The moment Charles became conscious of the other’s identity, a chill crawled up from his soles and shot straight to his scalp!
Holy crap, wasn’t it said that witches rarely ever came to the Kitchen?!
Especially Ruth—that woman who killed before eating. In theory, shouldn’t she have even less need to use the Kitchen to feed her "food"?!
Charles wanted to curse aloud. This was like playing Resident Evil, reaching what should’ve been a safe room, only to push the door open and find the Tyrant waiting inside!
He seethed internally, sweat drenching his body from tension. Meanwhile, Ruth was equally confused.
She had merely come to the Kitchen on a whim to look at the knives. "Blade Witch" wasn’t just a reference to her combat style—it was tied to her true form and origins.
For personal reasons, she held a fascination for sharp, metal objects capable of slicing through things. Today, on impulse, she’d wanted to see what kind of knives were stocked in the monastery’s Kitchen.
Yet, after years of absence, she found the place utterly transformed.
And even more unexpected—within moments of her arrival, a human had barged in.
It was that outrageously audacious, white-haired one who’d dared to defile a witch’s purity!
The moment she recalled the thick, lewd scent she’d detected in Hattie’s room that day, Ruth’s fury flared anew.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her gaze sharp—though, for now at least, she held back from outright violence out of consideration for Hattie.
Charles didn’t dare delay his response. Lowering his head, he said, "Miss Hattie is busy with her duties and lacks time to tend to me. After I could leave my bed, she instructed me to come to the Kitchen daily to prepare my own meals."
Even though this witch’s beauty was breathtaking—her long lashes, purple-red eyes, delicate nose, and thin lips carved as if by a master artist’s painstaking hand—he didn’t dare meet her gaze.
Who was to say whether a flicker of anger from her might not shred his eyes into pulp with sheer sharpness?
Fortunately, for now, Ruth had no such intention. Surveying the Kitchen—its size clearly mismatched with its exterior—a puzzle in her mind unraveled.
Ah, so it was Hattie’s doing, remodeling the Kitchen into this vast space?
Watching Charles move so freely through the monastery, a thread of dissatisfaction with Hattie arose in her heart.
Just how presumptuous had she grown with her captured "food"?
No. Preparations had to be made. He needed to die soon.
Her eyes flickered as she studied Charles, then softened into a gentle expression. "Why so nervous?" she murmured. "I won’t hurt you."
Yet at these words, Charles’ muscles locked tighter, his hair standing on end, heart leaping into his throat!
He knew this routine well. Putting targets at ease, lulling them into dropping their guard—this was Ruth’s essential pre-killing ritual!
All to savor that fleeting flavor of confusion in the soul at the moment of sudden death!
She was going to kill him!
Terror reverberated in his chest. His ears nearly deafened, overwhelmed by the thunderous pounding of his heart.
Was she making her move now?
His fists clenched involuntarily, mind blank except for raw instinct as he forced out a hoarse, stammered reply: "Ah... I-I know someone like me doesn’t belong in the monastery..."
"But I’ve nowhere else to go, so... I’m scared..."
His brain overheated, scrambling to recall Ruth’s habits, the excuses she’d used during their last encounter.
Under pressure, he could only rely on instinct, piecing together fragmented keywords into a shaky justification for his presence.
Before him, Ruth’s brow furrowed slightly. Irritation edged into her tone at his jittery terror. "Then there’s no need for such fear. Our monastery aids the poor. We don’t kill or abuse..."
The lies came effortlessly—yet seeing his state, she cut herself short.
She had already realized that, in such a short time, a few words alone were unlikely to make him relax.
And to Ruth, souls harvested from those who died in tension and terror carried a bitter aftertaste—hardly worth consuming.
Time, then, would have to dull his fear.
Hiss... What a troublesome, infuriating human!
Very well. If that was how it had to be...
"Fine. Weren’t you here to cook?" she continued, her voice cooler now. "Go ahead. Let me see what your cooking is like."
With that, she stepped aside and stood there, silent and unmoving, like a pillar of ice.
Charles couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath.
Great. She wasn’t leaving.
He had no good reason to refuse her "suggestion."
All he could do was brace himself and proceed.
His hands slick with sweat, his steps unsteady, he had no choice but to move toward the stove under Ruth’s piercing gaze. He picked up a radish, scooped water from the bucket with a ladle, and began clumsily washing it.
He’d never washed vegetables before. In his previous life, he’d just turned on the tap and rinsed them under running water. In this world, he’d simply clicked options in the system, letting the Kitchen handle the ingredients automatically. He’d never done it by hand!
And with Ruth watching, he didn’t dare reveal his real abilities—so he had to fake it.
The more he faked, the more nervous he became. As he scrubbed, he silently prayed: Just lose interest and leave already, Ruth. I can’t keep this up much longer...
Behind him, Ruth maintained her usual frosty expression, watching his back while her mind raced through dozens of scenarios—each a variation of killing him in an instant.
No. He was still too tense. If she killed him now, the flavor would be unbearable.
She needed to earn his trust first, lull him into calm.
Maybe Hattie had kept him alive for this very reason—to make him let his guard down?
Then... perhaps she could help him, speed things along?
As these thoughts churned in her mind, Charles—lacking a peeler—awkwardly began shaving the radish’s skin with a kitchen knife.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, not just from Ruth’s threat, but from the fear of slipping and cutting his own fingers.
Behind him, Ruth saw her chance.
She stepped forward abruptly, her hands closing over both the radish and the knife in his grip.
"Let go," she said. "I’ll do it."