Chapter 1: Michelin Star to Cat Food
The last thing Ren rembered was the perfect sizzle of A5 Wagyu beef hitting a hot cast-iron skillet.
She was filming the season finale of her wilderness cooking show, Gourt in the Wild. The lighting was just right, the river babbled nearby, and her sous-chef Dave had actually rembered the truffle oil this ti. This was the high point of her career. She felt like the Queen of the Kitchen, the Empress of Umami.
Then, Dave tripped over a cooler, knocked her into the ravine, and the world went dark.
So, when Ren opened her eyes, she expected to see a hospital ceiling. Or maybe Dave’s weeping face begging for forgiveness.
Instead, she saw a leaf.
Not just any leaf. A leaf the size of a Toyota Prius.
"What the..." Ren groaned, sitting up. Her body felt like it had been tenderized with a at mallet.
She patted her chest. Ribs intact. She wiggled her toes. Legs functional. She looked at her right hand. Her fingers were still gripped white-knuckled around the handle of her trusty 10-inch Lodge cast-iron skillet.
"Well," Ren rasped, her throat dry. "At least I died with my weapon of choice."
She stood up and brushed dirt off her cargo pants. The air was thick and humid, carrying a scent that felt ancient: wet earth, crushed pine, and sothing tallic. Like blood.
Ren frowned. She spun around, taking in her surroundings.
This wasn’t the ravine. It wasn’t even the sa climate. Trees soared hundreds of feet overhead, their roots as thick as houses. Ferns uncurled like giant green tongues. And the sounds...
Snap
A massive branch breaking echoed through the clearing. It didn’t sound like a squirrel.
Ren’s survival instincts, honed by years of yelling at incompetent line cooks, kicked in. She scrambled behind the thick root of a massive tree, clutching her frying pan to her chest.
From the shadows of the dense fern forest, a creature erged.
Ren stopped breathing.
It was a tiger. But calling it a tiger was like calling a nuclear bomb a firecracker.
The beast was huge, easily two ters tall at the shoulder. Its fur was pure, snowy white, with jagged black stripes like lightning. But it was the feeling coming from the animal that made Ren’s knees shake.
It didn’t walk; it prowled with a terrifying, fluid grace. Every muscle rippled under that fur, heavy and lethal.
But sothing was wrong.
The tiger stumbled as it moved, panting hard, with drool hanging from its jaws in thick ropes. Its eyes, which should have been a majestic gold or blue, glowed a frightening crimson.
Rabies? Ren thought, her heart hamring against her ribs like a trapped bird. Mad Cow Disease? Mad Tiger Disease?
The beast let out a low, guttural growl that shook the ground and seed to go right through Ren. ’I’m going to be an appetizer.’
She held her breath, praying to the Kitchen Gods that tigers had a poor sense of sll.
The tiger stopped. Its massive head snapped toward her hiding spot. The nostrils flared.
’So much for the Kitchen Gods,’ Ren thought.
With a roar that sounded like a jet engine taking off, the white tiger lunged.
"Nope! Absolutely not!" Ren shrieked.
She didn’t think; she reacted. She dove to the right just as the tiger’s massive paws pulverized the tree root she had been hiding behind. Wood splinters exploded like shrapnel.
Ren rolled, coming up to her knees. The tiger was already turning, faster than anything that size had the right to be. It crouched, muscles bunching for a second pounce.
Ren scrambled backward, her hand brushing against her backpack, which had miraculously fallen with her. She grabbed the first thing she could find...a plastic container of her signature ’Devil’s Dust’ spice blend (Cayenne, Ghost Pepper, and Szechuan peppercorns).
"Back off, mittens!" Ren yelled, uncapping the jar.
The tiger didn’t speak English. Obviously. It launched itself at her, jaws wide open, revealing fangs the size of steak knives.
Ren threw the spices.
A cloud of red dust exploded in the air between them.
The tiger flew through the cloud. Ren squeezed her eyes shut and held up her frying pan as a pathetic shield, waiting for the crunch.
Sneeze.
It was the loudest, wettest sneeze Ren had ever heard.
KA-CHOO!
The impact never ca. Ren cracked one eye open.
The massive apex predator was currently shaking its head violently, pawing at its nose with a paw the size of a dinner plate. It sneezed again, a sound like a cannon firing, and stumbled back, shaking its head. The red glow in its eyes flickered, montarily replaced by a confused, watery gold.
"That’s right!" Ren shouted, though her voice was an octave higher than usual. "That’s Szechuan pepper, buddy! It numbs the palate and the sinuses!"
The tiger shook its head one last ti and looked at her. The murderous rage was dampened, replaced by confusion and... pain?
Even though she was scared, Ren paused. As a chef, she knew how to read bodies. The tiger wasn’t just angry; it was starving. She could see its ribs under the thick fur, and its stomach growled as loud as its roar. It looked like it was burning up from the inside.
’It’s sick,’ she realized. ’It’s hungry, but it can’t eat.’
Suddenly, a chanical voice chid in her head, crisp and clear as a bell.
[Ding! Host Vital Signs Stabilized.][Welco to the Beast World.][System Activation Code: ’Back off, Mittens’ accepted.][The Gourt Hunter System is now online.]
Ren blinked. "Did I hit my head harder than I thought?"
[Target Detected: White Tiger (Alpha Male). Status: Feral Curse Stage 3. Critical Hunger.][Recomndation: Feed the Beast. If he starves, he eats you. If you feed him, you live.]
Ren looked at the tiger, then at the frying pan in her hand, and finally at the terrified lizard scuttling by her foot.
"Feed him?" Ren hissed at the air. "With what? I’m the only at here!"
[Scanning Inventory...][One (1) Pack of Ergency Bacon found in backpack.]
Ren’s eyes widened. She ripped open her bag. There, nestled between her spare socks and a solar charger, was a vacuum-sealed pack of thick-cut, maple-cured bacon she had saved for a rainy day.
The tiger had recovered from the sneezing. The red glow was returning to its eyes. It lowered its head, growling low, preparing to finish what it started.
Ren didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her camping lighter and a handful of dry moss. She flicked the lighter. Fire blood.
The tiger flinched, terrified of the fla, backing away.
"Stay back!" Ren commanded. She dropped the bacon into the cold skillet and shoved it over the burning moss.
Sizzle.
The sound was small, but the sll was instant. The aroma of rendering pork fat, maple sugar, and smoke wafted up, cutting through the damp jungle air like a holy decree.
The tiger froze. Its nostrils flared. The crimson madness in its eyes wavered.
"That’s right," Ren whispered, watching the fat render, her chef instincts taking over the fear. "You don’t want raw, bloody at. You want the Maillard reaction. You want flavor."
She wafted the sll toward the giant beast.
"Co and get it, big boy."
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