The campfire had burned low, embers pulsing like tiny hearts beneath the iron pot. Only one cup of coffee remained, dark, fragrant, and shimmering faintly under the morning sun.

  Villen eyed it like a predator that had just discovered its favorite prey.

  “This is… a strange drink,” he said, his voice calm but eyes alight. “I want more.”

  James didn’t even look up from cleaning the shield-pan. “Sorry, but that last one’s not for you. It’s for the owlbear.”

  Villen blinked. “You’re feeding it to the corpse?”

  “I’m marinating it,” James corrected. “And I told you, it’s all I’ve got left. No more beans, no more potions, no more mana. End of story.”

  Villen frowned, crossing his arms. “Such a valuable drink should not be wasted on a beast.”

  James looked up, meeting his gaze with mock disbelief. “Oh, I see. And what are you now, the patron saint of coffee? Tell you what, when you become a real chef, you can decide what counts as a waste. Until then, let the grown-ups cook.”

  Villen’s brow twitched. “Did you just insult me?”

  “Me? Never.” James grinned wider. “That was another famous chef. Happens all the time.”

  “Who?” Villen demanded.

  “You wouldn’t know him,” James said with a shrug. “Names are kind of similar though, funny story. Anyway, why don’t you go sit down and let me work my magic before your royal ego starts to burn too?”

  Villen’s gaze sharpened. “You’d better make sure that meal is worth it. Because if it isn’t, I’ll be very disappointed.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” James said, cracking his neck. “Disappointment’s my middle name. Right next to ‘Genius.’ Now—”

  A sharp ding cut through the air. A blue window flickered into being before his eyes.

  [Quest: Coffee-Flavored Cuisine!]

  Objective: Prepare a dish worthy of [???], or face the wrath of [???].

  Reward: ???

  Failure: Losing your head, arm, or limb. (Highly Possible)

  James squinted. “Why are there so many question marks? …Wait, why does this sound personal?”

  Villen tilted his head. “Are you talking to me or to yourself?”

  James sighed. “Please tell me you’re not actually planning to kill me if this goes wrong.”

  Villen’s lips curled into a slow smile. “That depends entirely on the taste.”

  The fire popped between them. James stared at him. Villen stared back. Somewhere in the distance, a bird decided it didn’t want any part of this and flew off.

  “You do realize,” James said slowly, “that if you do kill me, you’ll never have coffee again?”

  Another ding appeared before his eyes.

  [Failure Condition Updated]

  New Failure: Getting your ass handed to you by [???]. (Highly Possible.)

  James barked a laugh. “Ha! Even the system’s taking my side now.”

  The massive carcass hung from the oak’s branch, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Its feathers still held the faint scent of burnt ozone from Villen’s lightning, and the pale flesh glimmered with a cold sheen beneath the sun. James paused. It wasn’t the first dead thing he’d seen, but this was something else, a test of craft, not courage.

  “Alright,” he muttered, drawing his knife. “No fancy tricks. Just skill.”

  The owlbear hung upside-down, hind legs tied tight around the thick branch. Its blood had long since drained; Villen’s lightning strike had seared half the work for him. James stepped close, inspected the neck, and made a clean, shallow cut to check the flow. Only a thin red line bled out onto the earth. He nodded in approval. “Surface charred, inside fresh. Means the muscle’s still good. If we cook this right, we win dinner and dignity.”

  He still had Butchery Lv. 2, but instincts built from a thousand hours in kitchens carried him forward. Butchery wasn’t just carving flesh, it was reading it, understanding where each muscle ended and every tendon began. Knowing which cut sang and which ruined the song.

  He traced the rib line first, long deliberate incisions opening the frame. The structure loosened, and the weight shifted. Villen watched from a few paces away, silent, arms folded, as if studying a ritual. Marty and Gerrard worked somewhere behind them, digging shallow pits for the bones.

  When the ribs were free, James reached out a hand. “Cleaver,” he said.

  Without a word, Villen pulled one from his inventory, gleaming steel, heavy and balanced. James caught it by the handle and tested the weight. Perfect.

  The first swing came down like a gavel. A crack, clean and final. One foreleg separated from the body. He adjusted, shifted his stance, followed the muscle seams. Each motion deliberate. The heavy blade moved as though guided by rhythm instead of thought.

  Steam lifted from the open cuts, carrying a metallic tang that somehow smelled of potential. “Soup bones,” James muttered. “Good base. Roast, then boil. Could make a stew out of that.”

  Next came the organs, the most delicate part of the ritual. He opened the chest cavity with controlled precision, easing aside ribs, finding lungs, heart, liver. He worked methodically, almost tenderly. Usable parts went into a clay pot. The rest would be burned later. When the liver came free, smooth and healthy in color, James nodded again. “Perfect. The beast lived well.”

  A soft chime blinked beside his vision.

  [System Notification]

  Butchery Lv. 2 – Progress 92%

  James grinned. “Let’s finish this.”

  He moved faster now. Shoulders, spine, haunch, every cut confident. Each line of motion refined through repetition until the act itself felt like music. He peeled the hide in one long pull, separating fur from fat with the clean sound of slicing silk. The smell shifted from iron and smoke to something faintly sweet.

  Another ding appeared.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  [Butchery Lv. 2 → Lv. 3]

  Processing Speed +10% | Clean Cut Chance +5%

  James blinked at the window, then chuckled. “Well, look at that. Guess the system appreciates craftsmanship.”

  He could feel the difference, the blade lighter in his hand, the rhythm easier, the resistance softer. Movements that once strained now flowed. For the first time, it truly felt like an art.

  Villen stepped closer, eyes narrowed in quiet respect. “You work carefully,” he said. “It’s as if you’re conversing with the flesh.”

  James smiled faintly. “Maybe I am. Every good cut starts with listening.”

  By the time he finished, the ground around him looked like a diagram: clean cuts of thigh, rib, breast, and fillet laid neatly in rows. Not a scrap wasted. He rinsed each piece in a bowl of conjured water, rubbed them lightly with salt, then sprinkled just a breath of pepper. The scent rose at once, iron giving way to earth and spice.

  Villen crouched, picked up a strip between his fingers, and pressed lightly. His eyes widened as he felt the texture. “So clean,” he murmured.

  James met his gaze, a tired grin forming. “We’re just getting started.”

  He rolled his shoulders, wiped the blade, and turned back toward the fire. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Time to make this meat talk to coffee.”

  The camp had gone silent. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath. Butchery was complete, but the real trial, the culinary alchemy, was about to begin.

  The pit waited. A shallow hole in the earth, lined with stones and still faintly warm from fire. Marty and Gerrard had dug it themselves, though neither could know exactly why. Probably another one of James’s crazy ideas. Things like this usually were his, ever since they had met.

  James crouched beside the owlbear meat, eyeing each cut as if auditioning them for greatness. Some he had already minced into fine strands with the sharp edge of his knife, the motion swift, practiced, and disturbingly surgical. The rest he would roast underground, slow and patient, until the flesh fell apart at the touch.

  “Alright,” he said, wiping his hands on his coat. “We’re splitting the last cup. Half for the marinade, half for the final glaze.”

  Villen raised an eyebrow. “Glaze?”

  “You’ll see,” James said. “Or die of curiosity. Whichever comes first.”

  He stood suddenly. “Tell me there’s a spare piece of armor in that wagon. Or two shields.”

  Gerrard turned to Marty.

  Marty blinked. “Hey, I’m a merchant, not an armory. What do you think I am, a walking arsenal?”

  James slowly shifted his gaze toward Villen.

  Villen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man regretting every decision that led him here. “You already have one shield. You need two more?”

  James nodded once, solemn as a priest at a funeral.

  Without another word, Villen reached into the shimmer of his inventory and pulled out two round shields. He tossed them onto the dirt with a metallic clang.

  “Perfect,” James said, grinning. “Now I’ll need a few other things.”

  The others all turned to look at Villen again.

  He froze mid-gesture. “Why do I feel like I’m being used?”

  James smiled innocently. “Oh, come on, don’t say it like that. You supply the ingredients, I perform the miracle. That’s called symbiosis. You get a good meal out of it. If you tried to order this dish anywhere else, you’d pay a fortune.”

  Villen rubbed his temples. “I already regret asking this, but what else do you need?”

  “Eggs. Potatoes. Onions. Garlic. Some spices if you’ve got them. Flour. Milk. Sugar. Tomatoes. And finally some cheese.”

  Villen’s expression darkened by the second. “And would you care to tell us what you’re making?”

  James straightened up, wiped an imaginary speck of dust from his coat, and spread his arms wide like an actor taking the stage. “Gentlemen, today you shall witness my greatest creation yet… the Owlbear Burger.”

  He bowed dramatically.

  There was a long pause.

  Marty blinked. “Burger?”

  Gerrard echoed, “Burger?”

  Villen frowned. “What is a burger?”

  James gave them a look that mixed pity and superiority. “Only the second-best thing you’ll ever taste. Right after coffee.”

  Villen folded his arms. “It better be that good.”

  “Don’t worry,” James said, taking the ingredients Villen reluctantly summoned from his inventory. “By the time I’m done, you’ll start questioning why you ever ate anything else.”

  He lined everything up in neat rows beside the pit. The shields gleamed faintly in the sunlight, their curved surfaces ready to become makeshift skillets. James crouched again, studying the meat, then the soil, then the firepit. His grin widened.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “it’s time to redefine barbecue.”

  The pit breathed heat like a sleeping beast. James rolled up his sleeves, the scent of soil and smoke already clinging to his arms. He crouched beside the slabs of owlbear meat, choosing each cut with care.

  “This batch,” he said, pointing at the thicker pieces, “goes underground.”

  He set the selected cuts between the two round shields Villen had supplied, the polished metal now dulled by dust and purpose. Around the edges he packed sliced onion, chunks of potato, crushed garlic, and a handful of coarse salt. He poured the remaining cup of coffee over the mix, the liquid hissing as it touched the warm metal, then added a swirl of milk.

  The aroma rose instantly, sweet, earthy, and strange.

  “Bury it,” he told Marty and Gerrard.

  The two men shoveled soil over the shields until only a mound remained. James layered stones on top and built a small fire to trap the heat inside. The sound of crackling wood joined the quiet hum of the forest.

  “That,” he said, stepping back, “is going to cook slower than a politician’s apology. By sunset, it’ll be soft enough to eat with a spoon.”

  He turned to the remaining meat. These, the leaner cuts, he laid on a flat stone. The cleaver rose and fell, again and again, steady as a heartbeat. Thick chunks became fine strands, then a pile of glistening mince. Each strike sent up a small puff of steam, the smell richer with every hit.

  When he was satisfied, he scraped the mince into a wooden bowl. “Now for the magic,” he murmured. He cracked a few eggs in, diced a fresh onion, sprinkled salt, pepper, and a touch of dried herbs. He mixed it all by hand, the sound wet and rhythmic.

  Villen watched from a distance, arms folded. “You handle meat like a smith handles steel,” he said quietly.

  James smirked. “Cooking and forging aren’t that different. Both turn raw things into something worth living for.”

  He shaped the mixture into thick patties, laying them neatly on a slab of wood. The smell alone made Gerrard swallow audibly.

  “Patience,” James warned. “Real flavor needs time. We’ve got a few hours before the earth does its part, so let’s make the bread.”

  He poured flour into a large bowl, added milk, sugar, and a pinch of salt, then kneaded with firm, confident hands. The dough came alive beneath his palms, smooth and elastic. He shaped round buns and left them to rest near the low fire, covering them with a cloth.

  “By the time the sun starts to set,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “we’ll dig up the roast, fry these patties, and crown them with heaven itself.”

  Marty blinked. “You mean… the coffee roast?”

  James grinned. “Exactly. The sauce from that pit will glaze the burgers. Sweet, smoky, bitter, divine.”

  The air thickened with anticipation. Smoke rose from the mound, carrying a scent that was neither fully coffee nor meat but something new, something alive.

  James stood, watching it with the calm of a man who knew the outcome before the curtain lifted. “Let it rest,” he said softly. “Let the world learn what patience tastes like.”

  The others exchanged glances. None of them were sure whether he was talking about food or philosophy.

  Above the buried shields, the fire hissed and whispered, the soil trembling faintly with heat. The aroma deepened until even Villen’s composure began to crack.

  And so the afternoon passed beneath the sun, with dough rising by the fire and the earth itself cooking a legend below.

  By the time everything was ready, the first stars were already faintly blinking in the darkening sky. The air had cooled, carrying with it a deep, smoky sweetness from the pit. James brushed the dirt away and lifted the top shield with a rag. Steam burst out, thick and fragrant, curling like silk around his face.

  Sweat had dried into salt on his sleeves, but his hands moved steady, reverent. He was exhausted, yet alive in the way only creators are.

  The owlbear meat had turned a deep mahogany. It glistened under the firelight, soft enough to fall apart under its own weight. He poured the liquid that had gathered on the shield into a small bowl, the broth dark and shimmering.

  Working quickly, he assembled each plate. A warm bun, lightly soaked in the broth. A thick patty of minced meat, still steaming. On top, strips of the slow-cooked roast, melting and tender. A few slices of onion for bite. Then, with the practiced flick of his wrist, a drizzle of the dark juice that had cooked with the meat underground. Beside each burger he placed a small mound of mashed potatoes, pale and smooth.

  When he was done, he stepped back and let the smell take over. Coffee, milk, onion, earth, and meat all blended into something that defied words.

  He handed out the plates one by one.

  Gerrard blinked down at his food. “It looks like a sandwich, but it’s not. The cheese is melting right on top.”

  Marty leaned closer, inhaling. “It smells incredible. I can still catch the scent of coffee.”

  Villen frowned slightly, puzzled. “Owlbear meat usually stinks, but this… this smells good. Why?”

  James smiled. “Thank the coffee you didn’t drink. If you had, it wouldn’t smell half as nice.”

  Gerrard scooped up a bit of the mash. “Even the potatoes smell sweet.”

  “Just a little milk,” James said. “It softens both taste and texture. Now eat while it’s hot. An owlbear burger waits for no one.”

  Villen hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and took his first bite. His eyes widened. He chewed slowly, then again, as if the flavors argued and reconciled all at once. “It’s bitter yet sweet. Sour yet salty. What is this taste?”

  James grinned. “Umami. The fifth taste. First time always hits the hardest.”

  Marty bit in, then took another, then another before even swallowing.

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” James said, chuckling.

  Gerrard moaned blissfully. “I think I want to marry this burger.”

  Everyone turned to stare.

  He lifted the burger like a holy relic. “If I could, I’d eat this every day. Every meal. Every—”

  “Oh my god,” James cut in. “Shut up and eat already. There are mo—”

  Villen interrupted, calm but firm. “Another burger, please.”

  A soft ding echoed in the air.

  [Quest Complete]

  Coffee-Flavored Cuisine – Success

  James looked up at the flickering system window, the firelight dancing across his grin. The others were too busy eating to notice. But above them, the stars burned a little brighter, and for a single, perfect moment, the world smelled of coffee and victory.

  Author’s Note

  follow and, if you really enjoyed it, add it to your favorites! If you’ve already done both, leaving a rating or review would help me a lot. Thank you so much in advance!

  10 chapters ahead, you can find the advance chapters here: