Chapter 06
Village Petty Criminals (1)
This script didn’t include this… is this an attack signal?
The moment that thought surfaced—
Clack.
Swoosh—.
Instinctively, I raised my shield and lowered my body.
With the knife I had brought in one hand, I crouched and backed away. From behind the sturdy tabletop, I kept the opponent in my sights.
Once its full form entered my vision, an unfamiliar tension dried my mouth, and my hands began to tremble.
The church’s head chef, cook Poko, was a giant purple bear plush character.
However, unlike ordinary bears, its right ear was torn off. The area was not patched with fabric but covered with what looked like human skin, stained a deep, dark red.
The grotesque surface made my heart shrink slightly. The ladle in its hand, and the Chinese cleaver on the table, both felt threatening.
Still crouched behind my shield, I slowly reached toward the cleaver.
‘Don’t make a sound… quietly…’
My sweat-slick palms nearly caused me to slip a couple of times, but I managed.
However, I made a mistake while placing the knife down. A small clink echoed.
I quickly checked for movement beyond the shield.
But the cook did not suddenly swing a blade at me in rage.
For the first few minutes I was frozen stiff from fear, but as an awkward calm continued, I began to feel confused.
‘What is this? What’s going on? How close is it? What am I supposed to do? Can I survive? Wait a second…?’
As my thoughts spiraled, eventually landing on baseless relief—
I peeked my face out from the side of the shield.
The cook standing in the doorway had already entered the kitchen…
“…My meal!”
It was holding the pot of curry.
Amid fear and confusion, a question rose in my mind.
‘Why is it doing that?’
Normally, if you didn’t kick over the pot, the correct response was to leave it alone. It never inspected food like this.
And when it decided someone had made the wrong choice, it didn’t behave like this either.
It would simply walk in and slice everything apart, and a fresh “game over” screen filled with meat illustrations would appear.
‘So why is it acting like that? Something’s wrong?’
The moment I crystallized that thought—
Drip.
“…?”
A single tear rolled down from the black bear’s eye. It looked almost identical to what humans call tears.
Confusion flooded me.
A monster… could cry?
Frozen in place, I stared blankly at the purple bear cook. A hypothesis formed in my mind.
‘Don’t tell me… it was moved by how good my cooking is?’
My curry is at the level of legendary nurungji stew? So my skill is so high the world can’t comprehend it?
Without realizing it, I covered my mouth with my hand.
This wasn’t the time for that, but I felt a bit moved anyway.
‘Yes… it’s about time the world recognized my worth—maybe even a monster.’
Just as I began to feel a strange sense of closeness and expectation toward the terrifying purple bear—
It collapsed.
And covered its face with both hands.
“My kitchen…”
“Trash came out…”
“The shame of the kitchen…”
“Trash…”
“So disgusting…”
“Ueeehhh…”
It wailed.
A sound like something from a funeral hall echoed through the kitchen. As the tears overflowed, the entire atmosphere grew damp. Even my gaze felt lukewarm and heavy. Everything felt slightly soggy.
“……”
I became solemn.
Carefully, I lowered my legs from their crouched, frog-like position and knelt properly on the floor.
Not because of anything else—just in case it might forgive me if it saw that.
Chef Poko the bear plush was truly kind.
He never forced me to place bread on my head and shout, “Repeat after me, I am a stupid loaf of bread!” Nor did he beat dough with my head.
Compared to the monster that had tried to eat my head on the first day of possession, this was a completely different existence.
Even though he was still a monster designed to be capable of harming humans, I had thought I might get sliced up at any moment… but Poko was genuinely gentle.
After crying for about 20 minutes, Poko finally spoke.
“It’s okay.”
“You just need practice.”
And then…
“You… are…”
“My greatest trial in bear life…”
“Hah… my bear life…”
He wasn’t okay.
I learned for the first time that cooking required real expertise.
No, why shouldn’t you use high heat? I’m hungry. High heat would make it faster.
And what does “a little salt” even mean? There’s no standard unit for “a little”!
And more importantly…
‘Why do you put potatoes before onions?’
Potatoes are for eating, and onions are… soup flavoring, right?
Wasn’t it supposed to be: broth ingredients like dried anchovy, green onion, and onion first, then everything else?
My worldview felt like it was collapsing.
‘So… is this why I was banned from the kitchen?’
Thinking back, things like this had happened often.
My parents, who normally let me handle cleaning or dishes however I wanted, always stopped me whenever I tried to cook.
Even my practical arts teacher who gave me mostly A’s always gave me a C when it came to cooking.
Even my friend Cheolsu, who tolerated me treating his house like a temporary base and even stealing his liquor sometimes, would immediately curse at me if I entered the kitchen.
‘Maybe… I already knew the answer…’
I looked down with a bitter expression.
On the dark wooden table sat my half-finished iced Americano.
It looked as miserable as Poko sitting there.
‘No, steak I understand—but why this? It was good…’
A 17-year iced Americano addict felt a slight crack in his pride. This one was genuinely good. Drip coffee especially had a nice aroma.
I glanced at Poko and asked cautiously.
“Do you hate coffee?”
“Not coffee.”
“Uh, Americano…”
“Not coffee.”
“Then… liquid coffee-like Americano…”
“Liquid trash.”
You… picky bear… hateful bear…
But I didn’t have the courage to argue.
With that torn ear and the skin-like covering around it, and the hanging meat in the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to object.
‘Don’t talk back… the bear is right and I am wrong.’
Holding back tears, I began wiping the floor.
The faint fishy smell on the ground was replaced with the scent of coffee, easing my discomfort slightly.
After finishing my makeshift “cooking training” and cleaning everything Poko called a failure, I cautiously looked around.
Poko, who had seemed deeply troubled moments ago, was now sitting with his chin resting on the table.
I had no idea how that huge, fat plush body was supported by the chair, or how such sorrow could appear on its face, but I kept quiet and sat in front of him.
After staring at a distant mountain in silence for quite a while, Poko finally spoke after ten more minutes.
“Come tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
“The kitchen belongs to everyone.”
“Food… should be enjoyed.”
“Come tomorrow.”
At that moment, reflexively—
‘…Me?’
I thought it, but didn’t say it out loud.
My eyes darted sideways.
Creaaak, creaaak!
Wriggle…
The sight of fresh meat hanging from a massive hook on the ceiling caught my attention.
After that worst cooking lesson, even the faint sense of comfort I had gained evaporated instantly.
No matter how brave someone was, no one could refuse in front of that.
So I said:
“Ah… okay. Thanks for the lesson! I’m leaving!”
And the next day…
‘Oh my god, this is insanely good.’
I regretted ever doubting Chef Poko.
The steaming, over-soaked fish dishes, with lifeless eyes and gills, looked like they came from a sewer drain…
Yet they were unbelievably delicious.
‘This is the first time I’ve met a cook, no—bear, better than Cheolsu…’
It was truly delicious.
So delicious I almost cried.
Anyway, Poko is the best.
After that, for several days, I occasionally wandered around the church collecting items or went to the kitchen to resupply “Poko’s Cooking,” a life-recovery item.
Everything went relatively smoothly, and I spent my time doing everything I could before officially entering the church’s main storyline.
However, there was a small problem…
Clang!
A large glass bowl collided with my fingertips, making a sharp sound. It was surprisingly clear.
I frowned and looked inside. It was empty. A sense of unease rose.
“There’s almost nothing left to eat.”
I muttered and pulled one of the four chairs in my house over, climbing onto it.
‘If I want to survive… I can’t delay this anymore.’
I recalled my recent memories.
I had been gathering food in various ways.
Fruits from trees scattered around the village, edible-looking wild plants from nearby fields.
I avoided mushrooms since I couldn’t tell which were poisonous, but I had been seriously committed to foraging vegetables.
‘And I also took ingredients from Poko’s kitchen.’
But there was a problem.
‘I can’t keep relying on that, and Poko’s cooking is a life-recovery item—I need to stockpile it.’
My food at home and the ingredients for Poko were both running low.
‘The nearby plants are also getting depleted because of me… I’ll have to go again.’
Just thinking about sourcing food made my mouth dry. Even though I had done it before, it still felt guilty.
But regardless of circumstances, survival comes first.
Reaffirming that, I stood up and grabbed a dark cloth.
I had already cut four holes into it. I placed it over my head, aligning the holes with my eyes, nose, and mouth.
Looking in the mirror, I resembled a nighttime intruder.
Staring at myself, I recalled my food supply route.
It was—
“Village looting. Food farming.”
Today, I will raid the village.
