Ruho walked deeper into the tunnel, his bare feet making soft padding sounds against the packed earth. The darkness was absolute now, no light from the entrance reaching this far in, and he had to keep one hand on the wall to orient himself. The air was cooler down here, slightly humid, and carried a musty smell that wasn't entirely unpleasant—like a basement that had been closed up for a while.
He heard them before he saw them.
Soft chittering sounds, like a combination of clicking and low warbles. The patter of small feet on earth. Movement in the darkness ahead.
Ruho froze, his heart rate spiking again. This was it. This was where he met the Pakisuchus. The dog-sized crocodiles that supposedly thought he was a baby giant death lizard. He really, really hoped Seria was right about the whole "docile" thing.
A pair of eyes appeared in the darkness. Then another pair. Then six more. All glowing faintly in the dim light, reflecting what little ambient illumination existed down here. They were positioned low to the ground, maybe a foot and a half off the tunnel floor, and they were all focused directly on him.
The Pakisuchus emerged from the shadows, and Ruho got his first good look at them.
They were... actually kind of cute? Which was not a phrase he'd ever expected to apply to anything related to crocodiles, but there it was. They were about the size of medium dogs, maybe thirty pounds like Azirel had said, with long snouts that were more rounded than the Gigantosuchus's crushing jaws. Their legs were positioned more underneath their bodies than sprawled out to the sides, giving them an almost mammalian gait. Their scales were a mottled brown and green, perfect camouflage for the underground environment.
And they were looking at him with what he could only describe as concern.
One of them—slightly larger than the others, possibly the leader—made a series of clicking sounds. The others responded with their own vocalizations, and then, as if executing a well-practiced drill, they moved into formation around Ruho.
"Uh," Ruho said intelligently. "Hi?"
The Pakisuchus didn't respond to his voice. Instead, they began gently nudging him with their snouts, directing him deeper into the tunnel system. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just... herding. Like sheepdogs moving a confused sheep that had wandered away from the flock.
Ruho let himself be guided, too exhausted to resist and honestly too curious about where this was going. The tunnel opened up ahead, branching into multiple chambers, and the Pakisuchus steered him toward one on the left.
He stepped into the chamber and stopped dead.
It was roughly the same size as his old apartment in Seoul. Six square meters, give or take. The ceiling was lower—maybe five feet tall, forcing him to hunch slightly—but the floor space was familiar in a way that made his chest tight. The walls were smooth, packed earth reinforced with what looked like dried mud and plant fibers. The floor had been deliberately flattened and hardened, creating a stable surface that was actually comfortable to stand on.
There was even a small pile of dried grass and leaves in one corner that looked suspiciously like bedding.
The Pakisuchus chittered at him, their voices taking on an encouraging tone, and then they all turned and scurried back out of the chamber. Ruho stood there, alone in his temporary underground room, and tried to process the fact that he'd somehow ended up in a crocodile-managed hotel.
He heard the patter of feet returning. Multiple sets of feet, moving quickly but carefully. The Pakisuchus reappeared in the entrance to his chamber, and they were carrying something.
A rack of ribs.
Not cooked ribs. Raw ribs. But ribs nonetheless—a massive slab of them, still on the bone, the meat dark red and marbled with fat. It took four of the Pakisuchus working together to carry it, their jaws gripping the bones carefully as they waddled into the chamber and deposited their offering at Ruho's feet.
They stepped back, arranged themselves in a semicircle, and stared at him expectantly.
"Oh," Ruho said, looking down at the raw meat. "That's... thank you? But I can't—I don't eat raw meat. Humans don't—we cook things. We need fire and—"
The Pakisuchus didn't move. They just kept staring at him with those large, patient eyes.
"I'm good, really," Ruho tried again, waving his hands in what he hoped was a universal gesture of polite refusal. "I appreciate the thought, but I'm not hungry."
His stomach chose that exact moment to growl so loud it echoed off the chamber walls. The Pakisuchus's heads all tilted in unison, like they were collectively calling bullshit on his claim.
"Okay, I'm hungry," Ruho amended. "But I can't eat raw meat. It'll make me sick. Bacteria and parasites and—"
The Pakisuchus continued staring. Unblinking. Unmoving. Their body language radiating an energy that clearly said, We brought you food. You will eat the food. This is how this works.
Ruho sighed and crouched down, pretending to examine the meat more closely. Maybe if he just mimed taking a bite, they'd be satisfied and leave. He picked up one of the ribs—it was heavier than he expected, the bone thick and solid—and brought it close to his face. He opened his mouth, positioned the meat near his lips, and made exaggerated chewing motions without actually touching the raw flesh to his mouth.
The Pakisuchus didn't move.
"Come on," Ruho muttered. "That's close enough, right? I showed interest. I engaged with the food. You can go now."
They remained perfectly still, their eyes locked on him.
Ruho tried again, this time actually touching the meat to his lips but keeping his mouth closed. Still chewing air. Still not actually taking a bite.
The largest Pakisuchus made a low warbling sound that somehow conveyed deep disappointment.
"You have got to be kidding me," Ruho said. "You're not going to leave until I actually eat this, are you?"
The Pakisuchus blinked slowly. Once. In perfect synchronization.
Ruho looked at the raw meat. Looked at the expectant crocodiles. Looked at the raw meat again. His stomach growled a second time, even louder than before, and he realized with growing horror that he was actually going to have to do this.
He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer to whatever god handled food poisoning, and took a bite.
The meat was cold, dense, and had a gamey flavor that immediately filled his mouth. The texture was all wrong—too chewy, too slippery, like trying to eat a very muscular eraser. He forced himself to chew, his teeth working to break down the raw flesh, and tried not to think about all the bacteria that were probably having a party on his tongue right now.
He swallowed. The meat went down hard, sitting in his stomach like a stone.
The Pakisuchus chittered happily, their entire demeanor shifting to something that radiated approval and satisfaction. Mission accomplished. The weird giant hatchling had eaten. All was right in the world.
They turned as one and scurried out of the chamber, their clicking calls fading as they disappeared back into the tunnel system.
The moment they were gone, Ruho leaned over and spit out the remaining bits of meat in his mouth, making gagging sounds. "Oh god. Oh god, that was horrible. Why did I do that? Why did they make me do that?"
From the divine peanut gallery, he heard a sound that made him pause.
Salivating.
Multiple gods, audibly salivating.
"Uh," Ruho said slowly. "Why do you all sound like you're about to drool?"
A new voice cut through the others, smooth and refined with an accent that Ruho couldn't quite place. "Ground-aged fatty venison ribs."
The divine voices exploded.
"GORDON!"
"OH SHIT, IT'S GORDON!"
"THE COOKING GOD IS HERE!"
"GORDON, TELL US ABOUT THE MEAT!"
"What is happening right now?" Ruho asked, still holding the rack of ribs and trying to wipe the taste of raw venison off his tongue with his equally dirty hand.
"That," the refined voice—apparently Gordon—continued, "is premium quality meat. Ground-aged in optimal temperature and humidity conditions. The marbling is exquisite. The fat content is perfectly balanced. That, mortal, is what we in the culinary world call a masterpiece of natural preservation."
"It's RAW," Ruho protested.
"Of course it's raw," Gordon said, sounding mildly offended. "That's the point. Ground-aging is a process where meat is buried in specific soil conditions that allow natural enzymes to break down the tissue while beneficial bacteria create complex flavor profiles. It's been aging for probably six months minimum. That rack of ribs is worth more than most people earn in a year."
Azirel's voice chimed in, excited. "Ruho, you need to make an offering."
"A what?"
"An offering," Azirel repeated. "To the gods. Specifically to Gordon. Give him the meat. Trust me on this."
Ruho looked down at the rack of ribs in his hands. The rack of ribs that might be the only food he'd see for days. The rack of ribs that, despite being raw and disgusting, was apparently his only source of calories in this underground death trap.
"Fuck no," he said flatly. "This is my food. The only food I have. I'm not giving it away to a god who doesn't even have a physical body to eat with."
"BUT—" Azirel started.
"I will allow," Tyrix interrupted, his voice taking on that game-show-host quality again, "the deployment of the WHEEL OF POWERS."
The divine voices went absolutely wild.
"NO WAY!"
"THE WHEEL OF POWERS?!"
"TYRIX, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD!"
"What's the Wheel of Powers?" Ruho asked warily.
"Only the most comprehensive collection of usable spells in existence," Tyrix said proudly. "One hundred and two thousand individual spells, all scaled to your current mana capacity. Everything from basic elemental magic to utility spells to combat abilities. One spin, one random spell, yours to keep forever."
Another voice cut in, nasal and precise. "Before we get too excited, let me provide some nutritional context."
"Oh god, it's Trevor," someone groaned.
"Trevor, Divine Trainee God of Diet and Nutrition," the voice continued, ignoring the groan. "Also Gordon's cousin, thank you for asking. That rack of ribs contains approximately nine thousand calories and three hundred forty grams of protein. It also has one hundred twenty grams of fat, primarily healthy omega-3s from the wild game diet, forty-seven grams of collagen, trace minerals including iron, zinc, and B-vitamins, and—"
"That's enough, Trevor," Gordon said.
"But I haven't gotten to the micronutrient breakdown—"
"Nobody cares about the micronutrients, Trevor."
"I care about the micronutrients!"
"You're the only one!"
Ruho's head was spinning. Nine thousand calories. That was... that was almost a week's worth of food, condensed into one rack of ribs. That was survival. That was life.
But a hundred thousand spells...
"FINE," Ruho shouted, cutting off the brewing argument between the dietary god and everyone else. "Fine! I'll make the offering or whatever! How the fuck do I do this?"