands, without even using oven mitts.
"I wouldn't say I'm good at it, but I can handle simple dishes." Altaïr helped him move the enormous roast onto the counter.
The meat's outer layer was slightly burnt, but it was nowhere near charred. No wonder none of them except Lady Shalan had noticed the smell.
Gordon grimaced as though he had a toothache and defended his cooking. "I'm not used to ovens. My Felyne partner usually cooks, and whenever I grill meat myself, I use a portable grill."
Altaïr could tell at a glance that the oven was too hot.
A piece of meat this large had to be slow-roasted at a very low temperature and kept moist. Otherwise, the outside would burn while the inside remained raw.
It would actually be best to cut the meat into smaller pieces before roasting it. That would make it easier to season and control the heat.
But many people simply loved the feeling of slamming an enormous hunk of meat onto the table. Isis was like that, so it was no surprise that her father shared the same preference.
"You were planning to slice off each cooked layer as it roasts, right?" Altaïr pulled a long carving knife from a nearby drawer.
"At this point, the heat is about right. Trim away the burnt patches, shave off the outer layer, slice it, and serve it. Then put the rest back in the oven to continue roasting slowly and slice off another layer later."
"Smooth-talking brat," Gordon muttered, smacking his lips.
But what else could he do? The kid had saved him from embarrassment. Was he supposed to go outside and tell everyone that he did not know how to use the oven and had ruined the roast?
Gordon folded his arms, which were as thick as tree trunks, and watched Altaïr work. The young man alternated between trimming and slicing the meat, removing coals from the oven, returning the still-pink center to roast further, and arranging the cooked slices on a plate.
Gordon fell silent again.
He glanced down at the apron he had grabbed at random, which clearly belonged to Altaïr, then watched the young man reach for knives and plates without even looking. His familiarity with the kitchen was obvious.
There was no question that Altaïr had spent plenty of time cooking there.
Compared with Gordon and Hayata, who had spent only a handful of days at Isis's side while she was growing up, Altaïr had walked beside her and grown up with her all this time. It was only natural that he had earned her affection.
The simmering resentment in Gordon's chest, born from the feeling that something precious had been "stolen" from him, quietly began to fade. Altaïr even seemed a little easier to tolerate.
"Does Isis... usually cook?" Gordon suddenly asked. "That girl has quite an appetite."
Altaïr was pleasantly surprised that Gordon had taken the initiative to talk. Still arranging the broad slices of roast on the plate, he smiled and said, "Not really. The only thing Isis can make is a kind of mush made by crushing rations and boiling them in water. I have no idea where she learned such a strange recipe."
A vein throbbed on Gordon's forehead, and his knuckles cracked sharply as he clenched his fists.
Altaïr jolted as realization struck and hurriedly corrected himself. "But to be fair, it's convenient when you want a simple hot meal in the field. It warms you up, is easy to digest, and doesn't taste bad. I make it fairly often myself.
"I even made it on our last hunt..."
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