Chapter 412 Time for a Proper Feast while the Goblins Sleep

Then, the ingredients.

A thick slab of raw meat—deep red, marbled with streaks of fat that promised mouthwatering juiciness when seared. A burlap sack of potatoes, each firm and starchy. Fresh vegetables, slightly crisp from the cold, but still full of flavor. The scent of dried herbs and seasonings filled the air as she lined up her ingredients, already envisioning the meal she was about to create.

“Time for a proper feast while the goblins sleep,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves.

She started with the potatoes grabbing a knife and peeling them. She diced them into perfect cubes, ensuring they’d cook evenly. Into the cooking pot they went, accompanied by fresh water from her flask. She placed the pot near the fire, letting the flames lick the bottom, the water slowly beginning to bubble.

Next, the meat.

She unwrapped the thick cut of steak and set it on a wooden cutting board, pressing down with her fingers to feel the firmness of the flesh. Perfect. Using her knife, she carefully scored the surface, allowing the seasonings to penetrate deeper. A pinch of salt, a generous sprinkle of black pepper, and a dusting of finely chopped herbs—all rubbed in with slow motions.

The pan sizzled the moment she placed it over the fire, the metal hissing as it adjusted to the heat. She added a pat of rich, golden butter, watching it melt and bubble, releasing an irresistible, nutty aroma. As soon as the butter reached that perfect point of sizzling, she laid the steak down with a satisfying sear.

The sound alone was pure bliss—a loud, crackling sizzle that sent a burst of fragrant steam into the air. The meat drank in the heat, its surface caramelizing into a beautiful, golden crust. She tilted the pan slightly, spooning the bubbling butter over the steak, bathing it in rich, sizzling fat, ensuring every bite would be as tender and flavorful as possible.

While the steak cooked, she turned her attention back to the soup.

The potatoes were beginning to soften, and she tossed in diced onions, their sweetness immediately filling the shed with an inviting aroma. Next, chunks of carrots, celery, and a handful of mushrooms, their earthy scent adding depth to the simmering broth. A pinch of salt, a touch of pepper, and a single bay leaf for that extra touch of warmth.

The fire crackled. The soup bubbled. The steak sizzled.

The shed, once filled with the bitter chill of the storm, was now heavy with the intoxicating fragrance of cooking food—warm, rich, mouthwatering. Even Hermit, despite being wrapped around Kaka in deep sleep, twitched his nose, drawn to the delicious scents wafting through the air.

She flipped the steak one last time before pulling it off the heat. She let it rest on a wooden plate, the juices glistening on the surface, waiting to be savored.

With one final stir, the soup was ready, thick and hearty, steaming with a golden broth that promised warmth down to the bones. She helped herself a generous portion into a bowl, grabbed her knife, and sliced into the steak—revealing a perfect, juicy pink center, glistening with flavor.

Lifting the first bite to her mouth, she finally indulged—sinking her teeth into the tender, buttery meat. And for the first time all day, she let herself enjoy something good.

Just as she was about to sink her teeth into the rich, buttery steak, her sharp eyes flicked toward the wooden crate.

She froze.

There, peeking over the edge, a row of trembling, miserable little hatchlings had emerged—one by one, their tiny, wretched heads stacking on top of each other like a pathetic totem pole of suffering.

Their eyes—big, glistening, glassy—were locked onto the food, unblinking, shimmering with pure, unfiltered desperation. Their mouths hung open, drool dripping from their tiny lips as they swallowed hard, their tiny noses twitching as they sniffed the air greedily. The scent of the meat seemed to drive them into a frenzy, their tiny bodies trembling with hunger as they chirped and clicked softly. Their little jaws quivering, tiny forked tongues flicking out as if tasting the air itself might somehow soothe their gnawing hunger. But it only made it worse.

One of them swallowed hard, its thin, scrawny throat bobbing up and down as if trying to push down the ache of emptiness in its belly. Another let out the weakest, most pitiful whimper—a sound so feeble, so frail, it barely made it past its own lips.

Then came the tiniest, most broken little chirp.

Suzuka blinked.

The tiniest hatchling—so small it barely reached over the crate’s edge—wobbled on weak, twig-like legs, its frail body shaking like a leaf. It sniffed desperately, its tiny nostrils flaring, its chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Its stomach let out the saddest, most pathetic gurgle Suzuka had ever heard—a soft, empty plea from a belly that had never known fullness.

One by one, the other hatchlings joined in, their desperate little noses twitching, their tails weakly flicking, their scrawny limbs trembling as they clung to the crate, drooling shamelessly.

One slipped and tumbled down, rolling onto its back with a weak thud, its tiny limbs flailing in the air like an overturned beetle before it slowly, miserably, righted itself again—only to return to its pitiful begging position, eyes locked onto the food once more.

Another hatchling, unable to control itself, let out the softest, most sorrowful whine, a noise so small and wretched it barely scraped the air.

They looked so small, so fragile, their translucent skin stretched tight over their tiny frames. Their ribs were visible beneath their thin skin, their bellies hollow from days of starvation. They chirped softly, their voices trembling with desperation as they stared at the meat.

At first, they just stared.

Then—the smallest one moved.

It lifted a trembling, scrawny arm, its miserable little fingers splayed out, reaching—reaching for her, so weakly, so helplessly.

But the edge of the box was too high.

It strained, its tiny muscles quivering from sheer exhaustion, trying to stretch just a little further—but its frail, malnourished body could not obey its will. Its fingers clawed at nothing but air.

With a pitiful whimper, it collapsed back into the nest of hay, panting, its tiny chest heaving up and down. Then another tried.

This one, slightly bigger, dug its miserable little claws into the side of the crate. It scrambled, weak limbs shaking violently as it tried to pull itself up—but the moment it got an inch off the ground, its grip failed.

It slipped and tumbled backward, then crashed onto its siblings, knocking them over like a bundle of twigs. A soft, pitiful yelp filled the air, followed by a series of tiny, miserable hiccups.

But they didn’t stop. One after another, the hatchlings tried. Their frail bodies—so thin, so malnourished—shivered as they struggled to climb, their tiny feet kicking against the wooden walls, their nails scratching uselessly as they scrambled in vain. 

One managed to hook its claws onto the edge—just barely. For a moment, it dangled there, its tiny chest heaving, its tail flicking wildly as it fought to pull itself up. Its tiny arms trembled, its fingers slipping—

Then—It fell. Hard. Right back into the pile of hay, landing on its back with a soft, broken squeak. The moment it hit the ground, it curled in on itself, shivering, whimpering softly.

And still, they kept reaching.

One of the stronger ones placed its tiny claws against the wooden wall of the crate, scrabbling at it with all its might. Its brittle little legs trembled, barely able to hold itself up, but it tried—it tried so hard. Its nails scraped against the rough wood, leaving behind the weakest little scratch marks as it wobbled and wobbled, its tiny tail lashing for balance.

One of the smallest hatchlings didn’t even bother trying to climb. It simply stretched its arms as far as it could, reaching, reaching, reaching, its tiny fingers opening and closing as if it could somehow grasp onto her from afar.

Its tiny, trembling throat let out the saddest, most broken chirp, a noise so soft and full of longing that it might as well have been a plea.

One of the weaker hatchlings, too exhausted to even lift itself, simply slumped forward, pressing its tiny face against the rough wood of the crate, its feeble little hands pawing at the side, as if trying to burrow its way through the solid surface to get to her.

Its tiny shoulders shook. Its breath hitched. And then, in the most pitiful display yet—It let out a weak, strangled little hiccup. The sound of helpless, hopeless sobbing. They were so small, so helpless, that even the slightest movement seemed to take all their strength.

One hatchling, slightly bolder than the rest, made another attempt to climb the splintered wall. Its tiny claws dug into the wood, its body trembling with the effort. But as it reached higher, its tiny palm slapped against a jagged splinter that jutted out from the side of the box. The splinter pierced its soft, delicate skin, and the hatchling let out a sharp, high-pitched squeak of pain. It recoiled, letting go of the wall, and tumbled backward. In its fall, its head struck the face of another hatchling who had been watching from below. The impact was enough to knock both of them unconscious, their tiny bodies collapsing into a heap on the floor of the box. The others gathered around, their tiny hands pawing at their fallen siblings, but there was nothing they could do.