Gozmo watched the at cook intently. Seven small sausages sizzled in butter, directly laid out in a pan. The divine aroma wafting from them made his nose twitch.
"Almost ready," he murmured, blindly reaching to his right to pull a plate closer. He didn’t dare look away, fearing the al might burn. Under normal circumstances, that would have been unfortunate. Today, it would be catastrophic as the dollop of butter he had used might very well be the last in all of Proxima.
The Tutorial had whisked the Arkanians’ elite to this hostile planet, but while most of them were barely better than swine, no actual animals had made the journey. Gozmo was fairly certain that a minimum level of intelligence and self-awareness was required to qualify for the System’s Tutorial. Without dairy animals or factories to produce artificial protein and fats, producing butter had beco an impossible dream. It was a pri example of the loss of abundance Arkanians had enjoyed all their lives. Only lunatics and enthusiasts were excited about the System’s existence.
“A catastrophe, if you ask ,” he growled, flipping his homade sausages one last ti.
Unlike butter, at had a price—one Gozmo couldn’t afford. The surrounding forests teed with ga, but few soldiers had the patience or inclination to hunt. As a tailor, even one as skilled as he was, Gozmo lacked the funds to indulge in such luxuries.
That was why the last grams of butter in Proxima were now cooking rat at. Sohow, those wretched rodents had found a way to infest an entirely new planet. Not that it had saved this one from ending up in his pan.
“Dinner is served!” the tailor declared with a grin, sliding his al onto a plate. He stowed the utensils in the sink and wheeled his chair toward the wood stove. Electricity was expensive without power plants, and with no gas or fuel, wood remained the best option for heating and cooking.
Grabbing a plump sausage with his less-than-immaculate fingers—soap was another luxury these days—he brought it to his mouth and took a bite. The explosion of flavor nearly brought tears to his eyes. Even the stove’s fla seed to flicker brighter. That second reaction wasn’t normal.
“What the—”
With a tallic screech and the shattering of glass, the stove detonated. Flas roared to the ceiling, as if a demon were clawing its way into the world. When a figure erged from the inferno, Gozmo pressed his plate against his chest to protect his treasure. Then ca the mont of reflection. Could eating rat at be so secret ritual to summon a vengeful god? Or had the rodent eaten the wrong mushrooms? It didn’t sound like a trip, but with magic, nothing was impossible anymore.
“Good evening,” said the infernal being, demanding his attention.
“... Are you real, or am I hallucinating?”
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