...
Dark Forest.
Nighttime.
In the center of a wide clearing within the dense woods, a camping tent was pitched.
A campfire crackled in front of the tent, its warm flames dispelling the damp chill of the night.
A massive Hellhound Skeleton lay quietly by the fire, its gaze fixed on the black iron pot hanging over it.
The thick soup in the pot was bubbling away—GURGLE GURGLE—with edible mushrooms and large chunks of venison tumbling within, releasing waves of fragrant aroma.
As a Transmigrator from the great gourmet Empire, Lynch had already bled the deer when butchering it to minimize the gamy taste.
Lynch leaned back comfortably in a folding chair draped with a soft animal pelt. He held a long-handled wooden spoon, occasionally stirring the thick soup. With a pair of long chopsticks, he casually picked up a piece of venison leg, stewed until it was fall-apart tender, rolled it in a specially-made dipping sauce in a wooden bowl, and popped it into his mouth.
