Recipe for the Apocalypse: I Cooked an S-Rank Monster

Chapter 8: Four Minutes

Day two of six, and Dash already knew that theory alone wasn't going to save anyone.

He stood in the kitchen of The Rusty Skillet at five in the morning, Theo's notebook open to page forty-seven, reading the same sentence for the fourth time: Cooking Rank-B with Rank-C techniques equals toxin explosion. Fatal to the cook and everyone within a 3-meter radius. Wren was asleep in the corner, curled up on a burlap sack. Theo hadn't shown up yet.

"I need a sample," Dash said to the empty room. "I can't figure out the Rank-B technique without actually touching the meat."

The back door opened. Theo walked in, breathing short, notebook strapped to his chest like always. He caught the last sentence. Nodded as if picking up a conversation that had never stopped.

"I have a sample," Theo said. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "At the old University of Arizona lab. Three kilometers from here, southeast. Underground freezer. Solar panels still running. I installed them myself two years ago." He looked at Dash. "Inside, there are two kilograms of Thunderback Elk meat. Rank-B. Frozen. VSP still active."

"Why didn't you ever mention it?"

"Because I never had someone who could cook it." Theo opened his notebook. "Thunderback Elk. Its VSP has a second layer. I call it the crust. A hard protein shell wrapping around the VSP core. If you slow-render it like you would Rank-C, the crust doesn't break. The toxin stays locked inside. Looks safe. Tastes safe. But when you eat it, the crust cracks open in your stomach from digestive acid." He tapped the table. "Death in twenty minutes. Nothing anyone can do."

"So how do you break the crust without breaking the VSP inside?"

Theo stared at him. "I don't know. That's what you have to figure out."

Dash closed the notebook. "Kael is prepping for patrol. She can't escort us."

"Then we go alone. The three of us." Theo stood up. "Me, you, and the kid as the detector. We leave now. The later it gets, the more monsters are active out there."

The gray zone outside Ironway's perimeter wasn't open desert. It was a maze. Ruins of university buildings swallowed by alien vegetation, streets split by black veins, and shadows moving at the corner of your eye.

Wren walked in front. Her nostrils flared with every breath. Every three steps, she stopped. Sniffed. Moved on.

"Two on the left," she whispered. "Rank-F. Small. Cat-sized. They won't come closer if we stay quiet."

They circled around. Didn't talk. Didn't breathe loud.

Theo, walking behind Dash, spoke softly as they moved. "The crust isn't just a protective layer. It's a structure. Like an eggshell. You can't break it with heat alone. Heat makes it harder. Like boiling an egg too long. The white turns to rubber."

"So not heat," Dash said.

"Not heat alone," Theo corrected. "But what else? I've been thinking about it for two years. Acid? Base? Mechanical pressure? I never had enough samples to test. And you," he patted Dash's shoulder, "you have two kilograms and one shot. Don't waste it."

The lab was still standing. Half buried under purple fleshy plants, but the structure was intact. Solar panels on the roof still blinked green. Theo led them down. Emergency stairs, three floors, to a cold storage room in the basement.

The freezer was running. Inside, wrapped in vacuum plastic: two kilograms of Thunderback Elk meat. Dark red. Silvery veins tracing the surface. The crust. Visible even while frozen.

Dash picked it up. The cold seeped through his gloves.

"We're leaving," Theo said. "Fast."

They climbed. One floor. Two. Three. The basement door opened.

And there, coiled across the threshold with glossy black scales and vertical eyes staring right at them, a Gloomfang Viper waited. Rank-C. Three meters long. Jaws open, showing two fangs dripping clear fluid.

Theo froze. Wren froze.

Dash didn't freeze. His hand grabbed the cooler with the frozen meat inside. And he threw it.

The cooler hit the ground two meters in front of the Viper. Clang. The snake whipped its head around. Predator reflex. Following movement. Following sound. One second. Two seconds.

"RUN!" Dash shouted.

He grabbed Theo's arm. Wren was already moving. They sprinted around the side of the building, through rubble, past fleshy plants that clawed at their ankles. Behind them, the Viper hissed. Angry, but not chasing. The cooler was enough of a distraction.

Dash tripped on a root. His ankle rolled. He went down. Theo hauled him back up. They kept running until the walls of Ironway came into view.

**

Kitchen. Eleven in the morning. Dash's ankle was wrapped in cloth. Wren sat on a stool, eyes closed, tongue ready. Theo took notes.

On the counter: two kilograms of Thunderback Elk, thawed. The silvery veins, the crust, clearly visible on the surface of the meat.

"Trial one," Dash said. "Standard. Dry-brine, slow render, fifty-eight degrees."

He worked. Salt. Twenty minutes. Skillet. Low flame. Forty minutes.

Wren leaned forward. Sniffed. Frowned.

"The crust is still there," she said. "I can smell it. Under the surface. Still intact. Still hard."

Dash cursed. Tossed the meat into the waste bin. Remaining: one and a half kilograms.

"Trial two. Higher temperature. Seventy degrees."

The skillet hissed louder. The meat changed color too fast. The surface blackened.

Wren pulled back. "VSP fragmentation. I can taste it. It broke apart. Poison."

Dash tossed it. Remaining: one kilogram.

Trial three. Longer dry-brine. Forty minutes. Then render. Wren shook her head. "Crust still there."

Tossed. Remaining: five hundred grams.

Trial four. Longer slow render. Sixty minutes. Wren sniffed. For a long time. "The crust is a little softer. But still there. Still dangerous."

Tossed. Remaining: three hundred grams.

Dash stared at the last piece of meat. Three hundred grams. One chance. His hands were shaking. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand.

"If the ingredient is tough," he whispered, not to Theo, not to Wren. To himself. To a voice that hadn't been there for three years. "Don't force it. Give it time."

He stared at the meat. Stared at the spice rack. And saw it: a bottle of vinegar. Apple cider vinegar. Leftover kitchen stock.

"Acid," he said.

Theo looked up. "What?"

"The crust is protein. Hard protein. Heat makes it harder. You said it yourself, like an egg boiled too long. But acid. Acid breaks down protein without heat." Dash was already moving. Grabbing the vinegar bottle. Pouring it into a bowl. Adding salt. Stirring. "A brine. Acid and salt. The salt draws out moisture, the acid dissolves the protein bonds in the crust. Not break them. Dissolve them. Slowly. With time."

He submerged the last three hundred grams in the vinegar-salt solution. Covered the bowl.

"How long?" Theo asked.

Dash looked at the clock on the wall. "I don't know. Until the crust dissolves. Wren will tell me."

Two hours.

Wren sniffed every fifteen minutes. Shook her head. Shook her head. Shook her head.

Third hour. Wren sniffed. Went still. For a long time. Her eyes opened.

"...The crust is dissolved," she whispered. "The VSP is intact. Didn't break. No fragmentation. Clean."

Theo stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. His hands were shaking as he wrote. "Acid-salt denaturation. Not just heat. pH. You need a low pH to dissolve the crust without touching the VSP core." He stared at Dash. "Two years. Two years I've been looking for this."

Dash didn't answer. He had already lit the stove. Skillet. Very low flame. Forty-five degrees. Not fifty-eight. Lower. Because the crust was gone, he didn't need high heat anymore. Just enough to denature the regular VSP underneath.

Forty-five minutes.

He lifted the meat. Cut one small slice. Put it in his mouth.

The taste: like venison marinated in red wine. Deep. Complex. And underneath it all, a sensation like electricity, small, like touching your tongue to a nine-volt battery. At the edge of his vision: [+40% Lightning Resistance | 00:45:00]

Rank-B. Four times stronger than Rank-C. Forty-five minutes of duration instead of thirty.

Dash smiled.

His smile vanished when he saw the kitchen door.

There, standing with his hands in his pockets, was a man Dash didn't know. Neat suit. Clean leather shoes. Hair combed back. In Ironway, in a fort where everyone smelled like sweat and dust, this man looked like he had walked in from another world.

The man smiled. Polite. Measured.

"Interesting aroma," he said. His voice was smooth. "May I ask what you just cooked, Chef?"

On his chest, a small pin was fastened. A logo: a supply chain wrapping around a bowl. Below it, in small letters:

CALLOWAY INDUSTRIES.

Dash stared at the man. Theo froze in his chair. Wren took a step back.

And in the skillet, the last of the Thunderback Elk fat was still hissing softly, filling the kitchen with a smell that now felt like bait.