I mutter, dragging my boot an inch to the side like that’s gonna stop her from breathing down my neck. My shoulders lock up—rigid as iron rebar—every tendon pulled so tight I half-expect something to snap. Jaw’s clenched so hard my molars are probably shaving each other into dust.
And still—she doesn’t move. Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just there, rooted in place, inhaling my oxygen like it’s a power play. A statue, I think. No—a trap. Sculpted from porcelain and a long, glittering history of terrible life choices. All of that stillness? Aimed directly at me like a drawn blade.
"You’re breathing down my neck."
I grit out, turning just enough to catch the edge of her face in my peripheral.
She tilts her head in reply—slow, deliberate, unsettling. Too smooth, like a snake deciding whether to strike or savor the moment. And there it is again—that twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Something worse. The kind of expression curiosity makes after three drinks and no impulse control.
Something cold pinches tight behind my ribs. My instincts—sleepy, half-buried things that haven’t gotten much use since I stopped living in war zones—finally stir.
Careful, big guy. She’s the kind of strange that gets people turned into cautionary tales.
"You breathe weird," she says.
Her voice is silk-draped steel. Soft. Elegant. But there’s a glint under it—something jagged, coiled, amused. Like she’s testing me for weak spots. Or maybe just bored enough to poke at things until they break.
I freeze mid-reach. Hand suspended in the damp air like a malfunctioning scarecrow.
"Excuse me?" I rasp, and my voice scrapes out rough—too raw, too loud in the hush of the mossy clearing. Real smooth. Very dignified. Absolutely not rattled.
She sniffs once. Sharp. Dismissive. Like she's trying to pinpoint what fear smells like.
And then—gods help me—she starts huffing. Loud, dramatic, wheezing inhalations through her nose and mouth.
"Like this—huhhh, huhhh," she goes, puffing her cheeks out like she’s warming up for the clown opera.
The sound bounces off the stone around us like a slapstick ghost having a moment. My eye twitches. I can feel it. Several. Solid. Twitches. Right below my brow, ticking like a countdown.
I stare at her. Hard. Narrow my eyes until she’s just a blur in a fog of pure, vibrating irritation.
Is she seriously mocking me?
I imagine the invisible sign hanging over her head:
“Professional Menace. Now Accepting Victims.”
And she’s committed, too. Full performance mode. Cheeks puffed, huffs exaggerated to cartoon proportions—like a deranged forest wolf who never got cast in the school play and took it personally.
My skin itches. My spine’s locked tight. And because my brain hates me, it decides this is the perfect time to hyper-analyze every breath I’ve ever taken.
And yeah... okay. Maybe I do breathe a little weird.
I drop to one knee and start laying everything out on the dirt like I know what I’m doing. I’m hoping none of it kills me before I figure out how to cook it.
Alright. Let’s see what today’s foraging panic haul looks like.
First up—mushrooms. Big, red, soft around the middle. Squishy, but not leaking. A good sign. Maybe. They haven't bitten me yet, so they go in the "probably edible" pile.
Next—leafy greens with a bite sharp enough to clear my sinuses and maybe my soul. Smell hits me like cheap garlic spray and regret. Nice.
Then... tubers. Small. Ugly. Knobbier than my knees in winter. Potato-adjacent, maybe. Could be food. Could be sentient landmines. Fifty-fifty shot either way.
And last but not least—a damn glowing carrot. Because sure. Why not. Normal vegetables are too mainstream for this hell dimension. This one pulses faint orange like it’s broadcasting a distress signal. Honestly, same.
I clap my hands once. Loud. Confident. Theatrical. Mostly to convince myself I’ve got this under control.
“Alright. Stew’s on the menu. Or something vaguely stew-adjacent.”
Across from me, the demon girl leans in. Close. Too close. Her silver-white hair brushes the dirt as she sniffs the pile like a bloodhound with opinions. Her nose crinkles like I just offered her boiled gym socks.
“This doesn’t smell like food,” she says. Flat. Judgy. Disappointed in me on a spiritual level.
I give her my best tired smile—the one I reserve for awkward family dinners and back-talking enchanted doors.
“That’s because it’s not cooked yet.”
She narrows her eyes. Thin gold slits. Predator eyes.
“So… when do we kill it?”
I blink. Once. Twice. Let the silence stretch, hoping the universe will hand me a manual I can flip through.
“Kill what?”
She gestures with both hands at the ingredients like I’m the idiot here.
“The food.”
I stare at her. Then at the pile. Then back at her.
“It’s already dead. That's why it's food.”
She frowns, slow and suspicious, like I’ve just tried to sell her a cursed sword as a back scratcher. Then she picks up one of the tubers.
“This one’s still moving.”
And yeah. It is. Just a little wiggle, like it’s trying to be discreet. But I see it. A slow twist in her palm like the thing’s warming up for a sprint.
I snatch it from her so fast I nearly pop my shoulder out. My heart does a full somersault behind my ribs.
“New rule,” I say, clutching the traitor potato like it personally offended me. “If it moves, it doesn’t go in the stew.”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Because if survival has taught me one thing, it's this—
You don’t eat stuff that tries to crawl off your plate.
The demon girl is practically vibrating. Her eyes shine with barely-contained mischief, like she's one bad idea away from turning this campsite into a crater. She hovers close—too close—close enough that if she breathes wrong, I’m getting a flaming nose job.
Her horns catch the firelight as she tilts her head.
“Do I get fire powers now?” she asks, voice soft and dangerous, like she’s imagining a small village going up in smoke and calling it a spa day.
I shoot her a look.
“No. It’s just fire. You know—hot, cook food, don’t die.”
She pouts like I just kicked her puppy.
“Lame.”
Yeah, should’ve seen that coming. She’s a demon. Fire probably counts as comfort food.
Still, gotta keep her occupied. I pull out my knife—small, sturdy, not too stabby—and offer it to her, handle first.
“Help me prep. Start with the mushrooms.”
Her entire face lights up. And not in a good way. There's a gleam in her eyes that makes my spine tense. That knife is not going to meet the mushrooms in any peaceful way.
I jerk the blade back before she can start slicing like she’s auditioning for a horror movie.
“Actually, y’know what? Just… watch. That’s your job now.”
She puffs out her cheeks, folding her arms with theatrical irritation.
“Tch. Fine. I’ll do the fire part.”
Before I can even register the words, she leans in. Into the flames. Bare hands. No hesitation. She just grabs the fire.
Scoops it up like bathwater.
I freeze. Brain blue-screens. Mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
The Codex reappears, just as smug as she is.
[New Discovery: Demonfire Affinity]
She stands there, holding a wriggling, living piece of fire in her palms like it’s a toy. It bends and twists, a snake made of light, flinging sparks across the clearing while she grins like a toddler with a flamethrower.
“Put. That. Back,” I say, the words calm but brittle. Like I'm one wrong word from snapping in half.
She blinks. Then, with painful slowness, lowers the flame chunk back into the fire pit. It settles without fuss. Like that was totally normal.
“There,” she announces, brushing her hands off. “Cooking.”
I stare at her.
Then at the fire.
Then at the sky, like maybe the gods will send me a refund on this entire experience.
I press my fingers into my temples, grinding slow circles like I’m trying to scrub the scene from my memory.
“I need a drink,” I mutter.
Somehow—against reason, physics, and whatever gods oversee campfire cuisine—the stew actually works. It bubbles like a lazy mudspring, sending up curls of steam that smell… shockingly decent. Rich. Meaty. A little wild. Either I’m the culinary savant no one asked for, or demonfire really does come with seasoning perks.
The demon girl edges closer, buzzing like she’s got lightning under her skin. Her eyes shimmer—a red-glow sort of hungry—and her tail’s twitching like she’s stalking prey.
She leans forward, practically nose-deep in the pot.
“When do we kill it?”
Mid-scoop, my hand just stops. Spoon hovers. My eye twitches.
“For the last time,” I say, each word weighed down with a century of regret, “it’s not alive.”
Big-eyed innocence. From a girl with horns.
“You said it was for food. You said I was learning how to cook.”
“I am teaching you how to cook. Not how to slaughter. There’s a difference.”
She shrugs, nonchalant.
“Barely.”
And there goes my sanity. I plant a hand over my face and just sit there for a second, wondering what I did to deserve this fate. Babysitting a murder-imp with a taste for chaos and a loose understanding of the culinary arts.
“What... even is my life right now?”
But the stew isn’t gonna serve itself. I ladle out a portion and shove it at her like it’s a peace offering. She takes it like it might lunge at her. Pokes it with the spoon like it’s a trapped animal.
“It’s not moving,” she mutters.
“It’s not supposed to.” I snap.
The words come out sharp. Too sharp. She blinks but doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs again and takes a bite.
Then her eyes go huge. Like dinner plates. And before I can even ask if she’s choking, she tips the whole bowl back and chugs the stew like it’s water at the end of a desert hike. Gone in seconds. Nothing left but steam and the faint sound of her swallowing her soul.
“Oh,” she breathes, staring into the empty bowl like it betrayed her by not refilling itself. “I like this.”
I blink at her. Then I taste my own. And—well. Damn. It’s good. Like, actually good. Warm. Hearty. A bit of a kick that hits just behind the teeth. The kind of thing that makes you think maybe the apocalypse can wait until after dinner.
And of course, right on cue—
[Your apprentice has unlocked a new Profession: Cooking.]
[New Skill Gained: Sous Cook.]
[Reminder: Do not allow your apprentice near fire.]
I exhale a long, slow breath, like maybe, just maybe, I can sigh the madness out of existence.
“What even is my life…”
Her bowl clatters at my feet like a challenge. She stares me down, eyes narrowed, voice flat.
“More.”
I raise a brow.
“What do you say?”
She tilts her head. Narrower eyes. Calculating now.
“More.”
“No, you’re supposed to say please.”
Her expression drops like I just suggested we hold hands and recite poetry.
“Why?”
“Because it’s polite.”
She tilts farther, joints protesting. Her stare turns surgical.
“Does it make the food taste better?”
“No. It makes you less of a goblin.”
She leans in. Eyes glowing. Voice dead serious.
“…More, goblin?”
I close my eyes. Pinch the bridge of my nose. There’s a headache forming. Not a small one either—this is the kind that grows roots.
Yep.
Long haul. Weird partnership. Zero survival manuals prepared me for this.