The Gluttonous Hunter's Kitchen

Chapter 6

The storage closet felt smaller than it had seconds ago. The air, thick with the lingering scent of ozone and that strange, invigorating mana-stew Rafael had cooked up, felt like a target painted on their door.

Kirill didn’t unbolt the door immediately. He looked at Rafael, his eyes narrowing, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. He mouthed a single word: Stay.

Rafael nodded, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He shoved the glowing remains of the Siphon into his bag and smoothed his hoodie, trying to look like a background character, a nobody, a sidekick.

Kirill kicked the bolt back and threw the door open.

Standing in the hallway was a man who looked like he had walked off the cover of a luxury magazine—if the magazine were dedicated to tactical gear and apocalypse-chic. He wore clean, charcoal-colored tactical armor, his hair slicked back without a single stray strand. He was holding a sleek, silver tablet, his expression bored, as if he were checking in on a faulty electrical panel rather than a bunker of survivors.

"You’re late," Kirill said, his voice dropping into that predatory, alpha growl.

The scout smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Punctuality is a luxury when you’re navigating corridors filled with Feral Stalkers, Kirill. I’m Silas, from the Vanguard Collective. I hear the star quarterback is still breathing. That’s… surprising."

"Funny," Kirill replied, not moving an inch to let the man inside. "I heard the Vanguard Collective was busy dying in the science wing. Didn't realize they were still taking applications."

Silas didn't flinch. He walked forward, his boots clicking rhythmically against the linoleum, forcing Kirill to step back or initiate a fight. "We’re doing just fine. We’re in the business of recruiting talent. And you, Kirill, have shown a very… curious, shall we say, spike in performance metrics."

Silas’s eyes drifted past Kirill, landing directly on Rafael. His gaze felt like a cold probe. "And who is this? The mascot?"

"He’s with me," Kirill said, stepping between them. "Don't look at him. Talk to me."

"It’s a bit cramped in here, isn't it?" Silas stepped into the room anyway, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on the scorch marks on the ceiling and the faint, shimmering residue of the mana zone. "Interesting. The air pressure here is skewed. You’re running a suppression field or a buff zone? That’s high-tier work for a guy who was struggling to hit a double-digit level three days ago."

"I found some stuff," Kirill lied, his tone flat. "Got lucky. Hit a loot cache."

Silas walked toward the wall, trailing a gloved finger along the warped metal. "Lucky. Right. And your little friend here? Does he just hold your juice boxes while you’re out swinging that sword?"

Rafael kept his head down, clutching his shears. "I’m just the guy who carries the packs, sir," he muttered, trying to keep his voice thin and nervous. "Kirill does all the heavy lifting."

"Is that so?" Silas turned to face Rafael, his eyes scanning the boy’s clothes, his hands, his posture. "You look pretty clean for a pack mule. Usually, the baggage carriers are covered in gore and regret."

"I stay low," Rafael added, his heart jumping. "I’m not a fighter. I don't touch the monsters."

Silas walked over to the tray where the Siphon had sat. He bent down, sniffing the air. "The residue here… it’s concentrated essence. Not the raw, messy kind. This is refined. It tastes like… alchemy."

Kirill’s hand tightened on his sword. "Whatever it is, it kept us alive. If you’re here to loot us, get out. Now."

Silas laughed, a soft, dry sound. "Loot you? No, Kirill. We’re here to offer you a seat at the table. You’re growing fast—too fast for a loner. You have a resource or a strategy we don't have. We want it."

"And if I’m not interested?" Kirill asked, his voice low.

"Then you’re a liability," Silas said, his smile sharpening. "And in this school, we don't leave liabilities behind to attract more attention. We either integrate them, or we prune them."

Rafael felt his stomach drop. He looked up, catching Kirill’s gaze. Kirill’s face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes were calculating.

"Is that a threat?" Kirill took a step toward Silas. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air crackling with the remnants of Rafael’s buff zone.

Silas looked around, sensing the shift in the room’s energy. He looked impressed, his eyes widening just a fraction. "A threat? No. An observation. You’re keeping secrets, Kirill. You’re accelerating your level-up rate at a pace that breaks the standard curve. My guild leader wants to know how. You tell us, and you get the best protection in the school. You get full meals, a secure perimeter, and no more hiding in closets."

"I like my closet," Kirill grunted. "It’s got personality."

Silas stepped back toward the door, his eyes lingering on Rafael one last time. "Personality. Right. We’ll see how much personality you have when the next wave hits. We’ll be watching. Don't think for a second that you’re off the grid, Kirill. You’re the most interesting variable we’ve found today."

Silas tipped his head toward Rafael. "Try not to get your 'pack mule' killed, Kirill. It would be a waste of… whatever it is he’s doing."

With that, the scout turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hall until they were swallowed by the gloom.

Kirill waited until the sound faded completely, then slammed the door shut and bolted it. He slumped back against it, blowing out a long, ragged breath.

"That," Kirill said, his voice shaking just a little, "was a mistake."

"He knows," Rafael whispered, his hands trembling. "He knows it’s not just luck."

"Of course he knows. He’s not an idiot," Kirill said, pushing off the door. He walked over to the corner, staring at the ceiling. "We’re on their radar now. The Vanguard Collective doesn't ask twice. If they think you’re a resource, they’ll try to extract you."

"Extract me?" Rafael felt cold. "They’ll kill you."

"They’ll try," Kirill said, his eyes turning hard. "But we’re stronger than we were an hour ago. And you? You’re just getting started."

"What do we do now?" Rafael asked, his voice thin.

Kirill looked at the door, then back at Rafael, a grim, defiant set to his jaw. "We do exactly what they don't expect. We keep growing. We eat, we train, and we make more of that stuff. If they want to come back, we make sure that by the time they do, they aren't coming to negotiate—they’re coming to ask for mercy."

Rafael looked at his hands, feeling the hum of the mana still beneath his skin. He realized that the life of a 'Cook' wasn't about the food. It was about the power.

"Then we need more parts," Rafael said, his voice hardening. "If they’re going to be watching, we need to be better than them."

Kirill grinned, the first real expression of warmth he’d shown in days. "That’s the spirit, kid. Tomorrow, we go hunting. But for now?" He sat on the floor, looking at the bag Rafael held. "Show me what else you can do with that essence. I’m starting to think the best way to keep them away is to make ourselves too expensive to touch."

Rafael nodded, reaching into his bag. He wouldn't be the victim anymore. If they were going to play the game of guilds and monsters, he would be the one setting the menu.

"Let’s start with something stronger," Rafael said, pulling out a handful of scrap metal and a vial of monster fluid.

The hunt for power, it seemed, was only just beginning.