Erika gripped his wooden fork, three chances remaining, his knuckles white with tension.
The bite-marked steak in Cole's bowl was now more than half gone.He ate with focused speed, grease glistening on his chin and fingers, utterly oblivious to the surrounding stares and Erika's predicament, as if consumption was the only thing that mattered in the world at this moment.
"Mind the time."
The owner's lazy yet inescapably prodding voice floated from behind the counter again, like a fine needle pricking Erika's taut nerves.
He took a deep breath of the dizzyingly intense, composite smell, trying to suppress the spasms in his stomach caused by hunger and nerves.
Second stab.Third stab.Fourth stab.
Almost with a sense of self-abandonment, he picked a random spot, sank his wrist, and the fork plunged into the boiling stew.
The sensation hinted at something slightly tough.
His heart leapt.A sliver of fragile hope rose—
and he quickly pulled up.
A greyish-brown, palm-sized, irregular piece dangled from the tines.
It looked like… skin.
Pork skin?Or some other animal's hide.
Attached to it were short, stiff bristles that hadn't been cleaned off, gleaming with an unpleasant sheen in the dim light.
The skin itself was coated in thick sauce, masking its original color.
Eat it, or not?
Hunger won.
Here, wasting any possible scrap of "food" was folly.
He closed his eyes—as if that could block the visual assault—opened his mouth wide, and shoved the piece of skin, fork and all, inside.
The heavy spice and saltiness seized his taste buds first, masking some of the potential gaminess.
Then—
as he chewed—
those stiff, short bristles began ruthlessly scraping against the inside of his cheeks, his tongue, the roof of his mouth.
Each scrape was clear.Stubborn.Unavoidable.
A constant reminder of exactly what he was chewing.
He didn't dare chew much, trying to swallow quickly.
But the skin was tough.
As it slid down his throat, the flattened bristles produced an even stronger, hair-raising scraping sensation—
as if countless tiny, dirty brushes were being dragged roughly down his esophagus.
"Guh—!"
A powerful gag reflex surged uncontrollably.
He doubled over, one hand flying to his mouth, dry heaving violently.Tears sprang to his eyes.
His stomach convulsed, trying to expel everything it had reluctantly accepted—
but nothing came up except sour liquid and raw nausea.
"Tch."
A sound of displeasure came from nearby.
At that moment, a strong arm slid under his armpit, steadying his weakened body, half-dragging, half-pulling him away from the pot's edge toward a corner near the door where the air was marginally better.
It was Cole.
"Don't ruin the mood for others, hah."
Cole's voice sounded near his ear—light, almost amused.
But the arm supporting him was steady and firm.
Erika leaned against the cool earthen wall, still dry heaving, chest heaving, the phantom sensation of bristles and spice lingering stubbornly in his mouth.
He looked up at Cole, tears of physical distress still clinging to the corners of his eyes.
Cole had already released him.
Standing composedly, expression unreadable, he casually wiped the grease from his chin with the relatively clean inner lining of his sleeve.
Then his gaze drifted back toward the pot—
as if Erika's violent reaction had been nothing more than a brief interruption.
Regret coiled around Erika like icy vines.
Four chances wasted.
A clump of wilted greens.One empty stab.And a piece of bristly skin that nearly made him vomit.
And Cole?
One attempt. One steak.
The disparity was naked and cruel.
Leaning against the cold, rough brick wall, Erika finally caught his breath.
He lowered the hand covering his mouth, his palm clammy and damp.
He didn't dare open his eyes—
afraid to see stray hairs on his skin,even more afraid to see the faces around him—
still immersed in their "fishing," indifferent to his pitiful state—
or worse,to see any expression on Cole's face.
Then—
"Not fun."
A stranger's voice, laced with clear irritation and fatigue, cut abruptly through the background rhythm of hunger and focus.
Erika raised his eyelids with difficulty.
It was the man on the opposite side of the pot, wearing a worn brown soft cap pulled low.
Casually, he tossed his long wooden fork and ceramic bowl at his feet.
The bowl—empty—rolled half a circle in the dust before stopping.
The fork struck the ground with a dull thud.
The action felt jarringly out of place in the shop's tense quiet.
"Hah, outlander."
A man by the pot snickered, licking a spot of grease from his fork.
"Outlanders don't get to eat such 'delicious' food, hah."
Another chimed in, mockery completely undisguised.
For a moment, those gathered around the pot—normally divided by greed—formed a brief, strange solidarity, turning their hunger into exclusion.
The man in the soft cap ignored them.
He walked straight toward Erika and Cole.
His steps were steady.
The shadow beneath his hat brim concealed his eyes.
He stopped in front of Erika and extended his hand.
Several rough, irregularly edged metal pieces lay in his palm.
More than Cole had paid earlier.
"I'm leaving this place," the man said flatly, as if stating an unrelated fact."Won't need these."
Erika froze.
He looked from the metal pieces to the man's hidden face, unsure how to respond.
Instinctively, he glanced at Cole.
Cole stood with arms crossed against the opposite wall, that familiar half-smirk back on his face.
He jerked his chin slightly—
take them.
Hesitantly, Erika reached out with his left hand and accepted the cold metal.
They felt rough.Heavy.Still carrying the stranger's body heat.
"See you in the south."
The man said no more.
He didn't even glance at Cole.
He turned, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and stepped into the light outside.
For a brief moment, his lean silhouette was outlined—
then the door swung shut, cutting him off from the shop's gloom, the oppressive smells, and the watching eyes.
Silence settled again.
Only the constant glug-glug of the giant pot remained.
Confusion tangled with a faint, creeping unease.
"Enough. Time's up!"
The owner's once-lazy drawl sharpened into an unmistakable, metallic bark—
crushing every other sound.
The licking.The swallowing.The clink of fork against bowl.
Even the boiling pot seemed to choke, its rhythm momentarily smothered.
For a split second, dead silence fell around the pot.
Almost in sync with his words, the small, pitch-black door beside the counter—long kept tightly shut—creaked open from the inside.
An exceptionally tall and obese figure squeezed out with visible difficulty.
It was a man.
He wore a dark short jacket so soaked with grease that its original color was impossible to tell.His exposed thick arms gleamed with oil and sweat.
His face held little expression, eyelids drooping, as if he'd just been roused from a cramped, airless space.
Most striking of all was the heavy, broad-bladed cleaver in his hand, its surface stained a deep, dark hue.
He didn't even glance at the people in the shop.
With a casual yet forceful thunk, he embedded the cleaver deep into the thick wooden edge of the counter.The handle quivered slightly.
The motion carried a careless brutality, making the air itself feel dense and tight.
Everyone around the pot froze.
Even those still cherishingly licking the last traces of flavor from their forks or bowl rims stopped mid-motion, as if time itself had been paused.
Then—
a flicker of desperate struggle crossed the faces of those whose forks still hovered over the pot, or whose bowls remained empty.
Almost simultaneously, they moved.
Not retreating in order—
but like drowning men grasping at a final straw.
Wrists twitched urgently as they stabbed the boiling, viscous soup a few last frantic, perfunctory times.
Squelch!Splash!
Their movements were rushed and rough, splashing broth even higher than Erika's earlier attempt, splattering onto those nearby.
No one complained.
All eyes were fixed on their own final strike.
Lift up—
Empty.A boiled-soft bone.A few unidentifiable vegetable stems.
"Sigh…""Damn it!"
Suppressed sighs and curses rose softly, thick with frustration and hunger's ache.
The last chance was gone.
Hope extinguished completely, leaving only deeper emptiness and that familiar, gut-gnawing hunger.
The tall, obese attendant paid them no mind.
He took heavy steps, moving like a walking mountain of flesh, toward the giant pot still glug-glugging at the center of the room.
The people around it parted instantly to either side, afraid to block his path.
He extended his astonishingly thick arms and directly grasped the heavy cast-iron handles on both sides of the pot—
a pot that looked like it should require at least two or three men to lift.
The fire beneath it had somehow dwindled to a weak flicker.
"Heave—!"
A low grunt was squeezed from his chest.
Muscles bulged.Veins throbbed beneath oily skin.
With sheer, brutal force, the incredibly heavy pot—filled with scalding, thick soup—was lifted whole from the brick stove.
As the bottom cleared the surface, heat rolled outward, scattering ash.
Erika, leaning against the cool earthen wall, nearly forgot the burning discomfort in his throat and the cold metal pieces clutched in his hand.
His eyes were wide, locked tightly onto the scene.
What kind of terrifying strength did this require?
Was this fat man… even human?
And where was that pot—contents and all—being taken?
"Open the door. Quickly."
The owner's voice came again, returned to its flat, commanding tone, as if he were merely asking someone to pass a spice jar.
The patrons, still filled with disappointment from their failed grabs, reacted instantly—as if receiving their most important order.
They surged toward the shop's main door, the heavy wooden one.
They shoved and jostled each other, all eager to be the one to open it, as if it were a chance to gain favor or show usefulness.
Crash!
The door was flung open.
Bright afternoon light and comparatively fresh air poured in, thinning the shop's dense, layered stench.
The tall, fat attendant stepped outside, carrying the massive pot that still released faint steam.
His heavy footsteps thudded dully against the stone slabs.
The thick liquid inside swayed slightly with each step, yet barely spilled—
his control was terrifyingly precise.
Erika's gaze followed that huge silhouette and the pot until they disappeared into the light, merging with the "normal" flow of pedestrians outside.
Strangely, passersby showed no alarm.
They simply stepped aside out of habit for the giant carrying such a horrifying container, not even sparing him a second glance.
"Tasty?"
Cole's voice, threaded with laughter, sounded by Erika's ear.
At the same time, a hand patted his back—not too lightly, not too heavily—as if helping him breathe,or offering some casual reassurance.
Erika pulled his gaze back inside.
Another weak wave of nausea churned in his throat.
He didn't even have the energy to glare at Cole, merely twitching the corner of his mouth into a shape that barely qualified as a response.
The phantom sensation of bristles scraping his mouth returned like a ghost.
Tasty?
Everything here—from the food to the rules—reeked of a sickening, unnatural strangeness.
Any extra movement, any words, felt luxurious and wasteful under the weight of exhaustion, hunger, and lingering disgust.
He only wanted to leave this room—
with its layered smells, dim light,and the miniature survival drama that had just played out.