Jungle Corp – CEO on Death Island

Chapter 3: The Poorly Seasoned Dish

Arthur felt the hot air on his face.

His head throbbed violently. The effects of Chloe's anesthetic still lingered, but the pain from crashing into tree branches forced him to open his eyes.

Arthur opened his eyes while wincing. Thick smoke made his eyes sting. As soon as his vision regained focus, he realized he wasn't in a hospital, let alone at the bottom of a ravine.

He was tied to a wooden pole. His hands were pulled behind him, forcibly bound using tree roots until his wrists were chafed.

Three meters in front of him, a giant stone cauldron sat perched over a bonfire. The water inside was boiling and bubbling violently.

Ignoring his battered body, Arthur's brain, which usually processed millions of dollars per second, was now forced to process the madness before his eyes.

Around the cauldron, dozens of heavily muscled men were dancing in circles. Their faces and chests were painted with skull patterns. They only wore loincloths made of dirty animal skin. While stomping their feet, they cheered in a strange primitive language. But from their gestures, the intonation was very clear: they were cheering in anticipation of dinner.

And the main menu was the man in the torn suit tied to this pole.

Damn it. Victor wasn't messing around, Arthur cursed inwardly. The Island of Death. A cannibal tribe. They really want to boil me alive.

The sound of beating drums suddenly stopped. The cannibals' dance came to a halt. The crowd parted, making way.

A giant man stepped forward. His body was covered in scars. An eagle skull perched on his head. He was Grok, the Tribe Commander.

Grok stared at Arthur while swallowing his saliva. His right hand gripped a rusty machete that looked more like a lawn-cutting tool than a butcher knife.

"Meat from the sky..." Grok growled. His crude language was strange, but Arthur somehow could understand his meaning. "Cut his neck. Drain his blood. Boil him for the Chief."

Two cannibal warriors stepped forward. They gripped Arthur's shoulders roughly, holding his body down so Grok could easily slit his throat.

Arthur's heart pounded fast. Cold sweat poured down his temples. Normally, people would definitely cry hysterically or scream for mercy. But Arthur was not a normal person. He was a control-freak CEO. His pride and arrogance were far greater than his fear.

Just as Grok raised his machete right in front of Arthur's face, the night wind blew. The steam from the boiling cauldron went straight into Arthur's nose.

Reflexively, Arthur's nose wrinkled. His eyes stared at the cauldron water, then stared at Grok's machete. His panic suddenly evaporated, replaced by god-tier disgust.

The water is clear. No spices. No broth. No oil. Are they really just boiling plain water?! Arthur thought, his forehead creasing sharply.

Grok's machete came down, getting ready to tear his neck.

"STOP!"

Arthur's voice exploded. It wasn't a scream of terror, but purely the fierce yell of a boss catching his employees causing losses to the company.

Grok's movement stopped instantly. The tip of his machete hovered right in front of Arthur's Adam's apple. The entire tribe was shocked. Instead of crying, their prey was throwing a fit.

Arthur glared at Grok. His aura immediately dominated, making the Cannibal Commander's courage suddenly shrink.

"You call yourselves hunters?!" Arthur spat on the ground, staring at the cauldron in disgust. "What kind of kitchen SOP is this?! You want to boil me using plain, tasteless water?!"

Grok blinked in confusion. His mouth hung slightly open. The warriors around him looked at each other, intimidated seeing their captive getting angry.

"Look at that rusty machete of yours!" Arthur scolded, pointing at Grok's weapon with his chin. "Even the way you hold it is wrong! And that cauldron... good grief, there's no lemongrass, no onions, let alone salt! You want to slaughter me and toss me into bland water without a marinade?!"

"S-seasoning... what?" Grok muttered. His scary face turned blank.

"Marinade seasoning! Raw material preparation!" Arthur scolded even more fiercely. He didn't care anymore that his life was on the line. "Listen here, big guy! I'm a city person. Every morning I drink black coffee, I'm sleep-deprived, and I was just betrayed by my own best friend! The stress levels and cortisol hormones in my body are at an all-time high!"

Arthur took a breath, looking at all the tribe members in turn like looking at marketing staff who failed to hit their targets.

"Do you know the consequences if meat filled with stress hormones is boiled directly in boiling water without being neutralized?! The meat will shrivel! It will be as hard as flip-flops, and it will taste as bitter as bile! Are you guys trying to make dinner or ruin the quality of the raw materials?!"

The atmosphere in the middle of the cannibal village suddenly fell silent. Only the sound of firewood and bubbling water could be heard.

The barbarian men who were used to tearing raw meat now stood stiffly. They had just been lectured on meat quality management by their own prospective food. Arthur's vocabulary was clearly too complex, but his angry tone successfully made them feel incredibly guilty towards the food.

"This is an absolute insult to the culinary world!" Arthur concluded, glaring at Grok. "If you want to serve my meat to the Chief, process it right, idiot! Or his first bite is just going to bring shame to the whole village!"

Grok was stunned. His eyes stared at his rusty machete, then turned to the bland cauldron, and back to Arthur's face.

The machete in the Tribe Commander's hand slowly lowered. His hand was trembling. His primitive brain crashed in the face of this foreign man's scolding.