Chapter 6: The Gourmet of Gore

The book is boring.

Not just regular boring—the kind of boring that makes me question why I spent three silver coins on it at the traveling merchant’s cart last month. The protagonist just spent twenty pages deciding whether to confess to his childhood friend, and I’m ready to confess that I want those twenty minutes of my life back. I toss it onto the floor, watching it land with a deeply unsatisfying thud.

My stomach growls, loud enough to echo off the cabin walls.

The problem with living on a mountain is that food requires effort—going to town, buying supplies, carrying them back up here like some kind of pack mule. I’ve been putting it off for three days now, surviving on tea and the occasional piece of stale bread that’s achieved a texture somewhere between wood and leather.

Elara sits by the window, sharpening a knife I don’t remember giving her. The rhythmic scrape of metal on whetstone sets my teeth on edge.

“Master, you seem troubled.”

“I’m hungry and bored. Two of the seven deadly sins, probably.”

“I could prepare a meal—”

“With what ingredients? Air and optimism?”

She sets down the knife, that too-focused look creeping into her red eyes. Here we go. Any second now she’s going to suggest something unhinged and interpret my response as a divine teaching.

“You know what I miss? Snacks. Good snacks. The kind you eat while reading trash novels that don’t deliver on their romantic tension.”

I stretch in my chair, the wood creaking under my weight. Outside the window, morning sun filters through pine trees, birds doing their daily propaganda about how great nature is. My stomach growls again, louder this time, like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“True strength doesn’t come from training or meditation or any of that nonsense people write about in cultivation manuals.”

Elara leans forward, hanging on every word. I’m definitely going to regret this.

“True strength comes from a satisfied stomach. Can’t fight properly if you’re hungry. Can’t think clearly on an empty tank. The secret to power is—”

I pause for dramatic effect, mostly because I’m making this up and need time to think.

“—snacks.”

Her pupils dilate. Oh no.

“The Master reveals the core truth. Sustenance fuels the body, the body houses the spirit, the spirit channels power. To neglect hunger is to neglect one’s fundamental essence.”

“I literally just said I want snacks.”

“You’ve shown me the path forward.”

She stands, moving toward the door with purpose. I recognize that walk—the same one she had before turning tax collectors into human projectiles.

“Where are you going?”

“To seek sustenance worthy of your palate, Master. You’ve given me a quest, and I will not fail.”

“It’s not a quest, it’s me complaining—”

But she’s already out the door, closing it behind her with gentle reverence that somehow feels more threatening than if she’d slammed it. Through the window I watch her disappear into the forest, knife strapped to her belt, moving with the fluid grace of someone who’s definitely about to do something I’ll regret.

I should stop her. Should call her back and explain that I just wanted her out of the cabin for a few hours so I could drink tea in peace.

Instead I pick up my book and try to care about the protagonist’s romantic problems.

The explosion rattles the cabin two hours later, followed by a roar that sounds like geology having a bad day. Birds scatter from trees, their panicked calls cutting through the afternoon quiet. The ground trembles—just slightly—enough to make my tea ripple in concentric circles.

I set down my cup and sigh.

“She found something.”

Another roar, this one closer, mixed with a sound like boulders grinding together. Then a different sound, higher pitched, almost cheerful—Elara laughing.

The forest canopy erupts about half a mile out, trees exploding upward as something massive breaks through. I catch a glimpse of scales, earth-brown and rough, a tail the size of my cabin whipping through the air. An Earth Wyvern. High-level, judging by the size and the way mana distorts the air around it.

Those things are supposed to be nearly extinct, driven into the deepest mountains by hunters and mages decades ago. One wandered down here, probably looking for food or territory or whatever motivates giant murder lizards.

And Elara found it.

Through the broken treeline I can see them now—the Wyvern rearing back, its chest glowing orange as it prepares a breath attack that’ll turn half the forest into molten slag. Elara stands directly in its path, knife in one hand, looking tiny and insignificant against something that weighs literal tons.

The Wyvern’s mouth opens, heat shimmer distorting the air, magma building in its throat.

Elara tilts her head, analyzing.

I should intervene. Should go down there and stop this before she gets vaporized by superheated dragon breath.

But I’m curious. Curious to see what my garbage teachings have created, what kind of monster I’ve accidentally built from a desperate village girl and some lazy lies about strength.

The Wyvern releases its breath attack, a column of molten rock and flame that should turn Elara into a memory.

She flicks her wrist.

Just like I did with the wolf—that casual motion, barely any effort, the kind of movement you’d use to shoo away a fly.

The breath attack splits, redirected by pure force, spraying to either side of her in twin streams that set the forest ablaze. She walks forward through the gap she created, completely unbothered, like she’s taking a stroll through a park.

The Wyvern processes this information, realizes it’s made a terrible mistake, and tries to flee.

Too slow.

Elara moves, closing the distance in a blur. She doesn’t go for the head or the throat or any of the obvious targets. She plants one foot on a boulder, launches herself at the Wyvern’s chest, and drives her fist through scales that should be harder than steel.

Her entire arm disappears into the beast’s chest cavity.

The Wyvern screams, thrashing, its tail carving trenches in the mountainside. Elara holds on, anchored by whatever she’s grabbed inside its ribcage, her face calm and focused.

Then she pulls.

The sound is wet and wrong, like reality itself gagging. Her arm emerges, and she’s holding something that glows with inner fire—the Wyvern’s heart, still beating, each pulse sending ripples of mana through the air.

The beast collapses, its massive body hitting the ground with enough force to shake my cabin. Dead before it finishes falling.

Elara lands gracefully, heart clutched in both hands, absolutely drenched in monster blood. She examines her prize, nodding to herself like she’s confirmed something important.

Then she looks up at my cabin, meeting my eyes across the distance.

She smiles.

I close the curtain and go back to my chair.

She returns an hour later, knocking politely like she didn’t just commit Wyvern murder. I open the door, and there she stands, still covered head to toe in dried blood that’s gone black and crusty. But that’s not the concerning part.

The concerning part is the silver platter.

It’s ornate, ancient, covered in runes that mark it as some kind of ceremonial artifact probably worth more than my entire cabin. The Wyvern’s heart sits in the center, still glowing, still pulsing with residual magic, surrounded by what looks like wildflowers arranged in a decorative pattern.

“Where did you get the platter?”

“There was a ruin nearby. It seemed important. Less important than presenting your snack properly.”

“You robbed a historical site.”

“I liberated a serving dish that was gathering dust while the Master goes hungry. The ancients would understand.”

She holds out the platter with both hands—a formal offering—her red eyes locked onto my face with terrifying intensity. Blood drips from her hair onto my clean floor.

I look at the heart, still beating despite being separated from its owner, glowing with enough magical energy to power a small city. Then I look at my breakfast—two pieces of toast, slightly burnt, sitting on a regular plate.

“Come in. Try not to bleed on everything.”

She enters, moving carefully, the platter held steady. She sets it on my table with ceremony, positioning it precisely in the center like it’s a religious icon. Then she steps back and stands at attention, waiting.

I ignore the glowing organ of doom and pick up my toast, taking a bite. Dry. Should have used more butter.

Elara’s gaze intensifies, following every movement of my jaw, cataloging every chew like she’s memorizing holy scripture. Her hands clasp behind her back, knuckles white from pressure. Blood continues to drip from her clothes onto the floor.

This is uncomfortable on levels I don’t have words for.

“Aren’t you going to eat it?”

I look at the heart, pulsing with inner fire, radiating heat that makes the air shimmer.

“I had toast.”

“But—”

“Toast is fine. Toast is simple. Toast doesn’t require killing endangered species.”

Her face falls, just slightly, that micro-expression of disappointment before she schools it back to neutral.

“The quality is insufficient?”

“It’s—”

I search for words that won’t send her on another murder spree but also won’t encourage this behavior. My eyes land on the heart, slightly charred around the edges from the Wyvern’s own internal heat.

“It’s a bit overcooked.”

Silence… the kind that comes right before something breaks.

Elara’s eyes go wide, then narrow, her brain clearly spinning at maximum speed. She looks at the heart, then at my toast, then back at the heart.

“Overcooked. Of course. The internal combustion from the breath attack continued post-mortem, elevating the tissue temperature beyond optimal consumption range. I killed it wrong.”

“That’s not what I—”

“The technique must be refined. A clean kill, instant cessation of biological function, preserving the integrity of the ingredient. The Master is teaching me that power without precision is meaningless.”

She grabs the platter, heart and all, cradling it like it’s precious cargo.

“I need to research. Study. Master the relationship between killing technique and material quality. This is—this is fundamental. How did I miss this?”

She’s spiraling, I can see it happening, watch her logic construct an entire philosophy from my desperate attempt to avoid eating a monster’s internal organ.

“You’re going to hunt more things, aren’t you?”

“Only until I perfect the methodology. The Master deserves sustenance prepared with absolute precision. I won’t fail again.”

She bows, formal and deep, still holding the platter.

“Thank you for this lesson in culinary cultivation. I won’t squander it.”

Then she’s out the door, moving fast, probably toward whatever other endangered wildlife is unlucky enough to live on my mountain. I watch her disappear into the forest, the silver platter catching sunlight, the heart’s glow visible even in daylight.

I close the door and lean against it, looking at my half-eaten toast.

“I just wanted snacks.”

The cabin offers no sympathy, just the creak of old wood and the distant sound of Elara yelling something about “optimal harvest timing” into the forest.

Tomorrow I’m moving to a desert. Or maybe the ocean floor. Somewhere without disciples who interpret cooking criticism as divine wisdom.

But first I need more toast.

And maybe a lock for my door.

Definitely a lock.