Just like it smelled, it was sweet and delicious.
If anything, it tasted even better than the aroma promised.
A delicate, tender texture rolled across Ke Ming's tongue. The skin melted the moment it touched his mouth, juices sliding down his throat—warm, soothing, driving the chill out of his bones.
The braising sauce carried a faint trace of bloodiness, but instead of turning his stomach, it sharpened the flavor into something strangely fresh.
The meat was lightly browned, the heat perfectly judged—chewy without being tough, and unexpectedly crisp.
Even the bones had been fried until they turned brittle; the marrow inside still held a pale, silky softness. One bite—crackling outside, tender within.
He shoveled down several mouthfuls before he finally snapped back to himself.
The plate was spotless.
Not a shred left. He'd even licked the pool of sauce clean.
Still only half full, Ke Ming looked up at the Head Chef standing nearby.
"Want more?" the man scoffed. "None left."
Then he snorted as if offended by the idea.
"My cooking isn't for a little brat like you to waste."
The Head Chef bent down to take the plate, but Ke Ming snatched it away and bolted into the kitchen.
"H-Head Chef—! I'll wash it, I'll wash it! You rest, please!"
"You're slippery, aren't you." The Head Chef sounded amused. "Wash it and put it back in the cabinet."
He gave a satisfied grunt, then shoved open the front door.
"Stay put. I'm going to deal with the ingredients."
"Yes, sir—of course—!" Ke Ming pasted on a service smile, standing at the kitchen doorway with exaggerated politeness as he watched the man step outside.
He didn't even get to finish.
Bang.
The door slammed shut.
Locked from the outside.
So… I'm safe for now?
Ke Ming touched his face, half disbelieving.
He went to the window, stood on tiptoe, and peered out.
Outside was pitch-black. In the murky distance, he could make out several squat, tightly packed buildings boxed in behind brick walls. Windows crowded the street on both sides, but none were lit.
A few signs hung crookedly, flickering weakly now and then. He could barely make out words like "Heaven," "Food Street," and "Twenty-Three."
Good thing I learned to read early. Not many kids this small can, right?
He felt an absurd little surge of pride—conveniently ignoring the nearly thirty years of his previous life, most of which he'd lived like a beaten dog.
His mother had hired a private tutor, apparently an acquaintance of his father's. Strict, but genuinely serious about teaching.
An old man named Lovi.
Around sixty, silver-haired, always in a dark gray coat trimmed in green, glasses perched on his nose.
The old man had taught him many things.
Stories—like the Black Forest, and three little birds.
He had told Ke Ming about the Head, and about how there were twenty-six Wings in the City.
Like birds, the Wings had their Nests—precious places where their treasured children lived.
"You want me to teach a three-year-old?" his father had laughed, scratching his head.
The old man had sighed, helpless, but agreed anyway.
"Don't call me 'teacher.' I don't take disciples. Just like your dad—call me 'old man.'"
Remembering those days made Ke Ming's lips lift.
His mother would sit at the living room piano, slender fingers dancing over the keys—elegant, refined. The soft melody chased away every worry.
His father would doze in a rocking chair beside the piano.
And then—
His expression blurred.
So… they're dead? Just like that?
Five years of living together—enough for you to get attached to a stray cat or dog, let alone parents who had poured themselves into caring for him.
The love he'd barely tasted in his first life—he'd finally felt in this warm little home.
There was a line he'd seen somewhere.
I could have endured the darkness, if I had never seen the light.
Ke Ming shook his head hard, forcing the mess of thoughts away.
I still have to find a way out. Who knows when that psycho will decide to chop me up into a side dish.
The door's locked. The window opens, but with this body… jumping from the third floor? I'd be lucky not to die. More likely I'd live—half broken.
A rope… If I can find a rope strong enough to hold my weight, maybe I can climb down.
He pinched his belly, hopped a couple times on tiptoe, and nodded with cautious satisfaction.
He leaned back toward the window, trying to find anything he could use as a foothold outside.
Nothing.
No balcony. No external air-conditioning unit. No pipes.
The whole building was flat and clean, like it had been cut by a single blade.
The window frame stuck out slightly, but even if he clung to the ledge, there was no way his small body could stabilize itself.
After a few minutes of grim calculation, he abandoned the fantasy.
Not the window. Too dangerous.
Then—at the farthest edge of his vision—shadows appeared.
Ke Ming rubbed his eyes.
In the space of a heartbeat, blackness surged like a rising tide into every passageway. Every open stretch. Every corner.
Wherever there was a path, there they were—
Black humanoid creatures like divers in heavy suits, tanks strapped to their backs, orange hooks clutched in their hands.
The alley, which had seemed almost spacious a moment ago, was suddenly packed to bursting. Bodies collided with bodies, producing constant metallic clanging, drowned in the terrified shrieks and wails of humans.
Ke Ming saw someone sprinting down the street—
and then the black tide swallowed him, like a monstrous maw closing over prey.
Orange hooks speared into flesh. Soft meat dissolved almost instantly into a flowing liquid, drawn into those creatures as if being siphoned away.
Against that overwhelming flood, any human body—no matter how strong—was reduced to nothing but nourishment.
Someone tried to fight back.
Blades bit into black bodies with a harsh tearing sound, sparks spraying.
A creature fell, split open—
but the liquid that spilled out was the same, and the creatures behind surged forward, consuming and assimilating it.
They came in endless waves, showing no fear at their own dead—only advancing, again and again.
"Nearly got myself killed," a voice said behind him. "Good thing I made it back before Deep Night."
The Head Chef had returned at some point, standing in the doorway.
"Sweepers," he spat. "I'll never understand why the Head insists those things count as 'human.'"
He was breathing hard.
One hand dragged a sack. The other held a butcher's cleaver soaked through with fresh blood.
"Those tin cans are full of liquid like fuel. The cook over on the east side tried a sip once—died for real."
He heaved the sack onto his shoulder and dumped it into the storage room with a heavy grunt.
"The guy's whole body melted into liquid. In the end, only his head was left."
He clicked his tongue, disgusted.
"Don't know what those useless things—nothing on them you can eat—are thinking all day."
Then he turned his head slightly, eyes cutting toward Ke Ming.
"Alright. Get back to your room. You've got work in the morning."
"Yes, Head Chef—whatever you say!" Ke Ming replied instantly.
And he scampered back into his room without wasting a second.
-------
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