Winston crouched beside the still-warm corpse of the Velkir, his breath steady now, but heart still echoing the high of victory. Blue Fang rested beside him, its edge still faintly crackling from the final kill. The beast's body twitched now and then—muscle memory or death spasms, he wasn't sure.
He leaned forward, pressed his fingers just below the ribcage, then dug his hands into the warm tissue. The fur was sleek, the flesh tough. He knew what he was looking for.
Sure enough, just beneath the heart cavity—there it was. About the size of a plum, faintly translucent, pulsing with a dim, icy blue glow.
> 🜁 Item Acquired: Beast Crystal (Basic)
Origin: Velkir Stalker
Grade: Minor
Description: Condensed core of beast energy. Usable in crafting, upgrades, or system enhancement.
Winston held the crystal up to the light and squinted. "You better be worth all that blood, you shiny little pain nugget."
He didn't plan to eat this one. He wasn't sure if it was the weirdly oily fur, the pure predator vibes, or some ancient, caveman instinct yelling "Not food! Too murdery!"—but something about the Velkir's meat just felt wrong.
Noah hadn't even drooled once.
Winston gently stored the crystal in his inventory, then glanced down at the body. It had good fur—sleek, water-resistant, durable. If nothing else, it'd make a sick cloak.
The Muddrag from before? He'd been more careful with that kill—minimized damage, even skipped harvesting the crystal to keep the body intact. Okay, sure, the head had been liquefied into a gourmet bone smoothie, but the rest? Not bad.
This time though, Winston had no intention of cooking this furball. It was all skin and salvage.
---
Noah padded beside him, silent and alert as always, and together they made the trip back to the cave. The journey was, for once, mercifully uneventful. No stalking horrors. No whispering trees. No mutant squirrels armed with tiny daggers.
Just the crunch of leaves, the soft clink of the crystal in Winston's pocket, and the rhythmic swish of Noah's tail against his leg.
The cave looked just as they'd left it. Same mossy entrance, same weird bones scattered like macabre party confetti. Winston gave it a quick glance-over, then exhaled through his nose.
Safe. For now.
"Alright," he said aloud, brushing his hair back. "Time for the part they never show on the hero highlight reels."
He dropped the Velkir's corpse gently near the wall, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles.
This was about to get gross.
But thankfully—he was interested in survival shows. A lot. Too many, maybe. Even the boring ones where grizzly-bearded dudes made fire by rubbing sticks until they cried. And because of that…
"This is my moment, you bastards," he said proudly to no one.
He stepped out to grab some sticks he'd seen near the cave entrance—dry, brittle, perfect for kindling. He used one of the many jagged bones littering the cave floor to carve a small hole in a larger stick, then used another long, straight one to rotate inside the groove.
Thirty minutes later—sweaty, shirt damp, hands cramping—tiny coals sparked into existence.
Winston gently placed them into a bunch of dry husk he'd gathered earlier and blew, lips pursed like an overly enthusiastic saxophonist. The fire caught, crackled, and within seconds, the cave was lit with dancing shadows and smoky warmth.
"Noah," he called, wiping sweat from his face. "Your turn."
The wolf perked up and grabbed the Velkir corpse by a hind leg, easily lifting it off the ground like it was a stuffed animal. The beast was nearly two meters tall, but Noah held it with zero effort, letting it dangle just right.
Winston grabbed his bone knife—the same one he used for everything now—and approached with grim determination.
He'd watched the process a hundred times.
Doing it? Was not the same.
The body was fresh, thanks to it being stored briefly inside the system. First things first—blood. Even though the head had been cleanly severed, Winston made a small slit at the throat, just in case. Some blackish-red blood spilled out, not much, but enough to make the cave stink.
He tried not to breathe through his nose.
"Alright," he muttered, "don't puke on your own dinner."
He sliced a clean line starting from what he guessed was the bladder area up toward the neck. Carefully. One mistake, and he'd end up with a gushing mess of internal soup. His hands were steady. Sort of.
The skin peeled back with a wet stretch, and the insides squelched in greeting. The smell hit him like a truck doing 80.
"Oh—oh, what the f—" he gagged, turned, and threw up on the cave floor. Dry heaves. Nothing but bile and air.
Noah sat silently nearby, unbothered, like "rookie mistake."
Winston wiped his mouth, groaned, then went back to work.
He pulled out the intestines—gross, slimy, packed with some green goo that looked like radioactive jelly. The bladder was full of some unidentifiable yellow sludge. It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever done.
He puked again. Twice.
But he kept going.
After nearly an hour of horror, he finally finished gutting the thing. The floor was a mess of organs and gore, but the usable meat? Salvageable.
Well. Sort of.
The bone knife made cutting a nightmare—but thankfully, Noah stepped in and tore the limbs open like he was peeling a banana. A horrifying, meaty banana. With claws.
Winston arranged some sticks like a basic spit roast, using sharpened ends to prop the meat strips above the fire. The flames hissed as fat dripped into the embers, sending up greasy smoke and making Winston's stomach growl even through the nausea.
The smell slowly shifted—from metallic and foul to actually kinda amazing. Gamey. Smoky. With a hint of spice that wasn't there before. This forest did something to the animals.
He tore into the first cooked piece like a man possessed.
And stopped.
Eyes wide.
"…Holy hell," he whispered, chewing slowly. "This is better than steak night. At an actual restaurant. With napkins."
It was juicy, tender, with a wild depth to it. Nothing like grocery store meat. This was pure, primal energy in edible form.
Winston wolfed down several strips. Then, thinking ahead for once, stashed the rest in his inventory—nicely roasted, still warm, ready for later.
He tossed the rest of the carcass to Noah, who didn't even blink before tearing into it raw. No complaints. No fire needed. Just a happy, murder-loving wolf munching on predator jerky.
Winston leaned back, full belly, hands greasy, clothes stained, and grinned up at the ceiling of the cave.
"I actually did it," he whispered. "I'm not dead. I cooked something that didn't kill me. I didn't burn the forest down. I have food. And my wolf."
He turned to Noah. "You and me, buddy. We're gonna survive the hell out of this place."
Noah let out a deep, satisfied burp.