The Abandoned Saint's Happy Feeding Life - Chapter 2
He had stuck his neck into trouble.
But this trouble had been unavoidable.
While thinking that, Fujimori Zen’ichi dumped the neatly chopped ingredients into a small clay pot.
“Zen, you really not going back?”
A voice called out to him.
The speaker was his younger brother—a fair-skinned, beautiful young man, but notoriously black-hearted despite his looks.
“Well, it’s still winter break. Should be fine. Even if it drags on, most classes can be taken online if I explain the situation to the professors.”
“What about the ones that can’t be online?”
“…Skipping one or two won’t fail me.”
At Zen’ichi’s optimistic reply, his brother sighed in exasperation.
“Why go this far for some random kid you don’t even know? A dirty brat from who-knows-where—just hand her to one of the old hags in the village.”
His brother’s gaze fell on a futon that looked empty at first glance.
“No way I could leave her with the villagers. Just look at her condition—some of them are raging that she violated the forbidden zone and ruined the ritual… Honestly, nothing’s scarier than fanatics.”
Zen’ichi frowned.
Lying on the futon was a tiny child—thin, flat, and small.
Emaciated to the bone, ascites from malnutrition was already starting to swell her belly.
A little longer and she’d look like a full-fledged starving ghost.
Her hands—far from the plump “toddler hands” most imagine—were like withered branches, dry and covered in countless painful cracks.
Her feet were in the same unbearable state.
This child, who might no longer walk on her own, had suddenly appeared at the village ritual site—an old village still bound by ancient customs.
Two days ago, Zen’ichi had found her lying alone in the forbidden zone, a place only the sect leader may enter, and carried her to the detached annex of the estate.
Since then, she had slept almost continuously.
A relatively sensible village doctor had given her an IV, so she wouldn’t die—but her breathing was so faint it could stop any moment.
Yet some people wanted to string her up for “defiling the ritual.”
That’s why Zen’ichi couldn’t leave her side.
A child in this state couldn’t possibly have walked here alone and entered the forbidden zone.
The idiots are making a fuss without realizing that they are truly annoying.
His brother watched with a dumbfounded face as Zen’ichi finely chopped ingredients and let them simmer.
“So you’re planning to stay here long-term? If you linger, they’ll officially install you as the ‘successor.’”
“Once she wakes up and recovers enough to travel, I’ll leave immediately.”
His brother’s face grew even more exasperated.
“Huh? Zen, you’re seriously taking this kid in!?”
“I didn’t say I’m adopting her. Just… until her identity is clear and her safety is secured, I’ll look after her.”
“Same damn thing.”
A huge sigh escaped his brother’s mouth.
“I’ll be back soon… Sorry.”
When Zen’ichi said that with a troubled look, his brother scowled.
“…Tch. Showing mercy to some half-dead stranger brat won’t earn you a single yen!!”
With that, his brother turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door with a bang.
Zen’ichi understood his brother’s worry, but he couldn’t abandon such a small life.
He knew he’d picked a losing role, but a bad aftertaste was unacceptable.
Turning down the flame under the gently bubbling clay pot, Zen’ichi looked toward the futon.
A body so small it was swallowed by the large bedding.
By size, she could still pass for a “baby.”
But according to the doctor, she was over three years old.
The thought that she was this tiny from extreme malnutrition made his chest ache.
Wanting her to eat something nourishing when she woke, he made zōsui—but with no sign of waking, Zen’ichi himself had eaten zōsui for three meals straight.
It had been three days of fasting for him, so it worked out, but he was getting tired of it.
Craving protein, he added tsumire dumplings—figuring he’d remove them before feeding her—and ended up with a rather luxurious zōsui.
“…Hm?”
The futon seemed to move slightly. Zen’ichi craned his neck.
It was faint, but yes—she was stirring mozo mozo.
He quietly approached and peered in.
“…”
To his surprise, the toddler was crying in her sleep.
“Are you awake? Does it hurt somewhere?”
He spoke as gently as possible. Her eyelids twitched.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to force yourself to get up.”
He said that just in case, but she pried her upper and lower eyelids apart as if peeling them and opened her eyes.
Her unfocused gaze wandered, then locked onto Zen’ichi.
(…Ah…)
He almost gasped, but swallowed it.
Her tear-soaked eyes weren’t black irises.
Olive, perhaps.
A muted green.
Her hair was dry and black, so he hadn’t noticed, but now that he looked, her facial features seemed slightly different from a Japanese person’s.
(Not Japanese…? Will she understand our language?)
He kept his face calm so she wouldn’t sense his unease, but the situation had just gotten much harder.
Caring for a toddler was already daunting—add a language barrier, and the difficulty spiked.
“Good morning. How do you feel?”
When he spoke, the child clearly looked troubled.
Her gaze darted around in panic.
Looking for her parents? he wondered, but still looking distressed, she unsteadily sat up, faced Zen’ichi, and properly knelt in seiza.
“Ama nyue, mi nyu ahaan, muu ryu mariyu.”
She started speaking—but in a completely unknown language.
Not English, Chinese, or Korean.
If she weren’t from a neighboring country or an English-speaking one, verbal communication would be impossible.
It was oddly cute with all the “m” sounds, but he had no idea what she was trying to say.
(This is bad…)
The toddler stared straight at him, clearly trying to convey something despite her small size, but he understood nothing.
Still, interrupting a child who was speaking felt wrong.
As he watched, she suddenly threw herself face-down onto the futon.
“Why!? Why the sudden full prostration!?”
Full prostration—forehead pressed to the floor in extreme apology, far beyond a simple bow.
With surprising force for her age, the toddler flung her upper body onto the bedding.
Even Zen’ichi, who prided himself on staying calm, was startled by the abrupt gesture and hurriedly lifted her.
When he slipped his hands under her arms, he immediately felt ribs beneath the skin—gori.
Despite being face-to-face alone with a total stranger in this emaciated state, the child didn’t cry; she just looked at him with wide, puzzled eyes.
What kind of upbringing made a child throw herself into full prostration before a first-time stranger? Zen’ichi wondered as he set her up.
Her neck—so fragile it seemed it might snap—stabbed his chest with pain.
At this age, a child’s neck should be hidden under chubby cheeks, yet hers protruded pitifully.
(I have to fatten her up at least.)
He couldn’t return her to whoever let her waste away like this.
He had to restore a toddler-like body—store enough fat to survive.
A sense of mission surged.
“I’ll protect you.”
The words slipped out.
He stroked her head.
The toddler’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment, then she looked up and smiled.
“…”
It was an adoring smile, the kind reserved for parents.
Her body was dry and cracked everywhere—like a starved ghost—yet the smile was utterly endearing.
Words didn’t connect, yet he felt a strong trust from her.
Maybe no one had ever stroked her head like this.
“Let’s eat.”
He stroked her head once more to reassure her, then stood.
“M-Mew… mew, unyau ii…”
A dying kitten-like voice made him turn—she was hurriedly trying to follow.
He started to speak, then realized it wouldn’t reach her. Instead, he held out his palm toward her, signaling stay.
She looked anxious but remained on the futon.
Relieved it worked, Zen’ichi checked the pot.
It was simmering nicely, but with the tsumire dumplings, the flavor might be strong.
He skimmed some broth into a small dish and tasted it.
(…Should be fine if I don’t give her the dumplings themselves.)
It wasn’t as rich as he feared.
She had fasted for at least a day, so he needed something gentle on the stomach.
He’d eat the dumplings later and turned off the heat.
“Mani!!”
As he placed the pot on a trivet over the vermilion tray, a startled cry came from the futon.
Peering over, he saw her sniffing fun fun loudly, stroking the shōji—the sliding paper door.
Her cracked cheeks flushed, and she looked utterly delighted.
“You like the paper door?”
Her eyes sparkled so brightly as she stroked it, he couldn’t help asking with a smile.
“!!!!”
She jumped in surprise—and the impact tore the paper.
“Aaaaaah!! Aaaah!!”
A scream like the end of the world.
She yanked her finger out and rubbed the hole with trembling fingers, as if that could fix it.
Alas, torn paper doesn’t mend that way.
“M-M-Myauwi, myauwi niishien!!”
Pale as death, she turned and performed another flawless full prostration.
With ferocious speed, she slammed her head into the tatami—the woven straw floor mats—headbanging style.
Her whole body shook as she repeatedly struck the floor.
“Hic… m-myauvwi, niijijen! Uuu, myauvwi niijijen!!”
Tears dripped pota pota onto the mats.
“…”
She seemed to be apologizing, but what was with this deathly serious prostration?
Zen’ichi froze in shock.
Just for slightly tearing the paper door, she was begging for her life.
A tiny body trembling and sobbing in apology was unthinkable.
She must have been routinely abused and lived in fear.
The mats grew wet with tears, snot, and drool.
“Vuuu, m-myauvwi, niijije…”
Still chanting her mysterious language and about to slam her head again, Zen’ichi scooped her up.
He sat cross-legged and placed her on his lap.
“You don’t have to cry. I’m on your side.”
He stroked her trembling back and reached for tissues.
He wiped her messy face as she whimpered something.
Dirt came off with the tears and snot—she’d need a proper bath once she had strength.
He cleaned her nose, too.
Words didn’t connect, but since she imitated “blow” earlier, intent seemed to get through somewhat.
She might not be as young as she looked.
“Hm?”
As he tossed the used tissues into the trash, a strange sound reached his ears.
Kyurukyurukyuru—like a motorcycle engine that wouldn’t start.
“!!!!”
The toddler on his lap pressed her belly.
The swelling from fluid made it stick out; she pushed hard with both hands.
Even a child this small felt embarrassed by a growling stomach—it was somehow heartwarming.
“Let’s eat.”
He opened the clay pot lid.
“FuwAAAA~”
She forgot her belly and let out a cry of joy.
“U-Unyai!!”
He still had no idea what she was saying, but her joy came through loud and clear.
Her green eyes—framed by emaciated lids—widened so much he worried they might pop out as she stared fixedly at the clay pot.
From somewhere in that tiny body came a massive, complex stomach growl, but she no longer had the spare attention to care.
(Poor thing… she must never have been fed properly.)
Zen’ichi couldn’t help feeling pity.
But soon, that pity gave way to a bigger smile at the sight of her absorbed in the pot, sucking back drool that threatened to spill.
Her green eyes gleamed brighter than jewels, unblinking as she fixated on the pot.
(I’ll feed you plenty from now on.)
With renewed resolve, Zen’ichi scooped some white rice onto a spoon and cooled it.
He blew fuu fuu on the spoon, and her eyes locked onto it.
But when he brought the cooled spoon to her mouth, she wouldn’t open.
Her jaw twitched with desire, yet her lips stayed desperately clamped.
“Here, it’s okay to eat. You don’t have to hold back.”
He tapped chon chon her mouth with the spoon, but she wrinkled her chin like a pickled plum, fighting the urge.
Drool started leaking between her lips, yet she still refused to open.
Some strange training? From abusive parents, anything irrational seemed possible.
“Open wide.”
Words wouldn’t work, but this might.
When Zen’ichi said it, the toddler, mouth area shiny with drool, looked up.
Her puzzled face shifted to one screaming Can I really eat it!?—so funny that Zen’ichi burst out laughing.
“Open wide.”
He repeated, and her lips parted with a joyful tremble.
“A-A~… n.”
Hesitantly opened, her mouth took the spoon Zen’ichi pushed in.
He worried the adult-sized spoon might be too big, but her mouth opened wider than expected and clamped paku around it.
“!!!!!!!!!!”
Her already wide eyes bulged further; Zen’ichi panicked, thinking they’d really pop out.
But the next moment, she closed them in ecstasy and clutched her cheeks.
“U… Uwinia u!!”
She shivered slightly, then—still holding her cheeks—started wiggling side to side.
(Like a dancing flower toy.)
This quiet village preserved all sorts of ancient junk toys.
One reacted to sound by wiggling—just like her movements.
“Open wide.”
From the second spoonful, he said it, and she lunged like a koi at feed.
Muttering fuha fuha, she clutched her cheeks and danced her joy, swaying left and right.
For such casually seasoned rice porridge to delight her this much made the back of his neck tickle.
By the third spoonful, she fidgeted her bottom mozo mozo, too impatient to wait for cooling—adorable.
She was lost in the food.
Between dances, though, her eyes kept darting to something.
(Hm… Is it okay to give her protein…?)
Her gaze fixed on the tsumire dumplings.
Easier to digest than beef or pork, but still meat.
Zen’ichi hesitated, but when his spoon neared a dumpling and she lifted her bottom in ecstatic joy, he couldn’t hold back.
(Just one bite. Make it small.)
He poked with the spoon; the dumpling crumbled, so he scooped the tiniest piece.
“Open wide.”
No sooner said than she charged the spoon.
Her snort nearly grazed his hand.
(Now with vertical bouncing too.)
Her side-to-side joy dance gained up-and-down stretches.
Like a bird in a mating dance.
(How starved for protein was she?)
If I find her guardian, I’ll have to punch them once.
As Zen’ichi thought that, the toddler’s tear ducts suddenly burst.
“What’s wrong!?”
Like a dam releasing emergency water, tears gushed out without warning; Zen’ichi half-rose.
(Allergy!? Damn it!! I didn’t even think of that!!)
He hurriedly reached for tissues to make her spit it out.
“Uwinia umiu.”
The toddler, streaming tears, said something to him.
She moved her hand over her cheek, as if stroking the food inside.
“Uwinia u… uwinia iii…”
She shed tears with an expression of bliss.
It looked exactly like the village elders crying in gratitude during rituals.
She chewed mocha mocha reluctantly, and when she swallowed, a mysterious “Faaaa!” sigh escaped.
(She’s just… overwhelmed by how good it tastes…)
Zen’ichi slumped in relief.
Her way of showing emotion was too intense.
(Western kids really are expressive, even little ones.)
Thinking that, he moved the spoon again.
“…”
He had meant to give just one bite, but those hopeful, teary eyes following the spoon—he couldn’t betray them.
Zen’ichi quickly gave in to the pressure and loaded another piece of tsumire onto the spoon.
The moment she saw it, her face lit up again.
No need for “open wide” anymore.
Her mouth was already open, waiting.
Even before the spoon entered, her lips moved haku haku, fully ready to eat.
She muttered uwi uwi, rubbed her cheeks, and danced her pseudo-mating dance.
With every movement of the spoon, she expressed joy vividly.
When she had eaten half the pot, and Zen’ichi began worrying if it was too much, her movements slowed.
“…Uwinii… au…”
Her once-energetic mutters grew quiet; her eyelids looked heavy, blinking longer each time.
Her belly full, sleepiness returned.
She fought the drowsiness, but falling asleep with food in her mouth would be dangerous.
It could choke her.
After she somehow swallowed the last bite, Zen’ichi patted her back ton ton to help her settle.
She tried hard to keep her eyes open, but the patting won; her thin head bobbed heavily.
“…Uwi…”
With a small murmur, she leaned against Zen’ichi’s stomach and fell asleep.
She leaned without reservation, yet her body was surprisingly light.
(I need to make her heavier… something easy to digest and high in calories.)
Less than an hour had passed since she woke.
Yet she slept with complete trust, leaving her body to him.
Typical toddler amnesia—she might not remember when she woke—but being relied on this much made him want to respond.
And her trust seemed closely tied to her stomach.
“When you wake up, I’ll make something tasty again.”
Saying that, Zen’ichi carefully returned the chicken-bone-thin toddler to the futon without waking her.