Raised in Dungeon

"My real name is Rodion Raskolnikov, a former member of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti; for short, we can call it the KGB."

"Kei-ji-bi?"

"That is the name of a military organization that focuses on foreign and domestic investigations. In the kingdom, it's similar to the 13th Milite Division, the royal secret army. As a member of the KGB, do you know my duties?"

Allen sat in silence, his mind grappling. He didn't even know what the 13th Division in this world looked like. However, he more or less understood. Listening to Rodion speak, he found himself torn between curiosity and disbelief.

Rodion leaned back in his chair and met Allen's gaze gravely. "My role," he began, his voice tinged with a weariness accumulated from years of experience, "primarily involves undercover operations, infiltration, investigation, and elimination. As a member of the KGB, it is my duty to pursue and eliminate all state dissidents and target religious people."

The weight of those words hung heavily in the air, leaving Allen with countless unanswered questions and countless unfamiliar words. But what is important to ask is…

"What drives you to continue down that path? Is it simply because it's your job?"

Rodion paused, his eyes reflecting a tumult of emotions as he tried to articulate his complicated motivations. "It's not just a job, Allen," he finally responded, his voice tinged with a mixture of resignation and determination. "This work may be shrouded in secrecy, and its morality may be dubious. Yet, I believe that through it, I can protect my country, ensure its stability, and prevent chaos from consuming our society. It is a burden that I bear for the greater good, even if it isn't always clear-cut."

Rodion looked at Allen with that sharp look again and said, "I am killing for justice."

...

Rodion Raskolnikov was born in Leningrad into poverty.

At that time, I thought that with money, I could free myself from poverty and live happily, doing great things that many people would remember. I tried to convince myself that certain crimes could be justified for extraordinary people like me. Especially if the crime was committed by a bad person.

There was a rich old man who lived across the street from the apartment. Everyone owed him money, and so did my mother. Debt collectors often visited my mom at home, and she had such a strong mental attack that she ended up committing suicide. At first I thought everything was Mom's fault because she was in debt. But it turned out that everyone hated the old man too. They said he was amoral and had no empathy for humans.

That's why I killed him. Killing that man would be justice, since everyone hated him.

I took all the money in his pockets and went home, hiding the money under a rock near a tree at the back of the building.

The first killing I did went smoothly. But in addition to the satisfaction I felt from killing him, there was a paranoid feeling that made me openly express my fear. I could feel that everyone knew about my murder.

Finally, I was met by two police officers. At first, the policemen only asked about my mother's suicide, but because I overreacted when the policeman mentioned the old man, they suspected me, and when they found the money under the rock, they arrested me on the spot.

I was put in jail.

I was confused and began to feel guilt for what I'd done.

Until someone came along, offering me a job. He said that I could be 'extraordinary.'

My powerful figure but lack of origins seemed to attract that person to me.

I was trained to be a spy. Learning many languages, and filling my brain with a lot of knowledge, that way I could infiltrate and disguise myself as anything; coachman, carver, doctor, etc.

I ended up becoming an 'extraordinary' person. My superiors and colleagues praised me. The government also praised me.

They said I was the one who had created peace in the country.

I killed nationalists.

I killed political rivals.

Even killed religious leaders

All the killing I did was justice, and those who were killed because of this 'extraordinary me' were victims of something even more extraordinary.

Until one day,

I was ordered to kill a drug dealer. The man prostrated himself before me, begging for his life.

He promised me that he would never repeat his mistake again. That he would be a better person who served his country.

I laughed.

I've seen countless people I've killed say the same thing. Just for fun, I let him go. After all, I didn't kill him according to the schedule given to me from the start. So I thought I could delay it first so that later I could catch him still making the same mistake. I wondered how he would plead with me later after breaking his promise not to return.

But,

That person really lives without doing anything.

He worked as a farmer, living with his wife and child in the village.

From a distance, I observed their every move with intrigue. A peculiar sensation, akin to a delightful tingle, coursed through my stomach as I witnessed the three of them having soup on their nice table. Their synchronized movements and synchronized laughter filled the air, captivating my attention.

They sat down with contented expressions, eagerly savoring their soup, and an inexplicable serenity washed over me. It was as though I, too, were partaking in that nourishing broth. This unexpected notion stirred something deep within me.

Seeing them eating the soup with happy faces somehow warmed my stomach as if I were eating the soup too.

And that made me stop killing.

It wasn't because he had shown remorse or displayed his redemption to me, but rather the revelation that the warmth that emanated from within me coincided with when he tasted his soup.

Killing had been my trade, and I had the capability to complete any task bestowed upon me. Even the role of a chef. However, despite my abilities, I had never truly experienced the pure joy and comforting warmth that a simple dish could evoke.

...

"After that I ran away and tried every home-cooked meal sold in the village tavern. Every mouthful of that food brought me happiness. It was then that I began to think that if I went back to killing, perhaps I would once again forget the taste of the food."

Rodion finally told Allen about his past, which was not too surprising to him. It was just that.

"Isn't that a good story? In the end, Master chose to live peacefully and not kill others, so why do you pretend you can't cook?"

"You're misunderstanding something, Allen.

It's not that I'm stuck in the past. I've reached that pit of guilt, just like you.

I only realized the weight of human life when I was cooking. All the dishes I made were the fruits of my knowledge gained from and FOR killing many people. I even used my own cooking to kill people. The feeling that I could have poisoned people with that warmth made me no longer able to make good food.

I always cut down on ingredients that I didn't think would be healthy, hence creating this soup.

A bland soup that no one likes."

Allen shook his head "You're wrong, master. I love your soup. And I'm sure everyone else does too.

The soup you make is a special one for the people who eat it. So all the effort you put into it reaches everyone's heart. Including me."

Rodion looked at Allen with eyes that radiated warmth.

"HMph, you're really getting good at talking now."

"This is all thanks to you, Master Rodion.

You are the one who brought me here and taught me many things about life.

'Even though you've killed many people and soiled your hands with blood, you can still cook. You can still use your hands to help others.'

I'm sure you made those words not just for me but for yourself. You can say that because you've also been in my shoes, falling into an endless pit of guilt.

You saved me, meaning your blood-soiled hands are no longer visible."

Allen bowed his head, then he softly said

"Thank you so much for everything; you are the person I respect most in this world." It was a moment of deep connection and vulnerability between the two. Allen's words were an expression of his sincere gratitude for Rodion's support and guidance throughout these three years. For Allen, he was what people called as "father."

A brief silence hung in the air, leaving Rodion completely speechless. In that moment, a wave of joy washed over him, filling him with pleasure. Abruptly, he seized his bowl and violently hurled it at Allen's head.

"Ouch!" cried Allen in pain.

Disregarding the reaction, Rodion hastily responded, his shyness hindering his sincerity, "Never mind, just go to sleep. You should prepare to leave tomorrow. You're going to see her, right? That girl you were talking about."

"Yes, hearing your story made me want to see her right away."