The knife felt different in my hand.
The effect wasn't immediate. But now that I held the same knife in my hand, the motion was more fluid, as if somehow between the time Torren left and the twins arrived, I'd had time to practice another hundred times.
I pulled up my Skills.
[Skills]
> Appraisal — Lv. 2
[Passives]
> Cooking — Lv. 2
> Survival — Lv. 1
[Gathering — Locked]
I had level two Cooking now. My theory was right. My hands were steadier, locking into place. Butchery—that's what the knife autocorrect was. It guided hand placement, nudged the wrist, kept the blade where it needed to be. And Heat Control had tightened up too, the palm flame sitting banked and ready under the skin with more range than before.
Those two I could feel. The other three—Prep Technique, Palate, Ingredient Identification—were there the way a muscle you've never flexed is there. Present but still level one and useless until I actually used them.
Together, I'd become less mildly incompetent.
'Two upgraded skills out of five. Not bad actually.'
I dragged the Gullmaw carcass out from the corner and laid it next to the Velmora on the counter.
"Appraisal."
[Ding!]
[Appraisal — Lv. 2]
> Velmora (Low Rank)
> Category: Bird Wyvern
> Edible: Yes
> Note: High fat content in breast and thigh.
I nearly fainted. Two extra line compared to the Gullmaw. Category and a culinary note. Still no prep instructions though. Regardless, progress is progress. I'd take anything like I said.
'Fat content in the breast and thigh. That's cool but... What do I do with that information? No idea.'
I turned to the Gullmaw. The carcass was picked over from the broth—bones, scraps, and the parts I'd been too scared to touch. The green sac sat near it on the ground, totally forgotten.
I reached for it, paused.
'Wash my hands. Wash my hands first.'
And so I did. The water was murky, then clearer. Where this water was coming from I did not want to find out. A low vibration, much like a growl—the turtle-dove, I realized—seemed to answer in return.
'Don't think about it. Don't think about it.'
The green sac was still there, waiting for whatever ending I had intended for it. I grabbed it without thinking and immediately froze.
'This is... poisonous. Not venomous. I remember science class. Thank you, Mrs. Wordle.'
I guess that's how it went for everyone in school. You learn nothing until your life depends on it. Or was it the other way around? Anyway, it was time to test my second theory.
I set it in a clay bowl and grabbed a cut of Velmora—a scrap from the neck area, too ragged to serve. Then I gathered the little courage I had and punctured the sac with the tip of the hunting knife. A single drop rolled down the blade and hit the meat.
It hissed. Actually hissed—like water on a hot pan, except the pan was raw bird and the water was poison. The spot where the drop landed went dark, then sank, then just... wasn't there anymore. A tiny, dry hole the size of a fingernail fizzled where it used to be.
One drop did that.
I laughed out loud. Not because it was funny. Well, maybe it was.
Before I could regret my ugly outburst, Kael glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes stayed on me for a second, then she turned back to Kaen and whispered behind her gauntlet again. That was the second time she'd done it and even then she was pretty about it. Kaen's eyebrows went up.
'So that's full strength. And I need to put this in someone's food. On purpose.'
I stared at the sac, then the crater where the meat used to be.
'Water. Just... put water in it. That's what you do when something's too strong, right? Like mixing up foundation until the pores disappeared.'
I grabbed a clay cup, poured in a finger-width of water from the bucket, and then realized I had no way to get a smaller amount out of the sac. The knife tip had given me a full drop and a full drop had melted meat. I needed less than that.
I dipped the blade in again, barely touching the surface. A bead clung to the steel—half the size of the last one. I flicked it into the cup and stepped back like it might explode.
The water fizzed, tiny bubbles forming and deforming in the same breath. As if I'd recreated soda all over again. I wouldn't dare test it though.
Fuck, I might just have to at this point.
'Okay. Okay that's good enough. The cup is fine. Let's try the meat.'
I looked at the cup, then back at the meat. This was crazy.
Behind me, Kael shifted on the bench. "How long does this usually—"
"Leave her alone," Kaen said without turning around. "She's obviously new."
"All the cooks are old. This one..."
Kaen must have pinched her through the armor or something because she actually went quiet.
'Speaking of Kael... what if I poisoned her? On accident of course.'
Palate was only level one. I never taste-tested what I made with Torren. I hoped he was okay. He seemed okay enough.
The bigger question was whether or not I could taste poison. Even at level one, wasn't that just normal tasting at that point?
'Just do it. You've eaten worse. Remember that expired sheet mask that touched your lip?'
Okay, no. I made that up. But the fear was real enough.
I dipped my pinky into the cup, and what greeted it was warm liquid. I did the next most unreasonable thing: I touched it with my tongue.
My whole mouth seized up. Sour—not food-sour, chemical-sour. Wasabi-sour, but five times worse. My eyes watered next, then my tongue gave out. My lips puckered so hard they went numb.
'That's... it's like acetone. It's literally acetone for meat.'
But it didn't burn. And my tongue wasn't dissolving. So that was a huge success. If you ignored my tongue going numb.
'That's edible. I'm calling it edible.'
I dunked a scrap of Velmora into the cup. Held it there because I didn't know how long was right. Counted to ten because ten felt like a number and then pulled it out at nine.
The surface had changed from soggy to pale and tight. The way my hands did when I spent too long in the shower staring at the drain.
'Is that what curing is? I think that's what curing is.'
I sniffed it. It was sour. I almost gagged. That's what Kael asked for.
'If I don't kill her with this then I'll consider that a victory.'
I dunked another scrap and left it longer. Past ten. Past twenty. Thirty—still fine, firmer, paler. I got greedy and left the next one in past forty. The edges went rubbery.
'So thirty is the limit. Ish. Thirty-ish seconds.'
That was the math I could work with.