The fire crackled beside the riverbank, its golden glow dancing over the pots and skewers. The air was thick with the earthy scent of smoke, mixed with the subtle sweetness of grilled meat and spices.
Yeats stood in front of the campfire, the late afternoon sun casting a soft, amber hue over his profile. His fingers, long and slender, expertly maneuvered the knife as he prepared the ingredients, the blade gliding smoothly through the meat.
He had already sliced the cockatrice leg, its texture firm yet tender, the meat a pale golden color, almost like chicken but with a hint of gamey richness. As the knife cut through the flesh, the sound of it was satisfying—a soft, almost sensual thud, like the first bite of a well-aged steak.
He carefully dipped the pieces into a bowl of egg wash and then rolled them in finely ground wheat flour, making sure each piece was coated evenly. As he dropped them into the hot oil, the sizzle filled the air, rich and inviting. The batter immediately began to crisp, turning golden brown as it fried, the outside crunchy and the inside juicy.
The scent of fried meat wafted into the air—crispy skin, golden crust, and that unmistakable aroma of cooked chicken, but with an exotic twist. The scent was so intoxicating that it almost made Gray forget her concerns about eating a monster. The oil bubbled around the drumsticks, a visual dance of gold and sizzling heat.
Beside the fire, Yeats was now working on the cockatrice's snake-tail. He carefully peeled back the scales, the skin thick and shiny like dark polished leather, and began to fillet the flesh with surgical precision. He could feel the tender meat underneath—an odd combination of snake and chicken, the two textures blending into something entirely new.
The snake-tail meat was threaded onto skewers, alternating with tomatoes and green peppers that had been freshly plucked from the village garden. The vegetables added a vibrant contrast, their colors a deep red and bright green, the skin of the tomatoes tender, ready to burst with sweetness under the heat. As Yeats basted the skewers with a herb-infused oil, the scent shifted—savory, tangy, and earthy all at once.
The fire crackled louder, and the sizzling sound intensified as the kebabs rotated over the coals. The meat caramelized beautifully, each piece of chicken and snake-tail taking on a slightly charred, smokey hue. The vegetables blistered, their skins softening and releasing their juices. Yeats couldn't help but smile as the aroma filled the air.
[Fried Cockatrice Leg – ★1]A crispy, golden fried drumstick, with juicy meat hidden beneath a perfectly crisp skin. Temporarily reduces stamina drain (minor).
[Mixed Monster Kebab – ★1]Snake-tail skewers grilled with vegetables. Unique taste. Temporarily increases poison resistance (minor).
Yeats glanced at the descriptions. These effects were more than just practical—they were a testament to the craft of food itself, transforming the most unlikely ingredients into something both delicious and beneficial.
The better the ingredients, the more powerful the effect. Imagine what dragon meat could do…
But he shook his head quickly, forcing the thought out of his mind.
No. No, no, no. Bad idea. That's the fastest route to becoming "Flambéed Noble #137."
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Nearby, Farkas twirled his mustache thoughtfully.
"Did you know," he said to Gray, "the scholarly debate over which end of the cockatrice is the head has lasted centuries? Some say chicken, others snake. No consensus."
Gray deadpanned. "You people spent hundreds of years arguing about which end of a snake-chicken is the face?"
She sighed. "Academia is a scam."
Then, worried, she glanced at the firepit.
"You're seriously not going to stop your master?" she asked Farkas. "He's about to feed us monster. That stuff can kill you!"
Farkas's eyes shimmered with emotion.
"It's the first meal the young master has ever cooked for me," he whispered. "I will gladly die of magical food poisoning if it means tasting his growth."
Gray: "…"
Okay. I can't compete with that level of emotional blackmail.
Her stomach grumbled.
Loudly.
Gray hugged her knees tighter and scowled at the horizon.
No. I won't eat. I won't even nibble. The law says monster meat is toxic. Better hungry than violently dead.
She nodded firmly.
I shall resist with honor. I shall—
Sniff.
Her head whipped toward the scent.
Yeats was walking over with two steaming bowls of rice—topped with crispy fried chicken drumsticks and perfectly grilled vegetable kebabs. The aroma was enough to make her forget everything else. She inhaled deeply, her mouth watering uncontrollably.
"Try this," Yeats said with a smile, his voice warm and inviting. "Made with my Spirit of the Feast talent. Monster food made gourmet."
Gray's eyes widened. She didn't know whether to be revolted or intrigued, but the food... smelled amazing.
The golden crispy chicken leg was perfectly browned, the edges slightly caramelized, and the coating crackled under her fingers when she picked it up. The sweet roasted tomatoes and smoky snake-tail kebabs had been glazed with a hint of spice, their aroma mingling with the charred peppers.
She hesitated, then took a bite.
Crisp.Juicy.Rich.
The flavors exploded in her mouth like fireworks—savory, tangy, and smoky, each bite more satisfying than the last. The meat was tender, falling off the bone with ease, and the vegetables added a fresh burst of flavor that complemented the richness of the meat.
Gray looked up at Yeats, her eyes wide. "This is… amazing."
Yeats smirked, leaning back casually. "I'm just getting started."
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The meal passed in a haze of contentment, with Farkas wiping his eyes dramatically between each bite. It was a small, simple dinner, but it carried a weight of nostalgia that seemed to linger in the air like the aroma of spices.
Gray dug into the kebabs, savoring every bite. She wasn't about to admit it, but Yeats had outdone himself.
Monster meat? Whatever. This is just food now. Food that makes me feel like a hero.
After the last bite, Farkas gave a satisfied grunt, wiping his hands on a napkin. He turned to Yeats with an expression that was halfway between pride and reverence.
"Young master," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never thought I'd live to see the day you cooked a meal like this. I'm honored."
Yeats glanced at him, one eyebrow arched. "It's just food."
"Not just food," Farkas corrected, "this is the beginning. You've awakened a talent in yourself that's worth more than any sword."
Gray, who had just finished the last of her chicken, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "This is honestly too much for me. I came to fight dragons, not get roasted like one."
Yeats smirked. "Well, if you ever feel like abandoning your dragon-hunting dreams, I'll be here with a skillet."
Gray snorted, shaking her head. "It's gonna take more than food to get me to forget about my mission."
"Just wait until you try dragon steak," Yeats said with a sly grin.
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Later, as the stars began to twinkle in the clear night sky, Farkas spread out the map, his fingers tracing the route.
"Tomorrow, we'll pass through a hill range. Likely to encounter rust slimes or petrified goats."
Yeats tapped the map thoughtfully. "I'll need to come up with something to pair with that."
Farkas, looking at the red circle, said, "This is where bird-type monsters tend to nest. Some adventurers claim to have found monster eggs there. Very rare, sometimes they hatch into familiars."
Gray leaned forward, her interest piqued. "Familiars? That would be incredible. Not every monster can be tamed, but a familiar is like a weapon and a companion."
Yeats considered the idea.
I've got the Spirit of the Feast talent. If I get a pet and cook for it… maybe I can make it stronger too.
I could really use a cute little familiar to help me out here.
He smiled faintly.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, I've got to survive this trip first.