The Taste of Patience

The rain outside the window had fallen all night, and finally ceased.

Freya had been awake all night, unable to sleep.

Several times, she had reached out to Roland’s neck, wanting to close her eyes, harden her heart, and use a Whirlwind Slash to sever his throat.

“Bastard… sleeping so soundly.” Having been awake all night, dark circles bloomed beneath her eyes as she couldn’t help but let out a yawn. “Ah, ugh—”

Her left hand unconsciously grazed the left side of her neck. The wound there had already healed perfectly, thanks to the potent regenerative abilities of her demonic lineage, leaving no visible trace. Yet, the pain from yesterday seemed to linger, etched deeply into her memory.

‘Why bite my neck? Is this guy a dog?’

‘Even if you needed demonic bodily fluids to counteract the special reaction within your body, why didn’t you just ask me to…’

‘After all, it had already happened twice…’

A stifling frustration coiled in her chest. She rose and walked towards the door, her heart a tumultuous mix of emotions, like a spilled spice rack.

Stepping onto the dew-kissed, vibrant grass, she inhaled deeply of the moist air, feeling her lungs finally clear. As she wandered aimlessly, she spotted Old Jenny performing her morning ablutions.

‘This old woman is up already?’

“Morning, Freya,” Old Jenny greeted, holding a basin of clean, warm water and about to wring out a towel. Seeing Freya approach, she added, “You’re up so early. By the look of you, did you not sleep well last night?”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Freya replied, conjuring a sphere of water with an impassive expression to wash her face. “All thanks to a certain bastard.”

“Oh dear…” A guilty expression flickered across Old Jenny’s face. ‘Did I put in too much of that stuff?’ she wondered, then asked, “You didn’t sleep well the entire night?”

“Not a wink all night.”

‘Oh no! Was the effect of that stuff too potent?’

Old Jenny gasped, covering her mouth in surprise, and gazed at Freya with deep concern. After a moment of thought, she turned and retrieved a clean towel.

“Hm?” Freya looked at her, utterly bewildered.

“It’s nothing,” Old Jenny said, her eyes filled with affection as she looked at Freya. She dipped the towel into Freya’s clean water sphere, wrung it out gently, and then slowly pressed the pristine towel against Freya’s face, rubbing softly. “Don’t move, I’ll help you wipe your face.”

Freya was too weary to refuse. Having been up all night, she was now exhausted and drowsy, and having someone attend to her felt surprisingly pleasant.

It was as if she remembered her past life, when she was the Demon Lord. Then, people would prepare exquisite meals and bring them to her, attend to her dressing, and meticulously maintain her palace.

What kind of expressions had those people worn when they faced her?

She recalled, feeling as though their faces had all been carved from the same mold, mechanical and devoid of emotion. They were willing to sacrifice their lives for the Demon Lord, yet held not an ounce of genuine feeling for her.

She lifted her gaze to the human farmwoman before her. The woman’s sun-kissed face held a warm smile, her brown eyes brimming with profound care, and every wrinkle fanned out around her eyes seemed to be filled with kindness.

The pristine white towel continually caressed her smooth skin, its damp, warm fibers gliding over every inch of her taut face.

She felt as though the woman held not merely a damp towel, but grains of rice freshly harvested from a golden autumn wheat field, crushed with the dazzling midday sun, gently spread across her face.

‘Strange, truly strange.’

‘It felt as if something unknown had been placed into her previously empty heart.’

‘What was this feeling? Why had she never experienced it before?’

Freya didn’t understand. She simply stood silently before the woman, her eyes wide, observing every movement of the human farmwoman with intense scrutiny, not blinking once.

“Don’t just stand there foolishly,” Old Jenny said, putting away the towel and patting Freya’s head. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you some Jonagold pie in a bit.”

Freya shook her head, but then, after a moment’s thought, she looked up at Old Jenny and nodded.

“I’ll go start the fire,” Freya mumbled, touching her nose before turning towards the kitchen.

Watching Freya’s graceful back disappear, a flicker of guilt arose in Old Jenny’s heart. She quietly walked to the riverbank, pulled out the remaining powder from her pocket, gave it a few pained glances, and then tossed it forcefully into the water.

“Never mind, never mind. Let the young ones sort out their own affairs.”

The swift current carried the small cloth pouch away, drifting into the distance.

****

This time, Old Jenny was making a caramel Jonagold pie, consisting of a flaky crust, a tender core, and a rich filling.

“First, knead the dough with oil and flour appropriately until it forms a thin, large sheet,” Old Jenny explained patiently as Freya watched and learned intently. “Then, enclose the tender core within the flaky crust, roll it out, fold it into thirds, roll it out again, fold it into thirds, roll it out again, fold it into thirds, and roll it out one last time.”

“Take two and a half Jonagold apples, peel and core them, then slice them about 0.5 centimeters thick. Mix them with 1/4 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons of tart fruit juice, and 1 teaspoon of seasoning.”

Freya’s brows furrowed slightly, finding it a challenge to commit all these steps to memory.

“Divide the pie crust ingredients into two portions, and roll each portion thinly,” Old Jenny instructed, her hands deftly working on the table. “Lay one portion at the bottom of the pie dish, pressing it gently with your hands to make it adhere.”

“Next, pour in the filling, and lightly brush a little water along the edges of the pie crust.”

The surface of the pie, brushed with clear water, shimmered with an enticing sheen.

“Place the second portion of pie crust on top, firmly press down where the two crusts meet, and trim off any excess edges,” Old Jenny explained. She then took out a small knife and cut away the surplus.

With Old Jenny’s practiced hands, the roughly formed Jonagold pie began to take shape.

“Pierce holes on top with a knife for ventilation, brush with egg wash, and then bake in the oven until golden brown.”

Having completed all the preliminary steps, Old Jenny handed the pie to Freya, who carefully placed it into the oven.

“Now, we wait patiently,” Old Jenny said, her warm smile as bright as summer sunlight. “Only with patience will your efforts bear fruit.”

“It’s too slow…” Freya muttered, extending a hand towards the oven and glancing sideways. “How about I use magic to speed it up?”

Old Jenny gently took her hand, shaking her head slightly. “It won’t taste good that way,” she said earnestly.

“Why?” Freya asked, not understanding.

“The most delightful results come from careful preparation and patient waiting,” Old Jenny replied, her eyes holding a wealth of untold stories. “It’s the same with everything you do, regardless of the outcome.”

The waiting process was indeed tedious. Freya watched the firewood in the stove burn a fiery red, then spark and crackle, eventually crumbling into ash. After adding more wood, the monotonous cycle simply repeated.

Several times, she was tempted to secretly infuse the oven with magic to accelerate its cooking. However, recalling the numerous bizarre dishes she had created in her past impatience, she managed to restrain her restless hands, instead resting her head on the table and closing her eyes to wait.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Old Jenny gently patted her shoulder.

“Hm?” Freya, who had inadvertently fallen asleep, rubbed her aching eyes. “Is it time?”

“Yes, open it and see.”

Freya slowly walked to the stove, donned the thick linen oven mitts, and pulled open the scorching-hot oven door.

A wave of hot air billowed forth, washing over her.

She casually fanned the steam away, and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the golden, appealing pie within the oven.

Carefully, she retrieved it and placed it on the table, then turned to glance at Old Jenny.

“You try it first,” Old Jenny said with a small smile. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

Freya picked up her utensils and patiently cut a corner of the pie. The small knife met almost no resistance as she pressed down, as if slicing through freshly set cheese.

The golden pie boasted flecks of caramelized crust, and the cut revealed a luscious, flowing yellow filling. As she carefully placed this small piece of pie into her bowl, Freya felt as though she were tucking a tiny piece of happiness into her heart.

She brought the pie, with its flowing yellow core, to her mouth. Her saliva and tongue slowly enveloped it, and it seemed to melt, gliding smoothly down into her stomach.

“Delicious…” she murmured, genuinely surprised, and looked at Old Jenny with a puzzled expression. “It’s just ordinary food…”

‘Why did ordinary food taste more delectable than the finest delicacies she had consumed in her past life as the Demon Lord?’

“Naturally, food made with care tastes good,” Old Jenny said, washing the flour from her hands. She couldn’t resist gently stroking Freya’s head, feeling the softness of her hair. “Did you remember the steps? You’ll have to make it for Roland someday.”

‘Who would make it for that idiotic Hero!’

‘Let that bastard eat dirt!’

Freya wanted to tell the human farmwoman off with such ferocity. She took a breath, intending to speak, but the words caught in her throat, utterly refusing to come out.

Freya averted Old Jenny’s gaze, her eyes wavering for a moment.

“Oh.”

she said softly.