The Grueling Bibimbap Ordeal
My back arched like a bow as I gulped down saliva. I stared blankly at the massive black fang clutched in my hand—the poison fang I'd roughly torn off because my Dismantling skill wasn't up to snuff. Bits of centipede flesh still clung to it.
"Heh... heh heh heh."
A mad laugh bubbled out of me. How could words capture this indescribable bliss?
"Whoa~ this is gonna be so damn tasty."
Smack—I tapped my forehead. My envisioned future self looked utterly glorious.
"Haa..."
I sighed, placing the cursed poison fang on the cutting board. Gripping my cleaver carefully, I brought it close to the fang.
"Hoo—" Breathing out slowly.
Slice—I pressed the cleaver against the tip and cut.
But.
"Huh? What the hell."
Screeech—The fang screeched like it was screaming "steel bar!" but refused to yield. What was going on? I could slice through mana stones like tofu if I treated them as ingredients, yet this single fang had me stumped...
I eyed it with puzzled confusion. Then it hit me.
"...My soul's rejecting it."
This wasn't an ingredient. My inner soul was screaming it! Deep down, I refused to accept the poison fang as food, so no amount of self-hypnosis could activate True Taste or any skills.
But damn, it was physiologically impossible. Goblin head smoothie? Just green juice. King Slime butter rice cake? Some common Chinese snack. Fine.
Bugs, though? No fucking way. I'd even used the BBQ sauce to exterminate centipedes instead of eating it.
But this? I had to eat the bug. That gross shit.
Shiver.
"Ugh... fuck, am I some Tailkan underclassman or what?"
At least they'd grind it into paste. Me? I had to chew the crunchy bastard whole, savor every revolting texture.
But I couldn't skip it.
…… points, ??? function unlocked.
With threats like that, how could I not eat it?
"Aigoo... my shitty fate."
Lamenting my lot, I shuffled to the entryway storage. I pulled out a decent-looking meat tenderizer mallet.
"...Whatever, it'll be fine."
It didn't even register as 1% ingredient material. So, smash it was. The recipe just said add poison fangs—form shouldn't matter.
"Hoo—" Heavy, deep breath.
I raised the mallet high overhead.
And.
"Die, you demon!"
I slammed it down at the devil trying to ruin my spring onions. The mallet hurtled toward the fang—fast but heavy—crashing into it.
But.
Clang—brrr.
"Ughhh—"
It felt like striking steel. The fang sat unfazed, unchanged.
"Argh, my hand!"
"Fuck... what are you, some senator swinging a fist during a speech? Ow—"
It was rock-hard, like making a massive omelet. And that hardness mirrored my bleak future.
I glared at the fang, cradling my numb hand. In the end, only one path: force my brain to see it as food and slice it.
One word: impossible.
"What, need a frequency to trick me into eating bugs?"
I pondered long and hard, emotions swirling.
My genius solution?
"Maybe slice while looking at other ingredients...?"
A thrifty chef's brilliant hack. Or like that experiment: hide your arm, sync senses to a fake one.
Stare at a photo of something else, brainwash yourself: this is that ingredient, not the fang.
"Eh, sounds retarded, but no choice."
Even I thought it was dumb. But what else? Couldn't touch the damn thing otherwise.
I rummaged for an unused box. In the corner, where the two slimes romped, sat a pathetic cardboard box.
"Jackpot."
An old delivery box I'd been too lazy to toss. I brought it over, open side facing me.
Phone on, screen timeout off, pulled up a pointy chocolate pic, set it atop the box.
Then thought.
"...Should I not?"
Even dumber than expected. But no choice. Stupid or not, success meant revolution.
I shoved the fang into the box, cringing at my tingling fingertips.
"This is chocolate. Chocolate…!"
Eyes on chocolate, fingers traced the fang slowly. Pointy end? Gaze at chocolate's tip. Bulky part? Side view.
Cleaver in carefully.
"Here goes—!"
I sliced forward firmly.
Shrick.
"Huh?!"
It worked?! The cutting sensation shot clearly up my nerves.
I yanked the box away. The fang's tip was sliced clean off. Success! I beamed with pride at my innovative genius.
But joy faded fast.
"Ah, shit, shouldn't have looked...!"
The cross-section was trash-tier gross. Black outer shell peeled back to reveal translucent flesh inside. Not some fancy European choc-ice cream.
Heart sinking in dismay and absurdity. Touching it? Squishy, tactile nightmare.
"Haa... gotta change the pic."
Chocolate too soft—needed tacos. Boxed the fang again.
"Ugh, get lost."
Tossed the pre-sliced bit out of sight. Taco pic up, sliced away.
Shrick. Shrick.
Lost in the zone, trance-slicing each piece. Fingertip sense said done.
Box away.
"Kuh—I'm the best. Nailed it."
Inside: total success. Dopamine high crashed quick, though.
"Eh, sliced fine, but now I gotta eat this shit."
Reality hit. Dumped sliced fangs onto the spring onions on the board. What a clusterfuck visual: fangs atop well-mixed onions like taco abomination. Even plain tacos wouldn't look great—knowing fangs? Nauseating.
"Haa..."
No more curses left. Just exhaustion. Dumped in thawed frozen rice, mixed.
It morphed from "spring onion salad with fang side" to Poison Fang Spring Onion Bibimbap.
Added mana stone powder, mixed thoroughly.
"Whoa—looks tasty...."
Finished bibimbap: drool-worthy? Nah, choking hazard. Black bits amid greens/onions? Fine, think kimchi.
But those chunky translucent globs? No. Especially oozing into rice. Gag.
Stomach churning, grabbed spoon. Think cheese. Cheese cheese cheese. Spoon neared.
Closer... closer... stopped.
"Oh, right—photo."
Save some for posterity. Turtle-paced to shelf, grabbed phone.
Click.
This masterpiece deserved recording. Photoshoot done.
Back to bibimbap showdown. No more delays.
Gulp—spoon up.
"Fuck it!"
Rip the band-aid. No point dragging. Spoonful scooped lightning-fast.
Squish—rice, fang, onions, innards perfectly balanced. No time to register.
Shove—crunch.
"Urk—!"
Chewing: something burst. Shouldn't have eaten. Crisp, crunchy, sticky, chewy—all coexisting.
Then.
That indescribable fucking clean, nutty aroma assaulted me. Nutty and clean sounds good? Not from a goddamn bug.
People die from this! Sticky burst of juices and scent.
"Urp—!!!"
Body bowed like a bow from the force.
"Pah—! What the fuck!"
Swallowed the bite barely. Too hardcore. Goblin smoothies and butter cakes were tasty or edible at least?
Why this? Onions and rice harmony perfect—I admit. But fangs ruined everything. Visual aside, taste-ruiner.
One word: fresh grass grove, Bear Grylls hands you a grub-topped rice bowl.
But eat I must. That truth tormented me.
Eyed second spoonful.
"...This is taco."
Lies... tacos ain't this gross. Self-brainwash failed. Bibimbap's power was violently potent.
Thought: feed to slimes? My minions—system might count it.
But the sharp-eyed duo hid ages ago.
My burden.
"...Fine. You die or I die—let's see."
Gaze shifted from fear to defiance. Grabbed laundry clip, pinched nose shut.
Spoon high. Today, one of us dies. Do-or-die resolve: shoveled bibimbap madly.
Room echoed with crunches and dry heaves.
* A while later.
Long, arduous ordeal. Bloated belly contrasted empty bowl.
"I... I won!"
"Urk—!"
Me versus bibimbap fortress: victory for the great Lee Jiha. Heavy damage, sure.
But satisfaction of conquering that bastard outweighed it. Immensely.
And above all—screw rewards.
I ignored system messages, beelined for the computer.
"Can't let me suffer this shitty feeling alone..."
To broadcast the agony, my hands moved first.