Erika followed Cole's lead.
From a rough wooden shelf nearby that reeked of aged timber and grease, he retrieved a heavy ceramic bowl with a chipped rim and a long wooden fork.The handle was polished smooth from use, yet the tines were oddly sharp.It felt cold in his grip.
Mimicking Cole, he approached the massive, roiling pot at the center, from which that intense odor emanated.
The few people gathered around the cauldron exchanged almost no words.
They simply—and naturally—shifted to either side, silently making room for two more.Their movements were fluid, as if rehearsed countless times.
Their gazes remained glued to the boiling surface of the broth, utterly indifferent to the newcomers.
"Hurry up! Almost time!"
The lazy yet insistent voice of the owner drifted from behind the counter, accompanied by a few impatient raps of knuckles against wood—
thump, thump—
like a reminder of some invisible countdown.
"Ohh… hungry…"
A few low, guttural groans rose around them—sounds squeezed from deep throats, radiating a primitive, desperately suppressed craving.
But Erika's attention was now entirely fixed on the giant pot before him.
Glug… glug…
The thick, deep sauce-colored broth churned violently.Bubbles formed and burst on the surface.
Beyond the rising, popping bubbles—and the occasional glimpse of some dark, unidentifiable chunk roiling up—nothing could be seen beneath.
Only a chaotic, unknowable murky brown.
The people around the pot, including Cole who had just taken his position, had already plunged their long wooden forks into the boiling stew.
They didn't stir.
Instead, they let their forks move—exploring with a precise angle and rhythm just beneath the surface of the scalding liquid, occasionally giving a gentle flick.
Their movements carried a strange focus and caution,as if they weren't fishing for food—
but conducting some delicate, high-risk underwater operation.
Watching the countless wooden forks silently dancing and probing in the thick soup, Erika began to understand how this meal worked.
Just as this realization settled in, and he prepared to imitate them—lowering his own fork into the seething broth—
"Hahaha! I got one!"
A man in a grimy leather vest, his face covered in stubble, suddenly let out a hoarse yet wildly triumphant cry.
He yanked his wooden fork high into the air!
Impaled on its tines was half a glistening, deep-red sausage, dripping with thick sauce.It looked substantial, shimmering with a tempting sheen in the dim light.
Almost the instant the sausage was exposed to the air—
Erika heard the sound of swallowing.
Not just one.
Several people gulped in unison, a desperate, hungry gulp.
He instinctively glanced up.
The faces that had been focused solely on "fishing" moments ago were now turned as one toward the man holding the sausage.
In the gloom, their eyes seemed to gleam with a near-crimson light.
They stared—unblinking—at that half-sausage held aloft.
There was no congratulations.
No envy.
Only naked, almost bestial greed and possessiveness—burning as if they wanted to devour the sausage, the hand holding it, and the man himself, chewing and swallowing everything whole.
The triumphant grin on the man's face faltered.
It twisted into wariness—and a flicker of barely perceptible fear.
He hastily pulled the fork back to his chest.His other hand rose instinctively to shield the sausage as his body turned slightly sideways, slipping into a defensive posture.
The already heavy air around the pot snapped taut.
Only the glug-glug of the broth remained—and those viscous, tangible stares of hunger.
Cold sweat broke out on Erika's palm as he clenched his own icy wooden fork.
He understood now.
Here, "eating" wasn't just a gamble.
It might also be—
a close-quarters, silent war of hunger and survival.
And that boiling pot was the heart of the battlefield.
"See? All real ingredients."
The owner's lazy voice drifted over again from behind the counter, tinged with detached indifference—and a hint of pride, as if advertising the superiority of his goods.
"Behave yourselves."
He paused, his muddy gaze sweeping over the figures tensed by the sausage, then snorted twice through his nose.
"Consider it a friendly reminder. Hmph."
His words fell like a bucket of icy water.
The heat in those greedy stares receded, if only briefly.
The man with the sausage seized the moment, retreating two steps to press his back against the wall.He began wolfing it down.
The sound of chewing was obscenely loud in the silence, drawing out more suppressed swallows.
Cole nudged Erika—who was still processing everything—with his elbow.
His voice was low and quick.
"Four tries for you.""Make them count."
Before Erika could think about what that meant, Cole had already extended his fork toward the violently churning surface.
But he didn't strike immediately.
Instead, he held the tines steady—suspended right at the edge where bubbles burst.
His hand was unnervingly still, trembling only faintly.
It was as if he were sensing invisible currents beneath the broth—temperature gradients…or the movement of something else.
Erika watched, eyes wide, trying to pierce the thick, sauce-like surface—and seeing nothing.
Cole's focus was extraordinary.
That suspended fork resembled a predator's feeler, brimming with restrained tension.
Suddenly—
Cole's eyes sharpened.
"Got one."
A short, decisive grunt.
The words barely left his mouth.
His wrist snapped.
Forearm muscles tightened.
The fork struck like a viper—piercing the rolling surface and plunging deep in an instant!
The movement was so fast it left only an afterimage in the air.
Almost reflexively, the others nearby flinched back in unison.
One even raised an arm, bracing for a splash of scalding broth—in a place like this, ruining your only set of clothes was probably worse than going hungry.
Yet—
No splash came.
The point where the fork pierced the soup didn't even ripple.
The boiling, viscous liquid behaved unnaturally, swallowing the fork and "healing" the puncture at once.
It continued to glug-glug as if nothing had happened.
Just as Erika was reeling from this quiet defiance of physics—
Cole's arm lifted steadily.
A soft slosh—
thick liquid sliding off.
When Erika snapped his focus back to the fork, his breath hitched sharply in his throat.
What rose from the pot wasn't a sausage.
Not a chunk of meat.
But—
a massive, thick-cut steak, its edges marked with perfect sear lines.
Even more chilling—
a clean, half-moon-shaped bite mark had been taken out of it.
The cut surface was fresh.The muscle fibers were clearly visible.
As if it had been torn straight from someone's plate—and casually tossed into this pot that had been simmering for who knew how long.
"Holy… hell…"
For a moment—
dead silence surrounded the cauldron.
Then—
"Hiss—!"
A wave of sharply drawn breaths, mixed with shock and overwhelming longing.
"Ugh…"
Someone let out a sound that was half a sob, half a strangled whimper—a sound of collapse, barely held back.
More swallowing followed.
Louder this time.
Gulp—gulp—gulp.
Raw.Unashamed.
Every gaze—including the man who had just finished his half-sausage, grease still smeared at the corner of his mouth—was nailed to the massive, intact, purely meaty, sear-scented steak on Cole's fork, and to that glaring bite mark.
The greed, jealousy, and even a sliver of horror in those looks reached a peak.
Cole seemed oblivious to the reactions around him.He merely examined the steak on his fork carefully—especially the bite mark.
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then smoothed out again.
He deftly transferred the steak to his ceramic bowl, then turned to Erika.
He held out the sauce-smeared wooden fork toward him.
His face remained expressionless.Only his eyes spoke.
Your turn.Four chances.
Under the weight of countless crimson stares—stares that seemed ready to devour him whole.
Before that bizarre, viscous, secret-hiding pot.
"Well, well."
Even the owner—who had been lazily slumped behind the counter—was roused.He straightened his bulky frame slightly, squinting as a glint of shrewd light flickered in his eyes.
His gaze locked onto the bite-marked steak in Cole's bowl.
"Looking to make a friend?"
His tone carried a probing edge.Perhaps even a faint recognition of good luck.
Cole, utterly unfazed by the conspicuous bite, only grinned.His teeth were flecked with meat fibers.
He took another hearty bite of the steak, chewing as he spoke—his words muffled, yet clear.
"Could my friend here get a few extra tries? Hah?"
He jerked his greasy chin toward the still-dazed Erika.
"Not my call, hah."
The owner waved a hand and slumped back into his chair.But his gaze swept over Cole and Erika once more—
that dry hah utterly devoid of warmth.
The air around the pot grew even tighter after Cole's successful haul.
Those who had been hesitating—probing cautiously at their chosen spots—suddenly snapped into action.
"If you don't go now, the chance is gone!"one voice rasped, desperation roughening every syllable.
"Quick! Quick!"another urged, eyes locked on the pot—yet stealing glances at the meat in Cole's bowl.
Even Erika was infected by the atmosphere.
His shock at the bite-marked steak was momentarily pushed aside.
Hunger stirred.So did a strange, competitive impulse.
What would he catch?A sausage?A chunk of meat?Something else?
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to recall Cole's movements.
He imitated him.
Holding his breath,he suspended the wooden fork above the churning surface.
Scorching steam washed over his face.The smell was overwhelming.
He aimed—at a spot where a bubble burst,where a dark shadow seemed to flicker beneath the surface—
And stabbed down.
His movement was clumsy.Violent.
Nothing like Cole's.
Squelch!
The fork didn't slip in silently.
It tore brutally through the viscous surface.
A large gout of scalding, dark broth erupted upward,splattering the surrounding area!
"Good grief, boy!"
The owner jolted upright, crying out in distress.
"Don't wreck my pot! Careful—that's hot! Gently!"
Startled, Erika yanked his fork back.
The tines were empty.Only thick sauce dripped from them.
He had caught nothing.
Embarrassed, he hunched his shoulders and looked around,bracing himself for blame or mockery.
None came.
No one even looked at him.
Those splashed with broth showed no anger.
Instead—
They stuck out their tongues.Eagerly.Meticulously.
They licked the scalding sauce from their faces and arms.
Their expressions were almost reverent—savoring, satisfied—
as if even those few splattered drops were an unwastable part of the meal.
Their gazes never left the pot.Or, occasionally—the remaining steak in Cole's bowl.
Erika turned to Cole for help.
Cole was busy wrestling with a tendon on the steak.
His cheeks bulged as he chewed with wholehearted enthusiasm.
Utterly oblivious.
To Erika's failure.To the small commotion.
Consumed entirely by the food.
Then—
"I… got one too!"
A thin, wiry man—who had been silently "fishing" all this time—suddenly cried out in excitement.
He jerked his fork up.
All eyes snapped toward it.
On the fork was nothing but a large, irregular bone.
Bare.Trailing membrane and sauce.
It looked like the middle section of a large animal's leg—with barely any meat left on it.
"Damn it…"
The man's excitement collapsed instantly into disappointment—and deeper hunger.
But he didn't hesitate.
In the very next second,he shoved the bone to his lips.
He sucked greedily.Vigorously.
Loud, forceful slurping echoed as he tried to draw out the marrow,licking clean every shred of membrane,every trace of flavor.
The sight was even more ravenous than simply devouring meat.
The silent war around the pot continued.
Some came up empty.Some claimed scraps.
And Cole—
Cole had landed the eerie, bite-marked jackpot.
Erika tightened his grip on the chances he had left.
He watched—
the patrons licking spilled broth,the man sucking bare bone,Cole feasting without restraint.
Only then did he truly understand.
Here, "eating" had long since shed any veneer of civility.
What remained was its most primal form—cruel, unpredictable,and utterly ferocious,its grotesque visage laid bare.
And it seemed that his so-called "vacation" curriculum had gained yet another lesson—
A heavy one.A hungry one.