"One barrel of salted meat, 40 pounds of flour, 3 ceramic jars, 1.5 pounds of salt..." Mike Bai counted the caravan's supplies.
"Sigh! The food is running out too quickly. We'll have to stock up at the next market," Mike Bai lamented, scratching his head. "But where can I get more spices?"
Since Mike Bai had demonstrated his culinary talent, the whole group had unanimously decided to appoint him as the caravan's head cook and supply manager. And Mike Bai's foodie soul had lived up to everyone's expectations, finding ways to make delicious meals for the team. Fried, sautéed, and baked dishes delighted the group of rugged individuals, who had previously only known roasting and stewing. Even the handsome Patrick's sharp chin had gained a few extra pounds.
But while everyone was enjoying Mike Bai's culinary expertise, the supplies were depleting faster than expected.
"We'll need more utensils," Mike Bai muttered, looking at William, who was still licking his plate.
"Achoo!" William sneezed. "The weather's still a bit chilly. Looks like I'll need an extra bowl of food next time."
"Uncle Démore!" Mike Bai ran to another wagon.
Démore poked his head out from the carriage and flashed a big smile at Nord.
"We're running low on supplies. We'll need to stock up at the next market," Mike Bai explained.
Démore was a bit surprised at how quickly the food was being consumed but agreed, "No problem."
"Thanks, Uncle Démore!" Mike Bai said before turning to leave.
Démore watched Mike Bai walk away, then sighed. "As delicious as Mike Bai's food is, the supplies are running out too fast."
"If this goes on, we might run out of money," Démore thought to himself, heading towards the Baron to see if there was a solution.
Mike Bai quietly followed behind, but when they met face to face, there was a long silence, and neither of them could come up with a solution.
"If worse comes to worst, we could sell some of the heirlooms," Baron Otto said, looking at the wagon full of weapons and equipment. "Mike Bai is still a kid—how is he supposed to grow into a great warrior without proper food?"
Démore nodded and stepped back.
"If these two brutes could come up with a solution, their territory wouldn't be in this state," Mike Bai thought, even though he couldn't hear what they were saying. Judging by their expressions, he knew what they were planning.
"Do they want to go back to the days of chewing on hard black bread mixed with animal entrails and flour—those dark meals?" Mike Bai shuddered. "No way. I'll have to find a way to make some money!"
Even though he said this, Mike Bai had no good ideas of his own and could only take things one step at a time.
Ten days later, Mike Bai and his group finally arrived in the Principality of Mecklenburg's capital—the southern and northern stronghold of the Empire, neither sacred nor Roman, the bustling city of Mainz.
On the outskirts of the city were the usual shantytowns—leaky straw roofs housing mostly elderly and women, with young men mostly out selling their labor for a meager daily wage.
Raising the Baron's flag, the group passed through the slums under the watchful eyes of various onlookers, and after passing through a city gate, the completely different inner city came into view.
The tightly packed, two-story wooden houses lined both sides of the street, with the occasional stone villa nestled in between. Strange signs displayed the personalities of shopkeepers. The random city planning meant the roads were always winding. People dressed in black or dark green hurried along, yet they appeared vibrant and full of energy.
At one point, a resident from an upper floor casually threw out a bucket of water, drenching a passerby who was walking below. The passerby and the resident yelled at each other, attracting a crowd.
After a while, the caravan pulled up in front of a "Pig Whistle" inn.
"Welcome!" the middle-aged innkeeper greeted warmly.
"Five rooms, and take good care of our horses," said Sir Patrick, stepping forward.
The innkeeper's eyes lit up upon seeing him. "Rest assured, gentlemen. Our 'Pig Whistle' Inn is absolutely the best choice here."
"We have a specialty—red braised blood sausage. Would you like to try it?" she asked, almost as if repeating the words like a chant.
"No, we'll cook for ourselves," Sir Patrick replied, thinking, "There's no meal that can compare to what little Mike Bai cooks."
The innkeeper kept her smile, though. "Very well, please wait a moment. I'll have someone show you upstairs."
She then shouted, "You little brat! Stop fetching water and show the guests upstairs!"
Under the guide of a servant, Baron Otto and Mike Bai entered their rooms upstairs. The room was well cleaned, with no unpleasant odors.
"Hopefully there are no lice," Mike Bai silently prayed.
The next morning, Otto left early, saying he was going to visit the local bishop. Mike Bai, feeling bored, went down to the lobby and found William and Sir Patrick already eating breakfast.
They had ordered a portion of fried beans with hot milk for Mike Bai. He tasted it, and it wasn't bad.
While eating, Mike Bai noticed the occasional noise from outside.
"This week, there's a knight tournament," the innkeeper said with a smile. "If you're interested, you could go watch."
Upon hearing this, Mike Bai's eyes immediately lit up, and he looked at the two knights eagerly.
As expected, under his pleading gaze, William and Sir Patrick took him to the tournament grounds on the eastern side of the city.
An oval-shaped arena stood in the center, surrounded by colorful flags and packed with cheering spectators. In the luxurious central box, a group of well-dressed nobles were laughing and talking loudly, while some young ladies leaned on the railing, watching their favorite knights and tossing handkerchiefs.
At this moment, some sharp-eyed girls in the crowd spotted Mike Bai and the others, and immediately screamed.
In the next moment, handkerchiefs began to rain down on Sir Patrick, and even Mike Bai got hit in the face.
As for William... it seemed like God had given him a special circle, as none of the handkerchiefs came near him.
Sir Patrick sighed in helpless amusement and waved. The crowd went wild, with shouts of "I love you, Sir Patrick!" and "I want to marry you!" ringing out.
Patrick glanced at the increasingly excited crowd and, without thinking, glanced at Mike Bai. Before Mike Bai could react, Sir Patrick had picked him up and placed him on his shoulders.
The frenzy of women quieted as they saw Sir Patrick with the cute Mike Bai. They all seemed to sigh in unison, as if sending their best wishes for Patrick's happiness.
Realizing what had happened, Mike Bai quietly leaned toward Patrick's ear and asked, "What on earth did you do to make so many women fall for you?"
"Nothing much," Patrick said casually. "I've just won this boring tournament for three years in a row."
"Damn it! This guy is really playing it up!" Mike Bai thought, gritting his teeth.
Finally, the tournament resumed.
The announcer took a dramatic stance and began to sing.
"He fought fierce heretics and once strangled a wild boar with his bare hands. His bravery is known far and wide—Toulouse, Rouen, and many other cities have crowned him champion," the announcer boomed, gesturing grandly toward a knight. "Now, let us welcome Sir Jean de Lançon from the Champagne region of the Kingdom of France!"
The crowd erupted in applause. Sir Jean was dressed in a blue robe adorned with white irises, wearing a pointed helmet and gleaming chainmail. He made his horse rear up and raised his lance in salute to the crowd.
"I've heard of him," Patrick said, a hint of concern in his voice. "He's won many tournaments in cities like Toulouse and Dieppe."
"Of course, he's the strongest of the twelve contestants today. The odds of him winning are only 2 to 1," William added.
"He's tough," Patrick agreed. "But he's not my opponent."
"Damn it, he's really milking it," both Mike Bai and William thought bitterly.
The announcer continued, "And now, his opponent: Sir William Marshall from the Duchy of Normandy. May the gods bless him!"
This time, the applause was a mere whisper compared to before.
Mike Bai looked to the other side and saw that Sir William was dressed in worn armor, his horse aged and already panting.
"This unknown wandering knight has no notable victories," William sneered. "The odds of him winning are 30 to 1!"
"30 to 1!" Both Patrick and Mike Bai were shocked.
Mike Bai, recognizing the name "William Marshall," thought to himself, "This is my chance to make some money!"
"Uncles, can I borrow some money?" Mike Bai asked eagerly.
"Don't gamble, kid!" William said in mock seriousness. "But if you promise to cook me a few dishes I've never had before, I'll lend you two dinars."
Patrick remained silent, just looking at Mike Bai with curiosity.
Mike Bai didn't know how to explain. After all, he couldn't just tell them that he was betting on William Marshall simply because of the name.
"I believe in Sir William Marshall," Mike Bai said seriously. "Let's make a bet. If he loses, you'll give me however many dinars, and I'll cook 30 times that amount in delicious meals for you."
"If he wins, I'll pay you double. What do you think? You can't lose!"
William hesitated, torn between food and the lure of money.
"Fine, if you say so." He reluctantly agreed.
Mike Bai smiled and ran toward the betting station, pulling out 6 silver dinars and 31 copper pennies from his small pouch, hurrying to place his bet.
Patrick, looking thoughtful, handed Mike Bai a fat purse of money. "Here, I'll lend it to you."
"Thanks, Uncle Patrick!" Mike Bai smiled, pocketing the purse and running off, then stopped halfway, making a face at William. "Tightwad William!"
William yelled in frustration as Mike Bai rushed off to place his bet.
"Please win, William Marshall!" Mike Bai thought, heart pounding. "I'm putting everything I have on you!"