The Gluttonous Hunter's Kitchen

Chapter 3

The shadows in the corridor seemed to writhe, stretching like ink spilled across a canvas. The guttural snarl vibrated in Rafael’s chest, a low-frequency hum that turned his stomach into a knot of ice.

"Stay close, kid," Kirill breathed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline-soaked air. "And for God’s sake, don’t trip over your own feet."

"I’m trying," Rafael wheezed, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the rusted shears. "It’s kind of hard when my heart is trying to crawl up my throat."

"Heart's fine where it is," Kirill replied, his eyes locked on the darkness. "Just keep your eyes on the loot. When I drop them, you get in, you harvest, you get out. Don't play hero."

"Hero? I’m the guy who gets a panic attack at the sight of a cockroach," Rafael muttered, stepping forward as Kirill shifted his weight. "I’m staying right behind you."

"Good. Here they come."

A screech tore through the air, followed by a blur of grey, matted fur. It was a pack of Dire Rats—scuttling, mutated horrors the size of medium dogs, their teeth jagged and yellowed. They moved with a terrifying, jerky synchronization.

Kirill lunged before the first one could land. His blade, glowing with that dim, fading red light, carved a brutal arc through the air. The impact sounded like a wet thud against a heavy bag of flour. One rat collapsed, its body bisected, but three more screeched and circled, their eyes glinting with a predatory intelligence.

"Now, Rafael! Get to the flank!" Kirill barked, parrying a lunging set of claws with his forearm guard.

Rafael bolted from behind him, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked tile. His lungs burned, and his vision tunnelled as he scrambled toward the twitching carcass of the first rat.

"God, this is disgusting," he hissed, dropping to his knees. The smell was overpowering—a cocktail of rotting garbage and chemical bile. He pulled out the shears, his hands shaking violently as he pressed them into the creature's cooling flesh.

"Focus, you idiot!" he snapped at himself, forcing his hands to steady.

[ Material Detected: Dire Rat Gland (Common) ]

[ Processing… ]

"Kirill, I’ve got the glands!" Rafael yelled, scrambling back as a rat skittered dangerously close to his ankle.

"Keep moving!" Kirill shouted, spinning and driving his blade into the floor, catching a rat mid-leap. The beast’s screech was cut short by a burst of red sparks. "I can’t hold them all day!"

Rafael clutched the dripping, pulsating glands to his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He dove back behind the shelter of a heavy steel utility cart, his chest heaving. "I'm here! I'm here!"

"You useless little piece of—" Kirill swore, ducking under a swipe. "Fine. Give me something! My energy is flagging again!"

Rafael fumbled with his pack, his hands slick with the monster’s viscera. He pulled out a crumpled, near-empty bottle of electrolyte water he’d saved from the vending machines before the blackout. He uncapped it with his teeth, dumped the gland into the liquid, and jammed his thumb into the opening.

[ Skill: Culinary Enhancement ]

[ Material Detected: Dire Rat Gland (Common) ]

[ Infusion: Vitality Surge ]

[ Result: Liquid Catalyst (Strength Boost) ]

The bottle glowed a violent, electric violet. Rafael didn't look at it. He just hurled the bottle across the floor toward Kirill. "Catch!"

Kirill caught it mid-swing, not even bothering to look. He chugged the contents in a single, desperate gulp.

A shockwave of energy rippled out from him. The red glow of his blade flared into a blinding, crimson radiance. He roared, a sound that wasn't human, and swung his sword in a wide, sweeping arc. The remaining three rats were pulverized into a mist of shadow and gore before they could even hit the ground.

Silence descended on the corridor, punctuated only by the rhythmic dripping of blood from the ceiling pipes.

Kirill stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving, the sword dragging on the ground. He looked at his hands, then back at Rafael, his eyes wide with a mix of hunger and disbelief. "That… that felt like my blood was burning again. What was that?"

Rafael leaned against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, his entire body trembling. "Rat glands. And half a bottle of stale lemon-lime Gatorade."

Kirill walked over, wiping his blade on his pant leg. He looked down at Rafael, his expression shifting from predatory to grudgingly impressed. "Lemon-lime? You’re joking."

"Do I look like I’m joking?" Rafael wiped his face, leaving a streak of grime across his forehead. "I’m vibrating. I think I’m going to throw up."

"Hold it in," Kirill said, though his tone was softer now. He offered a calloused hand to help Rafael up. "You did good. That boost—it’s not just a sustain. It’s raw output. If we have enough of those, we can punch through anything between here and the cafeteria."

Rafael took his hand, pulling himself up, his legs feeling like lead. "I don't think I want to do that again. That was… that was insane."

"It’s the new normal, kid," Kirill said, clapping a heavy hand on Rafael’s shoulder. "Get used to it. We aren’t even halfway to the kitchen."

"Are we done?" Rafael whispered, glancing nervously at the pile of gore in the hallway.

"For the moment. But we need to move. That noise? That’s going to draw others."

They started moving again, faster this time. The smell of the school changed, moving from the sterile, copper scent of the hallways to something heavier, more sulfurous. As they turned the corner into the main concourse outside the cafeteria, the air grew cold.

"Wait," Kirill said, stopping dead. He pressed his back against the wall and gestured for Rafael to stay low.

"What is it?" Rafael hissed, his pulse spiking again.

"Look," Kirill whispered, pointing toward the double doors of the cafeteria.

A massive figure stood there, blocking the entrance. It was a hulking, hunched shape, covered in jagged plates of calcified bone, dragging a massive, serrated cleaver that looked like it had been torn from a butcher's shop. Its head was hidden under a tattered, blood-soaked hood, and its breathing sounded like a bellows filled with gravel.

Rafael’s stomach dropped. The System interface flickered into existence, scrolling text so fast it was almost unreadable.

[ Warning: Threat Detected ]

[ Enemy Class: Butcher (Mini-Boss) ]

[ Level: 15 ]

[ Status: Aggressive ]

"A Butcher," Kirill muttered, his voice devoid of his usual arrogance. "I’ve never seen one of these in the hallways before. That thing isn't just a scavenger."

"We can’t fight that," Rafael whispered, his voice trembling. "Kirill, look at its level. You’re level ten at best, right? We’re dead."

Kirill turned, looking at Rafael. The cocky, arrogant star quarterback was gone, replaced by a man who realized he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He looked at the Butcher, then at the meager supplies in Rafael’s bag, and finally, into Rafael’s eyes.

"We don't have to fight it," Kirill said, his jaw set. "We just have to distract it long enough for you to get to the stove. You find a way to make me stronger, or we’re both becoming the next special of the day."

Rafael gripped his shears, the amber light in his palms pulsing in a rhythmic, fearful heartbeat. "I’m a cook, Kirill. I’m not a magician."

"Then start cooking," Kirill snarled, shifting into his stance. "Because that thing is looking right at us."