Jungle Corp – CEO on Death Island

Chapter 4: BBQ Diplomacy

"What are you waiting for? Untie me!" ordered Arthur in a firm, unquestionable tone.

Grok still stood stiffly with a rusty machete in his hand. The primitive brain of the Tribe Commander seemed to be short-circuiting. In his entire life, there had never been a prey that dared to yell at him, let alone boss around his tribe's kitchen affairs. However, seeing the incredibly confident look in Arthur's eyes, Grok slowly lowered his machete.

With a single slash, Grok severed the tree roots binding Arthur's hands.

Arthur rubbed his chafed wrists. He straightened out the remains of his torn, expensive suit, then rolled his neck until a crack was heard. His stance instantly shifted from a helpless captive to a manager ready to inspect a factory.

"Okay, let's start from the beginning. Where are your raw materials for today besides humans?" Arthur glared sharply at the crowd of scary-looking warriors. "Don't tell me you hunted all day and only caught me!"

Grok cleared his throat awkwardly, then gestured with his head. Two cannibal warriors ran behind a wooden hut and returned dragging the carcass of a fat, unskinned wild boar.

Arthur sighed in relief inwardly. Good. If they only had human meat, I'd really be done for today. But on the outside, his face remained as flat as a board.

"You call this cooking preparation?!" Arthur scolded, pointing at the poor boar. "It hasn't been cleaned, it hasn't been cut, it's even still covered in mud! Hey, you and you!" Arthur pointed at two muscular warriors in the front row. "Skin it, gut it, and cut it into large chunks. Now!"

The two warriors gaped, then turned to Grok to ask for approval. Grok, whose brain still hadn't recovered from Arthur's previous scolding, only nodded slowly.

While waiting for the boar to be executed, Arthur began observing his surroundings. His sharp eyes scanned the edge of the forest and the tribe's piles of harvested crops. His business instincts might be useless in the jungle, but his expensive hobby of cooking premium steaks on weekends would be his life insurance tonight.

"You," Arthur pointed at Grok. "Gather your men. I need wild ginger—that root with the pungent smell, citrus-scented leaves, any kind of sour fruit, and wild chilies. Pluck as much as you can. Don't come back empty-handed if you still want to eat well!"

The giant-bodied Grok somehow obeyed immediately. Arthur's aura was truly like a big boss who accepted no arguments. Within minutes, the barbarian warriors who were previously ready to eat Arthur were now busy running into the bushes, picking spices like interns told to photocopy documents.

Ten minutes later, Arthur stood in front of a large, flat stone that he had washed clean. In front of him lay a pile of wild spices and fresh cuts of boar meat.

Arthur borrowed a cleaner stone knife from one of the warriors. Deftly, he began mincing the wild ginger, crushing the wild chilies, and squeezing the sour fruits directly onto the meat. He sprinkled a handful of coarse salt that he found in the tribe's storage jug, then rubbed all those spices onto the surface of the meat with a firm massage.

The cannibal warriors surrounded him within a two-meter radius. Their eyes bulged without blinking, watching the marination process.

"Pay attention," Arthur said, intentionally breaking the silence as if he were giving a business presentation. "The acid from this fruit will break down the tough protein fibers. The salt draws out moisture, while the chilies and ginger kill bacteria and mask the fishy smell of blood at the same time. This is called flavor efficiency, understand?"

No one answered. They just gulped collectively.

Arthur then ordered them to build a wooden support over the bonfire. He didn't want his meat boiled, and he also didn't want it burned directly on the coals until charred. He designed a primitive rotisserie roasting tool. The seasoned boar meat was skewered with a sturdy wooden stick, then placed at a precisely calculated distance above the fire.

"Lower the fire!" Arthur ordered when he saw the flames licking the meat. "Are you trying to make charcoal or make a steak?! Pull the wood back a bit, let just the heat roast it slowly!"

For the next forty-five minutes, Arthur was busy turning the wooden lever. Sweat the size of corn kernels drenched his forehead. This was the most nerve-wracking project of his life. If a business presentation failed, he only lost shares. If this boar roast failed, he would lose his head.

However, his worries evaporated when the caramelization effect began to take place.

Sizzle...

The boar fat that was beginning to melt dripped onto the embers. Instantly, thin smoke rose into the air. An explosion of the savory aroma of roasted meat, mixed with the scent of wild ginger and the spiciness of wild chilies, immediately hit the noses of everyone in the village square.

The atmosphere instantly turned chaotic.

The warriors who were previously sitting quietly now began to stand restlessly. Some wiped the drool from the corners of their mouths repeatedly. Some had stomachs growling so loudly that Arthur could hear them. The fishy smell of blood that usually filled the village was now gone, replaced by the aroma of five-star BBQ that successfully hypnotized their primitive brains.

Even Grok, the cruel Tribe Commander, was now kneeling near the bonfire. His eyes were glued to the cuts of boar meat that were now a glossy brown with a crispy outer layer.

"F-Food of the gods..." Grok muttered in a hoarse voice, as if he were looking at a miracle descending from the sky.

"Not food of the gods. This is called the Maillard reaction," Arthur corrected casually.

Arthur lifted the wooden stick and placed it back onto the stone table. He used his knife to slice the perfectly cooked outer part of the meat. The outside was crispy and seasoned, while the inside was still tender and juicy.

Arthur skewered the best piece of meat, then shoved it right in front of Grok's face.

"Bite," Arthur ordered briefly, looking into the Tribe Commander's eyes with a challenging gaze. "And tell me, is your bland boiled meat still worthy of being called food."

Grok's muscular, scar-covered hand trembled as he received the skewered meat. All the warriors in the village held their breath. The atmosphere was grippingly silent.

Grok opened his large mouth and chewed the piece of meat.

Crunch.

Grok's eyes immediately widened to the size of tennis balls. The savory flavor of the fat, the spiciness of the wild chilies, and the sweet and sour taste of the marinade exploded on his tongue all at once. The texture of the meat was so tender that it melted in his mouth, not tough like the charred carcasses they were used to eating their entire lives.

Grok stopped chewing. The life-reaping giant man lowered his head.