Harbingers of Civilization

Rice crouched over the tribal ingredients with the same focused intensity of a general about to lead his troops into battle. He examined each component carefully, his brain clicking into gear as he tried to find similarities between what lay before him and familiar ingredients he knew back home. The long, knobbly roots were earthy and aromatic, reminiscent of parsnips with a hint of ginger. The glossy red berries smelled tart, a cross between cranberries and pomegranate. The amber paste was a pungent, fermented concoction, almost like miso but with a wild, untamed edge. And those large, waxy leaves? They would do nicely as a makeshift wrap.

"Alright," Rice muttered under his breath, a spark of manic excitement in his eyes. "Time to get cooking."

The woman watched him silently, her spear still within reach, her expression unreadable. Around them, the other tribespeople glanced curiously in his direction, but their tasks continued as normal—for now.

Rice glanced over to the central fire, where a massive spit turned slowly, roasting some kind of wild animal. He grinned. "Borrowing that," he announced to no one in particular. He scampered over, flashing his best I-come-in-peace smile to the men tending the fire. They scowled at him, but when he made exaggerated gestures asking for a hunk of meat—pointing to his mouth and rubbing his stomach like a desperate mime—they grunted and hacked off a chunk of sizzling, charred flesh. Rice snatched it with both hands, muttering, "Much obliged," before scurrying back to his makeshift prep station.

What followed was a montage of glorious chaos.

Rice set to work, transforming into a whirlwind of motion, all cocky flair and culinary focus. Using a sharpened stone knife borrowed from one of the weavers—after much protesting—he peeled the roots, their rough skin curling away to reveal pale, starchy flesh. He sliced them into neat chunks, tossing them onto the massive leaves. Next, he mashed the crimson berries into a thick, tangy paste, adding a careful scoop of the pungent amber paste for depth of flavor. He muttered like a mad scientist as he worked. "A little sweet, a little funky—trust the process."

Skewering the freshly cut root chunks and torn pieces of roasted meat onto sharpened sticks, Rice dipped the whole ensemble into his improvised berry glaze, coating everything in a ruby-red sheen that caramelized slightly under the campfire flames. He held the skewers just above the embers, rotating them with careful precision. The fat from the meat dripped onto the fire, sending up tantalizing bursts of smoke that carried the scent of charred berries and roasting flesh through the camp.

He couldn't resist a dramatic flourish. At one point, Rice flipped a skewer in the air, catching it perfectly before sliding the meat back over the fire. "Gordon Ramsay, im coming for you," he muttered, grinning to himself.

The final touch came when Rice wrapped the skewers in the thick waxy leaves, trapping the smoky aroma inside. He held up one of his finished creations—a golden-brown masterpiece of perfectly seared meat, caramelized roots glistening with berry glaze, and a delicate char from the fire.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Rice announced, standing and holding the skewer aloft, "the Piece de Résistance." He carefully approached the woman, holding the food out to her like an offering to royalty.

The woman stared at the skewer, skeptical. Her sharp eyes flicked from Rice to the food, and back again, as if deciding whether this was some elaborate joke. Finally, she reached out, her movements slow and deliberate. The entire camp seemed to quiet as she brought the skewer to her lips and took a small bite.

Time froze.

Rice held his breath. Darius and Ryden, still tied up, leaned forward as far as their ropes would allow, their eyes wide. For a moment, there was nothing. Then the woman's chewing slowed, her brow furrowing, her expression softening into one of sheer disbelief. Her dark eyes widened as if she'd just tasted magic itself.

She turned, silently, and handed the skewer to the tribesman next to her. He took a cautious bite. The same transformation occurred: suspicion melting into astonished wonder. Without a word, he passed it on. The food traveled like wildfire through the tribe, each person taking a bite and reacting as though the heavens had opened and delivered mana straight into their mouths. Gasps of awe rippled through the crowd. Children reached for more. Hardened warriors stared at their hands in disbelief, chewing reverently as though afraid to ruin the experience.

Finally, the woman turned back to Rice, her voice hushed but full of conviction. "Amazing," she said softly. Then, pointing the spear directly at him, she added, "You. You cook now."

Rice threw his hands up with a triumphant laugh. "Just give me the ingredients, lady."

What followed was nothing short of a full-on celebration. As the sun sank below the horizon, the camp transformed into a festival of firelight, laughter, and the smell of Rice's signature skewers filling the air. Men and women danced near the fire, their movements rhythmic and primal, accompanied by the pounding beat of tribal drums. Children raced in circles with skewers clutched in their hands, their cheeks smeared with berry glaze. Elders sat together, their expressions content as they ate.

At the heart of it all, Rice moved between roaring fires like a culinary maestro, tending to skewers of meat and roots as if he'd been born for this moment. The glowing embers illuminated his grin, his movements full of swagger and showmanship. "Coming up, one skewer to rule them all!" he called out, tossing finished portions to eager hands.

Meanwhile, Ryden and Darius sat a little off to the side, each holding one of Rice's creations. The golden-brown skewers glistened in the firelight, plumes of steam curling gently from the roasted meat and caramelized glaze. Both men stared at the food in their hands, then at the spectacle of Rice reveling in his newfound glory.

Ryden's voice broke the stunned silence. "I can't believe it. He… he actually did it."

Darius, for once, spoke. "He's a lunatic. But…" He took a bite, chewed, then blinked as though blindsided by the flavor. "…he's a genius."

Ryden took his own bite and immediately looked betrayed, as if Rice had hidden this talent from them on purpose. "Are you kidding me? This is actually good."

Across the camp, Rice stood on a makeshift log stage, arms spread wide as if conducting the entire scene. His voice carried above the drums. "You're welcome, people! Now who's hungry for seconds?"

The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices mixing with the crackle of fire and the rhythm of the drums. Rice, chest puffed out like a conquering hero, grinned madly to himself.

"I told you," he muttered under his breath with a wicked chuckle. "Clothes. Flying. Right. Off."

Ryden sighed, the weight of their absurd situation settling in his gut like a heavy stone. He glanced down at the thick, leather-bound booklet he'd almost forgotten about—the one they'd been given at the start of this ridiculous journey. The cover was rough, a patchwork of faded brown leather stitched together with coarse thread, with a simple symbol embossed into the center: a stylized tree surrounded by a circle of unfamiliar runes. It had the feel of something ancient, an artifact of a world far more organized than the chaos they now faced.

Ryden's hand hovered over it for a moment before he flipped it open with a resigned mutter. "Might as well see what this thing says about us now."

The pages within were crisp but aged, as if preserved through some kind of enchantment. Each one was bordered by intricate designs that looked almost Celtic, with faintly glowing ink that shifted hues depending on how the light hit it. The first page was blank except for a faint watermark of the same tree symbol. But as he turned to the second, the ink flowed into place like liquid, forming neat lines of text and a small portrait of himself.

[NAME: Ryden]

[AGE: 23]

[ROLE: N/A]

[SKILLS: None listed]

[STATUS: Alive]

Ryden frowned. "Wow. Real confidence booster, thanks." He turned the page and saw Darius's profile, equally barebones:

[NAME: Darius]

[AGE: 24]

[ROLE: N/A]

[SKILLS: None listed]

[STATUS: Alive]

"Consistent, at least," Ryden muttered, flipping to the next page with a dry chuckle. "Alright, let's see what our little chef Rice gets."

And there it was: a grainy but recognizable sketch of Rice's grinning face. The layout was identical at first glance, but as Ryden read further, his eyebrows shot up.

[NAME: Rice]

[AGE: 25]

[ROLE: Village Chef]

[SKILLS:

Cooking Level 1: +10% improvement to taste]

[STATUS: Alive]

[Rice has developed a new recipe!]

[Effect: increased likability of Toquiri tribe]

"Village chef?" Ryden hissed incredulously, jabbing a finger at the page as if someone might pop out to explain. "Village chef? And since when does he have a skill? Cooking Level 1? That's not even a thing!" He glanced up at Darius, who raised an eyebrow in silent curiosity, then back down to the booklet. "Unbelievable."

Shaking his head, Ryden flipped to the next page, which had previously been blank. Now, however, fresh text sprawled across it, accompanied by new images and details. The heading at the top read:

[YOU HAVE ENCOUNTERED A NEW TRIBE]

Below that, information began to fill the page, section by section, like ink bleeding into parchment.

[TRIBE NAME: Toquiri]

[POPULATION: 132]

[TECHNOLOGY LEVEL: Tribal]

[CURRENT LEADER: Arika Venn]

[WARRIORS: 25]

[TERRITORY SIZE: Approximately 15 square miles]

The text shifted subtly, almost alive, as though it were adapting to newly acquired knowledge. Beside the statistics was a detailed map sketched in soft, flowing ink, displaying the tribe's modest territory—a mix of forest, grassland, and a river running along its northern border. Symbols marked key points of interest, including their encampment and what looked like a larger structure deeper in the woods.

Ryden stared at the page, his fingers tightening on the booklet. "This thing's been tracking us," he muttered, flipping the booklet closed and glaring at it as if it were somehow to blame for their predicament.

He looked up and caught sight of Rice, still basking in the glow of the tribe's adoration. The villagers laughed and cheered, their bellies full and their spirits high as they danced around the fire. Ryden glanced back down at the booklet, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Village chef," he muttered again, his tone a mix of incredulity and begrudging admiration. Then, louder: "Hey, chef! What other skills are you hiding from us?"

Rice, hearing the edge in his voice, turned with a smug grin. "Oh, don't worry, pal. Cooking is just the beginning."

Darius snorted faintly. "We're doomed."