The Matter of Being Picked Up and Adopted by Talula

Don't think about "what I can do for others." Think about "what I should do for myself."

Orson thought of Talula, FrostNova, Sasha and Ino, Patriot, and the others.

Probably only he knew how these people would end up. In other words, if there was anyone in this world who could change their predetermined fates, that person could only be him.

If he changed Talula, perhaps Chernobog would not be destroyed, and tens or even hundreds of thousands of people would not die.

If he changed FrostNova, perhaps she would not die in the players' arms with both regret and relief.

If he changed Faust and Mephistopheles, perhaps those brothers would not need to walk down an irreversible path.

If he changed Patriot... hmm, he still had to start with that old man's daughter.

And he was the only one who could turn those "ifs" into reality.

He should not think, "I need to protect these people." He should think, "This is something only I can do. If I stand by and do nothing, my conscience will condemn me."

Only then would his goal become firmer and clearer—

"Alright, decided! Forget Talula for now, I'll start with Ino! That little white-haired weakling should not be too hard to train—ah."

"—"

Orson had said something that made perfect sense in context, yet sounded incredibly bizarre when taken on its own. And by sheer coincidence, Talula had just lifted the tent flap at the entrance.

The two stared at each other for two brief seconds.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Sis Talula!? Aahhh, I'm burning, I'm really burning!? Listen to me, I-I-I'm really not a pervert!!"

Talula swung a Fire Punch at him, while Orson howled and begged for mercy.

After being roasted to roughly medium, Orson was finally able to speak normally with Talula, whose mood had settled down.

Though it could not exactly be called "normal." After the "my wife..." incident and the wardrobe incident, their relationship was rather strange.

Not the strange kind of "more than friends, less than lovers," but the kind where Talula suddenly punching through his chest while they were walking would not be surprising.

After the initial commotion, Talula no longer showed any unusual reaction toward Orson. The two merely chatted about the camp's basic facilities, including whether he had gotten used to the personalities and ways of getting along with the people around him.

While the two awkwardly made conversation, several Infected came over to speak with Talula.

"Talula, you're not heading out today?"

"Mm. I take a little time off occasionally too. What about you?"

"We're checking whether the traps caught anything. You two carry on, then. Orson, work hard on reforming yourself so you can become a decent person again soon!"

"Why, thank you kindly."

Prisoner and servant Orson politely expressed his gratitude.

Talula even smiled and joked around while talking to the others. She was completely different from the Talula Orson remembered from Chapters 1 through 7.

But the most important thing was not Talula's uncharacteristic kindness. It was the faint static hidden beneath that warmth.

Though he still did not know what those melodies meant, Orson was gradually beginning to understand that they might reflect the singer's state of mind.

Then... what did the sound he felt now, like tightly stretched strings on the verge of snapping, actually mean?

The strings that could break at any moment, the harsh and discordant noise hidden within the rhythm—every part of that melody suggested that the girl in military uniform before him was perhaps not as calm as she appeared. Rather, she was probably already on the verge of collapse.

"Then that concludes our small talk. Don't do anything out of line. Sasha and Ino both think quite highly of you, so keep up the good work."

Talula ended the conversation and prepared to leave. Watching the dragon girl's back, Orson took a deep breath...

"Um, I don't have anything to do right now anyway. Can I come with you—eek!?"

Orson shrank his head back halfway through his sentence. When Talula looked back, her gaze contained thirty percent surprise, thirty percent confusion, forty percent curiosity, and the remaining ninety percent murderous intent. It was simply too powerful.

Orson could understand it. After all, the man before her had called her his wife upon meeting her and constantly clung to her.

But even so, Orson could only brace himself and press on. Perhaps he was the only one who knew Talula's mental state was not right. If so, then this was his job!

"I really don't have any weird ideas, Sis Talula!"

"Sis Talula...? Forget it. Fine, I understand. But you'd better not expect too much. I don't have any marching or reconnaissance assignments today, so all I'll be doing is extremely ordinary work."

"Isn't that even better? If there's a real fight, all I can do is run away."

"..."

Talula rode an entire blood-pressure roller coaster, then decided not to lower herself to the level of someone who was as good as dead.

"Then please take care of me today!"

Orson enthusiastically thanked Sis Talula for sparing his life, then followed her to a distinctive-looking room with a chimney.

Based on Orson's many years of architectural experience, this was the command room.

As the leader of the Reunion Movement, Talula's usual work should have been that sort of thing.

Pointing out strategies over a sand table, pondering the next liberation route over a map of Ursus, personally interviewing the Infected to see whether she could find like-minded people with aspirations.

He did not know the first thing about such matters, but he was still a man who had played StarCraft and Red Alert. He knew a little about military strategy.

For example, base trading, base trading, and base trading.

He was getting ahead of himself. He was not here to interfere with Talula's work, but to find a way to ease that tense melody that could snap at any moment.

"Pwah?"

Orson nodded to himself, then Talula suddenly flung two white things into his face. After picking them up, he realized they were a pair of sleeve covers.

"First task: cooking."

At some point, Talula had tied an apron over her military uniform. She held a kitchen knife in one hand and a potato in the other.

"?"

Orson took two steps back and looked at the sign hanging on the building. Only then did he realize it read: Kitchen.

Sis Talula, What Are You Doing?!

Today's menu: Braised Cabbage, Potato, and Corn

"Mm, surprisingly simple recipe."

Talula looked over the ingredients on the chopping board, nodded, rolled up her sleeves, and prepared to get to work.

"...Uh."

Orson, standing beside her, was completely dumbfounded. He blinked every now and then just to prove that he had not eaten The World.

The Talula before him was already vastly different from the "tyrant of the Reunion Movement" in his memories, but Orson still could not believe what he was seeing.

That powerful, terrifying, brutal, suffocating leader of the Infected—was personally cooking in a kitchen.

Not only that, her cooking skills could only be described as tragic.

"First step, peel the potato—"

"Why are you reaching for the sword at your waist when you mention peeling potatoes!?"

Orson loudly complained about Talula preparing to peel a potato with a greatsword, then pointed at the kitchen knife on the chopping board.

"Didn't you say I should use the method I'm best at?"

"That only applies within the bounds of 'kitchen utensils'..."

Talula sighed, picked up the kitchen knife, and began peeling the potato.

Meanwhile, Orson could only stand there in stunned silence. He watched helplessly as Talula turned a potato with skin on it into a single French fry.

"Strange. Are potato skins really this thick?"

Talula pinched the French fry and fell into thought.

Orson did not know whether he should complain at a time like this. If he did, he would probably become fuel for the next meal.

After tossing the French fry into the pot, Talula followed the menu and began the second step: removing the corn kernels.

"This is harder than I imagined... It looked so easy when FrostNova and Alina did it...?"

Since ingredients were scarce and they wanted everyone to get some corn, they needed to remove the kernels before putting them into the pot. But Talula had clearly gotten stuck at this step.

"Try twisting with both hands in different directions?"

Orson demonstrated beside her. After living here for over half a year, his skill at farm work had become quite proficient.

"..."

Talula glanced at Orson and changed her grip, but she still failed to rub off the corn kernels properly.

"..."

Though her expression did not change, Orson could clearly feel Talula's anger meter going up.

"Um, calm down. How about I do it, Sis Talula? You can move on to the next step?"

"I'm not angry. Why would you make that assumption?"

"How should I put this... uh, you made a lot of popcorn."

Orson pointed at the corn in Talula's hands. The few kernels she had managed to remove had all blossomed like flowers under the high heat.

"..."

Talula put the corn into a basket and silently rose to check the next step on the menu.

After Orson had finished removing the kernels from Talula's share of corn, he wiped off his sweat and stood up. Then he happened to see Talula toss an entire washed cabbage into the pot without cutting it at all.

Splash!

The stew pot violently collided with Orson's worldview.

A stew that should have taken twenty minutes was successfully stretched into an hour with Talula's help, forty-five minutes of which were spent with Orson cleaning up after her.

"...Everyone has their strengths."

Staring at the stew, which had turned out reasonably well in the end, Talula quietly said those four words.

"Perhaps Ursus cuisine simply isn't my specialty."

"You can mess up even a stew like this, Sis Talula. I think what you specialize in probably isn't carbon-based life-form cuisine—aaahhh!"

Before Orson could finish, popcorn exploded into his face again.

After lunch was taken care of, Orson carried two sets of fishing gear and followed Talula to a frozen river.

It seemed the next task was fishing.

Orson took out the ice drill, but before he could step onto the ice, Talula stopped him.

The Sankta girl walked onto the frozen river, crouched down, and lightly pressed her palm against the ice.

Hiss—

After a burst of water vapor, a palm-sized hole was forcibly melted into the ice.

"You're welcome."

Talula sounded subtly proud, while Orson stood there blinking with the drill in his hands.

It seemed the Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars had not lied. Lying on ice to seek carp was theoretically possible—as long as the person lying there was a fire-breathing Sankta.

Having skipped the hole-drilling stage, the two sat on separate stools before different holes, cast down their hooks, and began fishing.

Talula's mood was fairly stable at first, but when Orson caught his fifth fish while Talula had still caught nothing, the Infected fighter silently rose from her chair, stood beside Orson without a word, and stared straight at him.

"...Um."

"—"

"Er, Sis Talula...?"

"—"

"Fine, fine, I'll switch places with you, alright!"

The silent pressure made Orson break out in a cold sweat despite the icy surroundings. He could only stand up and give his fishing hole to Talula.

The two switched places, but the result did not change at all.

Talula watched in silence, a dark line across her face, as Orson reeled in another fish. Orson, also dark-faced, begged these gilled creatures to stop throwing themselves onto his hook.