"[gentle]Today is the full-mansion deep cleaning." Tuesday morning. Walter C. Dornez's calm voice echoed through the great hall of the Hellsing manor. The elderly butler, his white hair neatly combed and his back ramrod straight, gently set the mop in his hand against the floor. The polished wooden floor reflected the morning light from the windows with a dull gleam. "[gentle]Father Anderson of Iscariot will be visiting on Sunday. All the curtains in the parlor must be dry-cleaned. The silverware re-polished. And the floors waxed to a mirror finish." The combatants assembled in the great hall let out a collective sigh. "[sad]Cleaning again...?" "[sad]We came here for combat training, didn't we...?" Walter narrowed his eyes, a smile touching only his lips. "[gentle]The battlefield is not limited to combat alone. The kitchen is, in fact, the fiercest battlefield in this mansion. For the sake of peace, take up your mops today." The mop in his hand sliced through the air. In that motion, the sharpness of the man once called the "Angel of Death" flickered into view for just an instant. The combatants silently accepted their mops and dispersed to their assigned posts. --- Sub-basement Level Two. Alucard's quarters—a dark room converted from the wine cellar. A coffin-shaped bed against the wall. Shelves lined with bottles of red wine. The contents were blood packs, but the labels alone were high-grade Bordeaux. Alucard had flung open the refrigerator in the corner of the room and was staring intently inside. Thirty meat buns sat in neat rows, dusted with white flour. "...Hmm." He swept back his jet-black hair, his burning crimson eyes narrowing. (Cleaning, in other words, means exposing every corner of the room.) (That Walter... he will definitely open this refrigerator.) His long, extended fingers picked up one of the meat buns. The surface was chilled through by the refrigerator's cold air. No more steam rose from it. "[serious]This is war." He removed his cardigan and began hiding meat buns—three, then four—underneath it. --- Ten minutes later. As Alucard strode briskly down the hallway, an elderly gentleman stood in his path. "[gentle]Lord Alucard." Walter's face bore a beaming smile. But his brown eyes were fixed precisely on the bulge in Alucard's cardigan. "[gentle]It is cleaning time. Where do you intend to hide those meat buns under your cardigan?" In five hundred years of life, Alucard had never broken into a colder sweat. "[laughing]Oh. You noticed, did you?" "[gentle]I will also be organizing the inside of the refrigerator. I shall recount the meat bun reserves, so please be sure to return them to their original location later." "[sarcastic]That's a problem. Those are my strategic supplies." "[gentle]It is a matter of kitchen order." Their gazes clashed. Quiet sparks flew. --- Alucard's "Meat Bun Relocation Operation" began in earnest that very day. First, the wine cellar. He stuffed meat buns into empty bottles and corked them shut. "Perfect." But the next morning, a note was posted at the entrance to the wine cellar. "All empty bottles in the wine cellar have been collected. Please return the meat buns to the refrigerator. —Walter" Alucard crumpled the note in his fist. Next, under the coffin. Wrapped in cloth and carefully hidden to keep the dust off. "Perfect." But by early afternoon, another note lay under the coffin. "The dampness will ruin them. Please return the meat buns to the refrigerator. —Walter" "Why... why does he see through everything...?" The third attempt was inside the fireplace chimney. He thought this was the decisive hiding place. But thirty minutes later, as Alucard descended from the chimney, what awaited him was yet another note. "They will be soiled with soot. Please return the meat buns to the refrigerator. —Walter" Alucard stood rooted in the hallway. (That old man...!) Yet at the same time, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. (Interesting. Truly interesting.) In the midst of days so dull he could die, it had been a long time since he'd had a game he could throw himself into so completely. Three in the afternoon. Tea time. The kitchen table was filled with the fragrance of Darjeeling. Walter tilted his cup with an elegant gesture. "[gentle]Lord Alucard, your tea is ready." Alucard accepted the cup and took a sip. The sensation of the warm liquid passing down his throat. Not bad. "[cold]Tell me, Walter. How do you know all my hiding places?" "[gentle]I hold the keys to every refrigerator in this mansion. In addition, it is something like intuition cultivated over seventy-three years of living in this world." "[sarcastic]Experience, in other words." "[gentle]The act of hiding meat buns disrupts the order of the kitchen. The peace of the kitchen is the peace of the world." Walter smiled pleasantly. But deep within those brown eyes, there was no smile at all. Staring at his teacup, Alucard let out a small sigh. "[cold]What a pain. This 'peace of the kitchen' thing." Then he stood up, pulled the last meat bun from his shirt pocket, and placed it on a plate on the table. "[cold]I'll return it to the refrigerator. But, Walter." "[gentle]Yes." "[laughing]This game isn't over yet. It's too interesting." --- Meanwhile, on the other side of the kitchen, Seras Victoria was surrounded by a mountain of books. Fifteen confectionery recipe books borrowed from the London library. "[worried]Father Anderson is Italian, so maybe tiramisu would be good... but he is a priest, so would simple biscuits please him more?" Her golden hair was disheveled under a kitchen hairband. Her crimson eyes were desperately trying to follow the text. The open recipe book displayed beautiful photographs of cakes. But the notes beside them read: "Trial One: Over-whipped the fresh cream and it turned into butter." "Trial Two: The sponge came out as hard as rubber." "Trial Three: Got the oven temperature wrong and filled the kitchen with smoke." "Trial Four: Here and now." She lined up flour, sugar, eggs, and bananas, and took a deep breath. The Harkonnen—a vampire of monstrous strength who wielded a massive cannon with one hand—was now gripping a tiny whisk. The sight had become a fixture of the mansion. "[gentle]Heat control is the same as in battle. It's all about composure, little Seras." Walter, passing by, offered advice along with a cup of tea. Seras accepted the cup and took a sip. The scent of Assam calmed her heart, just a little. "[sad]Thank you... but I just can't seem to get it right." She gripped the whisk again. Crack the eggs, add the sugar, sift the flour. But she couldn't gauge her strength. Pulling the Harkonnen's trigger was still easier. The oven warmed up, and smoke slowly began to fill the kitchen. Another failure. --- Thursday night. Staring at her fourth failure—a mysteriously charred, jet-black lump—Seras crouched in the corner of the kitchen. (Why am I so hopeless at this?) Suddenly, a certain scent drifted up from the depths of her memory. Bananas. That sweet smell of overripe bananas dotted with black spots. Small hands, mashing bananas together with her mother. "Mom, I'm going to be a cake shop owner!" Her mother was laughing. Sunlight streamed into the kitchen, a popular song played on the radio— "[crying]That cake... banana cake... I never once made it." Not since becoming a vampire. Not since she could taste nothing but blood. She didn't want to forget her "human days," so she diluted blood packs with tea to drink them. But maybe she was already losing even the ability to taste. Amidst the mountain of recipe books, Seras's tears pattered onto the floor. (It's surely only a matter of time before I can't even taste cake anymore—) Just then. From behind her, long fingers reached out. Alucard. He wordlessly picked up the lump of failure and tossed it into his mouth. "[surprised]Lord Alucard!? What are you doing!?" Alucard chewed silently. His jet-black hair swayed, his crimson eyes narrowed slightly. "Too sweet. Cut the sugar by half." "Huh...?" "But—not bad." He took a meat bun from the refrigerator, cradled it in one hand, and glanced back. "Your cake tastes human. In other words—interesting." Leaving only those words behind, he descended the stairs to the basement. Seras stared blankly at his retreating back. (Human taste... interesting...) In the center of her tattered heart, just a little, something warm slowly spread. "[gentle]...Thank you, Lord Alucard." She wiped away her tears and gripped the whisk once more. "[excited]Alright... attempt number five!" --- Friday afternoon. The underground armory. As Walter inspected silver shotguns one by one, he headed toward the security system adjustment panel on the wall. Silver bullet stock: five hundred thousand rounds. Holy water: two hundred liters. The shelves held small explosives and silver stakes for ghouls. For the tea party, he had to intentionally lower the alarm sensitivity in the parlor. Anderson was a regenerator who housed holy relics within his body. The mere wave of his sanctity would set the alarms ringing nonstop. During the adjustment work, a bundle of ultra-fine wire emerged from the back of the maintenance shelf. "...This is." The "Angel of Death" who thwarted the Nazis' supernatural weapons program in 1944. This was what he had used back then, when he was fourteen years old. He couldn't remember how many enemies he had cut down with it in those days. (I believed that fighting was the only way to bring peace to the world.) But now, he protected the world's peace with cleaning and tea. Gently returning the wire to the shelf, Walter allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "[gentle]Tea saves the world far more than fighting ever could." Mop in hand, he headed off to give the parlor its final wipe-down. --- Saturday night. The sweet scent of bananas filled the kitchen. The banana cake Seras pulled from the oven was made with the same recipe as her mother's—and this time, it had a perfect baked color. "[excited]I did it... I did it! Mr. Walter!" "[gentle]Oh my, that's a lovely color. Let's try it with my Assam." The two of them sampled it. The natural sweetness of the bananas and the moist texture inside. "[gentle]With this, the Father will surely be pleased." "[gentle]Thank you. I'm so glad... truly glad." She stored the cake in Refrigerator B—the shelf Seras managed for confectionery ingredients and blood packs. In the adjacent Refrigerator C, Alucard's thirty meat buns were packed tightly in rows. (Lord Alucard won't eat anything but meat buns, but...) Before closing the refrigerator door, Seras looked at the pile of meat buns and smiled. (If this could help him remember the taste of being human, even just a little.) --- Sunday morning. "[cold]Seras." His voice was lower than usual. Standing in the kitchen, Alucard loomed before the wide-open refrigerator. Inside, further back, was the box of Seras's banana cake. And that box had shifted, crushing three meat buns. "[cold]You've got some nerve, trespassing on my refrigerator territory." He was smiling. But his crimson pupils had split vertically with a sharp glint. "[scared]N-no, that's not it, Lord Alucard! It's the laws of physics! It wasn't shifted like that when I put it in the refrigerator!" "[cold]The laws of physics do not crush meat buns. Ergo, you did it." "Don't use logic to destroy my argument!" The curtain had risen on the Refrigerator War. At that moment, Walter, who had been brewing the morning tea, quietly interposed himself. "[gentle]You two, for the sake of refrigerator peace, I have a proposal." Inside his pocket, the keys to all three refrigerators still awaited their moment. Morning light filled the kitchen, and today, too, the daily life of the Hellsing manor was wrapped in quiet, peculiar battl