It didn’t take long.

  A foul stench, low growls, and the charming aroma of unwashed alien dog filled the air.

  The demonic beasts were close.

  They lounged in a nearby cave, resting like spoiled housepets.

  As if they didn’t know an apex predator was already watching them.

  Guess what?

  The predator was already there. And he was hungry.

  Silent. Careful. One wrong move and I’d be back to being dinner instead of the diner.

  Ten beasts.

  How the hell was I supposed to kill ten of them?

  One punch each? Magic trick? Spiritual enlightenment?

  What if they merged?

  A hideous, multi-eyed, multi-mouthed nightmare straight out of a Hidetaka Miyazaki fever dream?

  Phase one: Suffering.

  Phase two: More suffering but with wings.

  Nah, I'd win.

  Screw logic. Screw everything.

  Wrap my arms, wrap my soul, wrap my last two remaining brain cells in aura and just let fate take the wheel

  "Tonight, we eat hellhound meat, Waldo."

  Without further ado, I sprinted into the cave like a discount berserker cosplayer at Comic-Con.

  "What a psychopath," you might think.

  And you'd be right. Very, very right.

  But remember, at that point in my story, logical thinking wasn't one of my strong suits.

  The beasts stirred.

  One growl. Then two. Then a chorus of snarls and snapping jaws.

  And then they leapt.

  All they found was a mentally deranged man, flailing his glowing arms.

  And boy, did it work like a charm.

  Every time one came close, I stabbed at whatever I could reach—eyes, throats, tender alien ribs—ripping out chunks of flesh and bone like a starving gremlin on a buffet line.

  Unlike last time, the fight was over quickly.

  No fusion monstrosities. No endless torture cycles.

  No egg buffet either.

  A real shame. I was just starting to crave scrambled horror omelet. At least my little friend down there would get a nice coat soon. Priorities.

  Minutes after the fight began, ten beast carcasses lay before me. Fresh. Smelly. Ready for consumption.

  But first things first. Fashion before feast.

  I chose the biggest corpse, took a breath, and channeled my energy to my index finger. Just enough aura to form a glorious, green glowing dagger. It was time to craft some alien underwear.

  The result? Disastrous. It looked like I tried skinning it with a spoon.

  "Damn, Waldo, I think I messed this up,"

  My rocky friend said nothing. As always, I felt his silent judgment.

  "My willy will have to stay naked for a while longer."

  It shivered in agreement.

  I moved on to the next largest corpse. This time, I went in slow. Precise, surgical.

  I still butchered it like a blindfolded toddler with scissors.

  The hide came out thinner than paper in some places and thick as armor in others. And it tore easily, even though the beast's skin was originally freaking hard.

  "Waldo... maybe fashion design isn't my true class."

  He remained silent. As always. Judging me. Giving me the stone. Classic Waldo.

  But I wouldn't let two failures stop me.

  No, no, I was on a mission. A sacred quest for undergarments. I knew if I had a system, it would reward me with 500 stat points.

  So I grabbed the third-largest corpse with renewed determination and even less knowledge than before.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Allow me to spare you the montage of mistakes, ruined pelts, and one unfortunate moment where I almost skinned my own leg.

  Let's just say... by the end, ten skinned corpses lay before me.

  And not a single usable scrap to clothe my little friend.

  "At least the hellhound meat is still on the menu, Waldo."

  Defeated, hopeless, and emotionally wrecked over my fashion failures, I sat down and started carving meat off the corpses like a sad, naked butcher.

  This time, I wouldn’t savage the meat like a feral goblin.

  No, this time, I would make steaks. Real ones. Civilized. Refined. Medium rare if I got lucky.

  My mom had taught me some basic cuts back on Earth. Mostly for family barbecues, not interdimensional hound corpses, but it would have to do.

  And then, as I was slicing through a particularly juicy slab of intercostal alien steak…

  A divine revelation struck me.

  A cooking show. Of course.

  Problem one: no audience.

  Problem two: no fire.

  Solution one: Waldo.

  Solution two: …pending.

  It was time to get to work.

  I finished slicing, stacking, and organizing what could only be described as a borderline disrespectful amount of meat.

  Dozens of kilos. Enough to feed a small village. Or just me, for a week. Or a single meal, depending on my hunger. I was really hungry.

  How was I going to transport it? Well, it was simple.

  Using aura, I spun a few thin threads, like a deranged butcher spider, and wrapped the steaks into tidy, floating bundles strapped to my back.

  It was grotesque. Efficient. Beautiful.

  You’re probably thinking: “Why not use aura to make pants, you dumbfuck?”

  And to that I say: because it’s not about function. It’s about the journey.

  I didn’t just want pants.

  I needed to earn them. Hunt for them. Carve them from the corpses of my enemies and wear them like a trophy.

  Aura pants would’ve been… practical.

  But they wouldn’t have been me. And I wouldn't have been able to rub my willy into the hide of my defeated enemy. To assert dominance, you know.

  Anyway, I stepped out of the cave with a mission.

  The world had given me meat. Now I had to cook it. Somehow.

  My first idea was simple. Stupid, maybe. Potentially explosive. But simple.

  First, I had to find a big rock, and it didn't take long.

  A bit further up the mountain, I found the perfect battlefield. Flat terrain, fresh air, and more boulders than sense.

  Some were taller than me. Others looked like squat cousins of Waldo.

  It was time. Time to unleash the martial arts I had never formally learned, but definitely imagined myself mastering.

  “I hope they’re not related to you, Waldo.”

  He didn’t answer. Classic Waldo.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

  I channeled aura into my right arm and condensed it to its maximum.

  "Descending Sun Horizontal Slash!"

  Shouting the name of the skill like a deranged anime character fighting their archenemy, I performed a horizontal movement and released my aura like a blade.

  To my not-so-surprised surprise, it worked.

  The rock split cleanly in two, as if I’d actually known what I was doing.

  With a triumphant kick, I launched the top half like a discus made of hubris.

  Good. Time to test my idea.

  I placed one hand on each side of the rock, or half-rock, and began to let my energy flow into it.

  I started small, letting the energy trickle in.

  Then turned it up.

  Little by little.

  Trying not to accidentally create my first lava pool.

  Maybe, just maybe, the universe had decided to give me a break.

  The idea sounded incredibly stupid in my head…

  But it worked.

  Holy crap, it actually worked.

  The rock began to heat up rapidly, and soon turned red.

  I removed my hands to prevent my energy from continuing to flow and create lava.

  “Waldo… it’s time.”

  Time for the interdimensional cooking show no one asked for, but everyone deserved.

  "Welcome, viewers, to the Interdimensional Culinary Carnage?, the only show where the chef is also the killer of the ingredients!"

  Keegan stepped onto the imaginary stage, muscles glistening, hair matted with dried beast blood, eyes slightly twitching. What a handsome fellow!

  "Tonight, we're turning horror into haute cuisine. I'm your host, Chef Keegan, survivor, butcher, soon-to-be meat connoisseur and the winner of the past five hundred and ninety-two contests. Let's cook."

  The chef bowed to the audience, Waldo and his rocky cousins. They remained silent. Judging.

  "Today's main ingredient," he pointed dramatically to a slab of alien meat tied to a rock like a prisoner, "fresh hellhound steak, ethically sourced via hand-to-claw combat just minutes ago."

  He then approached the meat, took a steak and showed it to the audience.

  "We'll be grilling this on a handmade aura-stone using methods that would make Gordon Ramsay cry and run."

  He then placed the steak on the clean rock, also cut minutes before by his beautiful hand, and the time to cook began.

  "We begin with the Sacred Aura Sear, an ancient technique passed down by no one to no one."

  Chef Keegan placed the steak on the glowing red rock.

  He made his own sizzling noises: “Pssssssssshhhhhh.”

  "Look at that sizzle! That's flavor. That's pain leaving the body," someone from the audience said.

  He mimed sprinkling spice.

  “Just a touch of powdered despair. And maybe some salt, if the wind cries right.”

  But then... he heard the nastiest of voices.

  "Zat is garbage!"

  Keegan turned sideways, squinting. "What did you say, you fool?"

  "I, Chef K-Gon, ze supreme culinary mazzter of dimension 8-A, say your cooking is garbage, oui?"

  Keegan snapped back, voice full of rage. "You over-season your apologies and undercook your courage, K-Gon."

  The two glared at each other, until Keegan slapped K-Gon with a raw steak.

  "Keep you mouth shut, K-Gon, or the next slap will be with my bare hand wrapped in aura!"

  That did indeed silence K-Gon.

  Keegan continued cooking the steak until it was golden brown.

  Then, he handed it over to the most fussy and demanding judge the multiverse has ever known: Judge Keygen.

  Keegan stepped aside and sat cross-legged as “Judge Keygen.”

  He stared in silence. Waiting. Anxious.

  He'd just made the best meal of his life, and he hoped it was worth the sacrifice.

  Judge Keygen took a bite of steak and closed his eyes. Then he spun, puffed out his cheeks, and shouted:

  “Chef Keegan, this dish—it sings! Like an opera singer on fire!”

  K-Gon couldn't resist and tried a piece too. As soon as he took the first bite, a tear fell from his eyes. “Eet ‘as notes of… burnt dignity. Zesty. I give eet... trois out of five exploding eggs.”

  Judge Keygen smiled broadly, a warm expression on his face.

  "Chef Keegan! You are the winner of the five hundred and ninety-third Interdimensional Culinary Carnage? competition. Congratulations!"

  Keegan raised a scorched steak overhead like it was an Olympic medal.

  “I dedicate this win to my audience, my biceps, and the fine beasts who gave their lives for medium-rare glory.”

  He wiped away a tear with a bone. “You may be dead, but you will live on… in flavor.”

  The “camera” slowly zoomed out. Keegan sat, chewing quietly, eyes slightly wild.

  “…It was a good show, right, Waldo?”

  The rock did not respond. Classic Waldo.

  Keegan nodded anyway. “Next week: alien egg soup.”

  The curtains came down, and the show was over.

  I know. Fucking deranged.

  I'm sorry you had to read this, but it is part of my story, and I take no shame in that.

  Because when you’ve been alone long enough, you’ll do anything to hear applause—even if it’s just in your head.