"Young Master, may I ask… how exactly do you plan to deal with this so-called cockatrice?"
Farkas posed the question carefully as they ascended the wooded path.
Yeats didn't answer right away. He was busy foraging—picking a handful of wild berries from a nearby bush. Then, from his travel sack, he retrieved a glass jar, mashed the berries into pulp, and began to stir.
"These berries are actually part of the cockatrice's preferred diet," he explained, calmly. "With a little sage and other herbs, this juice becomes a perfect bait. If the beast really is the culprit, it should show up soon enough."
Farkas's brows lifted in surprise.
"Ah, I see. Once it's drawn in, we strike it down?"
"Not quite." Yeats smiled slyly, holding up another ingredient. "We just add this."
He pointed to a cluster of shiny round fruit on a glowing-leaved plant.
"Croton berries."
Farkas's expression twisted into something between confusion and horror.
"You're… giving the monster a laxative?"
Yeats chuckled.
"Technically, I could also make a poison if I added some Widow's Cap and Moldblight Moss. But we're going the budget route today."
This wasn't just any laxative—it was Yeats' own high-intensity concoction, optimized through long hours of trial and error. Alongside croton berries, it included wet mushrooms, red thymeblooms, and other readily available ingredients.
Thanks to Phantom Wing's high crafting freedom, Yeats had created this "Yeats' Signature Gut-Buster" during one particularly chaotic patch cycle. It was cheap, effective, and quickly adopted by the player base as a pet-capturing weapon of choice.
Though, monsters caught this way rarely grew fond of their new masters…
"This recipe also helps me test a theory."
While stirring the potent brew, Yeats said thoughtfully,
"The cockatrice—part chicken, part serpent. But people can't agree on which end is the head and which is the tail."
"My theory is simple: whichever end eats… and whichever end, uh, reacts to the croton berries—that tells us all we need to know."
Farkas blinked slowly.
My young master… is pursuing biology through gastrointestinal warfare.
Soon enough, the "special juice" was prepared and placed in a conspicuous clearing. The two of them hid in the bushes, watching.
Minutes later, something strutted out of the underbrush—a giant chicken with the size of an ostrich, clucking arrogantly. From its rear trailed a massive serpent tail, hissing as it moved.
"Well… I'd bet the chicken end is the head," Farkas whispered.
"Shhh—it's coming closer!"
The cockatrice picked up the scent, let out a gurgling croak, and bounded toward the bait.
As they watched, the snake tail dipped down and slurped the juice.
Farkas's eyes widened.
"Wait… does that mean the snake part is the head?!"
"No, I've just realized a flaw in my hypothesis," Yeats said seriously.
"What if it uses the same head for both ends?"
Farkas: …excuse me??
The effects were immediate.
The cockatrice began stumbling, tail frothing at the mouth (or… some orifice), and even the chicken side started projectile… spraying.
Farkas stood stunned.
No wonder no scholar could ever reach a conclusion.
"Alright," Yeats said, waving the stench away. "It's harmless now. Go finish it off."
"...Yes, Young Master."
Farkas unsheathed his iron sword and, with surprising elegance, cleanly sliced the creature in two.
Yeats raised an eyebrow.
"Huh. Didn't know the old man still had moves."
Farkas, meanwhile, was equally shaken.
"Young Master… when did you develop such skill in potion-making?"
That's just how life-skills players roll.
If you can't fight your way through a monster…
Feed it until it surrenders.
"Passion is the best teacher," Yeats replied, completely bullshitting.
"Let's bring this thing back and show the village."
Farkas nodded with visible pride and opened a massive burlap sack, loading the creature's twitching remains inside before heaving it onto his shoulder like a pro.
"Young Master, I must say—our trip to Morningfrost Ridge suddenly feels a lot more hopeful!"
Yeats: ?
Don't you dare start raising death flags, old man.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the village base.
The sun dipped low in the sky.
The defeated cockatrice was placed in front of the villagers like a prize pig at a festival.
They stared at it with wide eyes—equal parts awe, guilt, and mild nausea.
Grey had been released and was now tying her hair into a high ponytail. She had strapped a bandit-style hand axe to her leather belt and was idly rotating her wrist.
"See this?" she huffed. "Not a witch. Just an efficient pest control service!"
The village elder turned pale, nearly collapsing to his knees.
Grey quickly stepped back.
"Whoa whoa—no kneeling. You'll throw your back out. Besides, per Imperial Code Page 30, Clause 7, I demand both compensation and an apology."
"Of course, of course," the elder nodded hastily.
"Just hand the coin to that pretty noble kid over there."
Grey pointed toward Yeats with mild annoyance.
"As for the rest of you—you're all apologizing one by one. Or I'm tossing every single one of you in jail. Understood? Speak up!"
Yeats smiled as the coin pouch was handed over.
He weighed it thoughtfully, then looked up with a frown.
"Madam, I believe there's a misunderstanding here."
"Eh? What's wrong, Young Master?" the farmer's wife asked nervously.
"This money is for the adventurer's trouble," Yeats said calmly.
"I handled the monster. That's an extra charge."
The villagers exchanged panicked looks. The elder gave a weak chuckle and nodded—technically fair.
Monster parts sold well, so Yeats had Farkas load the cockatrice into the carriage and began gathering supplies for their journey.
"Wait!"
As expected, Grey caught up with them.
"Name's Grey. A Dragonblood. I was on a solo journey until these country bumpkins tried to roast me alive."
She raised a hand to her forehead dramatically and sighed.
"Thanks for stepping in, by the way."
"Dragonblood?" Yeats asked, though he already knew the answer.
Grey puffed her chest with pride.
"A warrior blessed with the blood of dragons—destined to hunt the ancient beasts!"
Ancient dragons were this world's apex predators—mythical creatures from ages past, powerful enough to flatten cities… and, per game lore, delicious beyond belief.
Back in Phantom Wing, Yeats' guildmates often brought him fresh dragon steaks to cook before diving into dungeon raids.
Now, in this world, he wasn't aiming to become a king or hero.
He just wanted a quiet life.
But the flavor text had been clear:
Dragon meat was five-star gourmet.
And that awakened a deep, primal curiosity in Yeats' culinary heart.
"So, you're a noble, huh?" Grey said casually.
"That means you're rich, right?"
Standing under the sunset, she smiled with awkward charm and made her pitch:
"I'm out of supplies. If you could spare some rations… maybe let me tag along for a bit?
"I swear," she added nobly, "when I slay a true dragon one day, all the loot's yours!"
Yeats:
Whoa, whoa—don't drag me into your death quest.
Then again…
Grey did become a powerful ally in the game.
Having her around would definitely help with the whole "wilderness survival" thing.
"Actually, I am looking for a guard," Yeats said, tossing her the coin pouch.
"This is your advance payment for one year of protection. Rations included."
"A year?" Grey tilted her head. "Where are we headed, anyway?"
"Kingdom border. Morningfrost Ridge."
"Deal!"
She beamed under the fading sun, her ponytail fluttering like a banner.
Yeats felt a small chill.
Why did she agree so fast? Don't tell me… Morningfrost spawns ancient dragons?!
This world was full of monsters—especially dragons, feared for their power and prized for their meat.
To survive, Yeats needed more than clever potions.
He needed strength.
But he was still just a nerdy college student with no combat skills and no system cheat…
…Wait.
Yeats glanced around, then stared at the air in front of him.
"System?"
Nothing.
He rubbed his forehead.
"Figures. Can't just summon a cheat panel with a catchphrase."
"...Interface?"
[Ding—]
A soft, mechanical chime rang out—clear as crystal.
Yeats froze.
Oh my god, it actually worked.
Pale blue text flickered into view.
And at the top of the Talent section, one golden phrase glowed like a Michelin star:
[Gifted Trait: Spirit of the Feast]