Underworld Pasta

Pretty ordinary daily life post. Normally, I'd just laugh and scroll past, but I couldn't tear myself away from that one.

Why? Because "This little shit won't get it, so eat this! I want that one!"

What the fuck is that?!

That post was about me.

"God, you're so dense!"

Bam!

What the?

The counter split in a perfect Z-shape. I backed away from the Cranky Elf, his face flushed beet red, trembling with rage. He'd really used mana—the counter tore like it was paper.

"So dense! Lost an arm and your brain with it?"

Now it's personal?

This was the arm I'd lost in that factory accident anyway. Shoddy safety gear and inspections, as usual. Shoulder-deep into the conveyor belt—unsalvageable, they said.

But hearing it from this cranky asshole? I was starting to get pissed too.

Still, I couldn't snap back. Not when it might screw over the Store Manager, my benefactor.

That's when it happened. As I endured, blue-uniformed figures slipped in quietly behind the cranky elf.

Cops.

"S-senior, what do we do?"

Fuck, rookies, what do you think? Save me!

You're here—grab him or something!

What are you standing around for...!

Frustration boiled over. Then, in this absurd standoff, my savior arrived.

"Hey, you there, mister."

Ding-a-ling!

A massive guy burst through the door—no bell, no bullshit, pure force. On a whole other level from the cops.

"W-who the hell are you!"

"C-Captain?"

Seemed like the rookies' boss. He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strode toward the elf and me. His bulk was intimidating even for me.

And then.

"To the room of truth."

One charismatic line, and—

"What? Cops? In front of this great elf, you humans dare—!"

Thwack!

Straight punch to the cranky's solar plexus.

"Guhk...! You bastard! Do you know who I—!"

Click.

"Urk?"

The cranky tried to stand, but the captain slapped something on his neck. He stared in panic.

I'd seen it on the news. Mana restraint collar. Blocks mana use or cuts efficiency by 50%.

In short: cranky was fucked.

Thud.

"Grrk, take this off! One word from me and you lot are—!"

I watched him get dragged away, clinging like a third-rate villain vowing revenge.

Bon appétit, customer... no, fuck off forever.

I flipped him the bird as a farewell gift—no return policy.

"You, you! Get over here! Let me go!!!"

He loved my service, thrashing wildly as they hauled him out.

"Phew... fuck all these heteromorphs, wish they'd all get wrecked. This job's killing me."

Dealing with one asshole human is hard enough. Add tower- and gate-spawned freaks? Nightmare fuel.

"Ugh, wish they'd all fuck off from our country."

Sure, artifacts and new materials help, but they're just more entitled pricks.

Not my problem anyway.

I left the split counter, tidied the mess the cranky made, and scrolled the gallery.

"Jiha, you okay?!"

How much time passed? The Store Manager had arrived.

"Ah, Store Manager, sorry... the counter..."

"Nah, don't worry. Heteromorphs pull this shit all the time. As long as you're not hurt."

"...Yeah."

What a guy. When every job and company shunned a one-armed orphan like me, he hired me no questions asked, always looking out.

Lifelong benefactor doesn't even cover it.

"Good, then."

He placed a sympathetic hand on my stump.

"No business today anyway. Take this and head home."

"You sure that's okay?"

He shoved a thick envelope—thumb-width of bills—despite my protests.

"It's fine. Money's no issue, and I've got a gate run after ages anyway."

Fair enough.

"Got it."

Felt a bit guilty, but hey, he offered.

"Alright, I'll head out then."

"Yeah, take care~"

I bowed and bolted from the convenience store.

The envelope in my hand: my pay plus consolation for the bullshit.

Assholes sucked, but this eased the sting.

Sniff, haaah—

Pulled out twenty-odd fresh Shin Saimdang bills, buried my nose in them.

That crisp paper scent filled my lungs. Financial therapy. Dopamine flooded, assholes forgotten.

"Phew! This is why I work."

Stuffed the cash back, hummed home with lighter steps.

A dingy goshiwon-like one-room villa. Fumbled keys, unlocked.

Creeeak—

Familiar sight: hard-won studio for a low-education one-armed dude.

"Ugh, hate everything about this dump."

Even I mind the moldy stench.

And.

"...Here it is."

Red paper in my right hand. Bold "" for my lost arm's hospital bill.

"Tch... fucking hospital won't cover it."

Towers and gates Americanized healthcare ages ago. No insurance for me.

Hard-earned cash down the drain—enough to make ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you lose it.

"Sigh... whatever."

Plopped at my ancient PC. Overthinking just depresses.

"What's for dinner?"

More productive dilemma. Universal across races: what to eat tonight.

Click.

Mouse clicked, Cooking Gallery loaded. Perfect for dinner woes. I like cooking anyway.

"Anything good today...?"

"People try everything."

"That juicy cow sirloin chapaguri looked bomb last time..."

This is modern Cooking Gallery reality. Cooking tower/gate monsters.

Aggro goldmine, sure.

"I'd eat dirt first."

Skipped untriable crap, kept scrolling.

Then.

"...Awakening?"

Hook title. Troll or nuke? Awakening pasta...

"...Just a peek?"

Curiosity won.

"What the...?"

1-4 made sense. Then 5 goes off-rails: mana stone powder and culture soil?

Screenshot saved just in case, but baffling.

Refreshed: (This post has been deleted.)

"Banned."

Mod ending, as expected.

"Worth trying...?"

Recipe saved. But 99% bullshit, too sketchy.

"..."

Recipe on screen, red demand letter glowing beside.

"Fuck it. Rock bottom life's seen worse!"

Tossed doubts, hunted ingredients.

"Noodles and sauce aplenty."

Single staple stocked. Left: culture soil, mana powder.

"Flower shop for soil. Mana powder..."

Hard for non-hunters. Pricey too.

Sniff, but I think it's around here...

Memory hit: phantom pain collapse day, Store Manager gave me mana powder.

Slide—

"Where'd I put it? Fucking hell, should've organized."

"Tch, was here..."

Rifled every drawer.

Finally.

"Found it!"

Blue powder in plastic. Kitchen sink drawer—surprise spot.

But got it.

Especially since.

"Culture soil too? Store Manager, you're the best!"

Deeper in: soil from last week, "Try growing a plant."

Timing perfect. God pitied me today.

"Boil noodles, drain, soil and powder..."

Followed recipe to the letter. All in.

Result.

"W-what the fuck is this...?"

Monster in my pan. Purple-blue-white mash, not pasta.

Has noodles and sauce, but brain screams not pasta.

"G-gotta eat...?"

Scooped the not-pasta onto plate. Visual assault first, then chemical stench.

Hesitation max.

"Ugh, no way..."

Overhyped. Lidded the pan, turned away.

As I moved to dump the abomination.

"..."

Red again. Tormenting rectangle.

"Last notice, huh."

Gulp.

...One bite?

Just once, stomach it.

"Fuck it, whatever. Awaken and live like a king!"

Crunch, crunch.

Crumble, crumble.

"Urk—!"

Pasta sounds? Texture like dirt-glass from a worksite. Taste... trash, obviously.

"T-this ain't it...?"

Impulse bite, but no. Beyond edible. Indescribable garbage.

"Haa..."

Swallowed somehow, sighed. Set chopsticks down.

I'm insane.

Demand letter scary, but this? Overreach.

Rose to dump the hated mess.

Or tried.

Thud.

"???"

Strength drained. Reached for floor—swung at air, collapsed.

"W-what the..."

Bizarre. Can't move, like sleep paralysis.

Eyelids heavy, sleep crashing.

"Gotta... clean up..."

Pasta on table in view.

Irresistible drowsiness sucked my consciousness to the abyss.

*

Clunk.

"Mmm... ate well, I see."

"...Nap and wake to change."

"Sleep tight..."