"Young master, do you actually have a plan for dealing with this alleged... cockatrice?"
Farkas posed the question as they hiked uphill, his tone cautiously respectful—as if unsure whether Yeats was a genius or in the middle of a very elaborate breakdown.
Yeats didn't answer right away. He was too busy collecting wild berries, which he dumped into a glass jar, freshly retrieved from the carriage supply box. He began crushing them with quiet focus, then added a sprig of sage, a few dry leaves, and finally said:
"Wildberries are part of a cockatrice's standard diet. Sweet and aromatic. If it's the one attacking the livestock, this blend will lure it right in."
Farkas nodded, eyebrows lifting. "And once it appears, we… do battle?"
"Actually, there's one more step." Yeats pointed at a vibrant cluster of crimson berries. "Castorberries."
Farkas stiffened. "...Is that a laxative?"
Yeats smiled like a man about to start a TED Talk titled Weaponized Digestive Failure.
"Not just any laxative. This is Yeats's Signature Blend™. A potion so potent, it got nerfed in Patch 2.9 for 'biological bullying.'"
Side effects include: explosive regret, weaponized shame, and immediate loss of bodily dignity.
"Alternatively," he added casually, "I could've gone with poison mushrooms or rotleaf. But this cocktail? Cheap. Ethical. Very... persuasive."
Farkas stared. "And this came from… where, exactly?"
"A little thing called being a life-skills main," Yeats said, corking the jar. "When you can't win a fight, you win a kitchen war."
He held the bottle up to the fading light.
"Also, I have a theory to test."
"Oh no," said Farkas.
"They call it a cockatrice," Yeats continued, unfazed. "But which part's the head? The chicken, or the snake? That debate's been going on for centuries."
"And your theory is…?"
"Easy. We observe which end eats. Then we wait to see which end… files a complaint with the gods."
Farkas opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then silently prayed to whichever deity governed common sense.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bait was set—wildberry-laced, herb-sprinkled, castor-charged—and placed in a sunny clearing.
Moments later, something rustled the bushes.
Out strutted a creature that looked like a giant chicken cosplaying as a basilisk. It was the size of a large dog, all proud strut and reptilian menace, with a snake for a tail that hissed independently.
"Looks like the chicken's the head," Farkas whispered.
"Sshh. Wait for it."
The beast crept forward, enchanted by the scent. And then—curiously—it didn't use its beak. It dipped its snake-tail into the jar and began to slurp like a smoothie straw.
Farkas blinked. "...The tail drinks?"
Yeats rubbed his chin. "New hypothesis: dual-function anatomy. Biologically cursed."
Then the potion kicked in.
Hard.
The cockatrice staggered, its legs trembling, snake-tail foaming uncontrollably, and the chicken-beak—against all odds—also started violently evacuating its soul.
Farkas took a full step back. "...This feels illegal."
"This feels earned," Yeats corrected. "This is culinary justice."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Now it's harmless," Yeats announced. "Farkas, would you kindly do the honors?"
Farkas nodded with the grim efficiency of a man who had seen too much.
One swift slash, and the cockatrice was halved.
Yeats blinked. "You're surprisingly competent for someone who makes tea sound like a threat."
Farkas sheathed his sword. "And you, young master, appear to have graduated summa cum laude from the School of Gastronomic Warfare."
Yeats shrugged. "Life-skills player. If we can't outfight, we out-cook. Or out-poison. Depends on the vibe."
He kicked the sack. "Bag it. Time to cash in."
Farkas, whistling an old tune, slung the twitching sack over one shoulder. "Young master, if this is how you solve problems, I am now very optimistic about our expedition to Morningfrost."
Yeats paused.
Nope. That's a flag. That's an anime death flag if I've ever heard one.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By sunset, the cockatrice corpse was proudly displayed in the village square.
Silence fell. Villagers stared. Some gasped. One old man fainted.
Gray stood to the side, arms crossed, ponytail bouncing, hand-axe on her hip.
"Told you I wasn't a witch," she declared. "Now pay up."
The village chief went pale and half-knelt. Gray immediately jumped away.
"Don't bow at me, grandpa, I'm not trying to get cursed."
She adjusted her belt, then barked:
"By Imperial Law, page thirty, clause seven, I'm entitled to formal apology and compensation."
The elder nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, of course!"
She jabbed a thumb at Yeats. "Give it to the pretty noble. He's the reason you're all still breathing."
Then, turning to the crowd:
"Also, you all owe me an apology. Individually. Alphabetical order. Or I press charges for attempted witch-roast."
Yeats accepted the money pouch with a professional smile.
Then frowned.
"Madam," he said smoothly to the peasant woman beside him. "This compensation is for the adventurer, correct?"
"Y-yes?"
"Then I'll be needing my own reward. I neutralized your monster, improved public safety, and possibly revolutionized medieval biology."
Another pouch was swiftly surrendered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After securing the carcass and restocking supplies, they returned to the carriage.
"Wait!"
Gray came jogging up, looking determined.
"I'm Gray. Dragonborn. Traveling adventurer. Former poultry-based criminal suspect. Thanks for not letting me be barbecue."
Yeats raised an eyebrow. "Dragonborn?"
Gray puffed up with pride. "It's a sacred title. We hunt elder dragons. You know, the world-ending, city-stomping, steak-flavored ones."
Yeats blinked.
Dragons. Endgame bosses. Top-tier meat. God-tier buffs. We're talking Michelin star raid drops.
He stared into the middle distance, briefly overwhelmed by culinary ambition.
"Anyway," Gray continued, "since you're rich, pretty, and moderately sane, I was wondering if you'd sponsor me. For, like… food. Travel. Basic human dignity."
She pointed dramatically. "One day, when I slay an elder dragon, you get dibs on the loot. All of it. Pinky promise."
Yeats:
That is the most suspiciously generous offer I've heard since someone sold me a +5 Luck Ring that cursed me with halitosis.
Still… she was strong. And useful. And he needed protection.
"I'm short a guard. One year contract. Silver pouch is your advance. Provisions included."
"One year?" Gray tilted her head. "Where are we going?"
"Frostmarch Province. Northern borderlands."
"…Oh. Perfect. I've always wanted to get frostbite while being hunted by snow leopards."
She grinned like it was a vacation package.
Yeats squinted at her.
Why did she agree so fast? Does she have a death wish—or is she just… me?
Either way, she was onboard.
And in a world ruled by magic, monsters, and overly dramatic legal codes…
He needed all the help he could get.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the carriage rolled forward again, Gray hung off the side admiring the leather upholstery like a kid in a theme park.
Yeats leaned back, narrowed his eyes, and muttered quietly:
"…System?"
Nothing.
"…Interface?"
Ding.
A gentle chime rang out in his mind, like an angel dropping a Game Pass notification.
Yeats froze.
No. Freaking. Way.
A pale blue glow bloomed across his vision, lines of text assembling from thin air.
And in the center of it all, one golden phrase shimmered like a cooking flame—