CHAPTER 27: CH27-: THE FRAUD WHO TRIED TO EAT THE WORLD

Baelgor wandered aimlessly through the bustling city streets, his towering frame drawing wary glances from passersby. The humans hurried about their business, shouting to one another in strange cadences, exchanging metal disks and slips of paper as though they held some mystical power. He had defeated countless adventurers within his dungeon, but this chaotic marketplace felt more dangerous than any raid.

Then it struck him an unfamiliar, hollow ache twisting deep within his abdomen. Baelgor froze, clutching his stomach. What is this... emptiness? This gnawing pain? He had never known hunger before. Dungeon lords did not eat. They spawned, they guarded, they fought, they died. Sustenance was not part of their existence. Yet now, as a wanderer in this fragile human world, his body demanded something new.

A tantalizing aroma wafted through the air, rich and savory, carried by the evening breeze. His head turned instinctively. Somewhere nearby, spices and broth sang to him, luring him like a siren’s call. He followed it, pushing through the crowded street until he found himself before a building alive with chatter and clattering bowls.

The door slid open with a rush of warmth and steam, and without hesitation Baelgor stepped inside.

Every head turned. Chopsticks paused mid-air. A few patrons swallowed hard, recognizing the aura of someone dangerous. Baelgor’s eyes scanned the tables, the scents overwhelming him, driving the hollow ache in his stomach to the brink of madness.

Then, with all the subtlety of a warhorn, he boomed,

"WHO IS THE SERVANT HERE?"

The restaurant fell into stunned silence.

The waiter froze, tray in hand. Servant? Excuse me? This was a respectable noodle house, not some feudal lord’s castle. His mind raced.

Buddy, this is a minimum-wage apron, not a set of chains. Do I look like I scrub your boots in a dungeon? I serve noodles, not oaths of fealty.

He plastered on a smile anyway, because the guy looked like the type who could punch a hole through the wall if he sneezed too hard. Hunters were trouble he knew that much. They ordered weirdly, never tipped properly, and sometimes paid in monster teeth.

"I... am the waiter," he said, bowing just enough to hide the way his eye twitched.

Baelgor leaned in with a gleam in his eyes. "Excellent. Then bring me your mightiest meal! The most powerful dish your establishment can muster!"

The waiter blinked. What does that even mean? Strongest meal? Does he expect the noodles to arm-wrestle him before he eats them?

Still, he sighed and scribbled on his pad. Fine. Strongest meal it is. Extra chili powder. Let’s see how his mighty stomach handles that.

The waiter set the first steaming bowl before Baelgor with trembling hands. Baelgor stared at the wooden sticks resting neatly across the rim. He picked them up, examined them like a pair of weapons, and frowned.

"...Are these supposed to be daggers for smallfolk?" he muttered, squeezing them until one snapped in half with a crack.

The entire restaurant stiffened. The waiter winced. Oh gods, he broke them already. These aren’t weapons, you barbarian, they’re chopsticks.

Baelgor tossed the splinters aside. "Useless."

Then, to everyone’s horror, he plunged his bare hand straight into the bowl, scooping up noodles and broth alike.

SLUUUURP.

He devoured it with all the grace of a starving wolf. Broth dribbled down his chin, noodles dangled from his jaw, and his eyes gleamed with primal delight. The table around him rattled with every hearty gulp.

The silence was deafening.

A child gasped.

A woman whispered, "He’s eating with his hands..."

Another muttered, "...like a beast."

Baelgor didn’t notice. He was lost in ecstasy. The broth lit fire through his veins, the meat filled his soul, the noodles bound him to this world like chains of glory. One bowl, then another, then another his hands flashing like lightning as he scooped and swallowed.

Bowls stacked. Whispers grew. The waiter panicked. By the twentieth bowl, he had stopped writing down the orders and simply shouted to the kitchen, "Another! Just just keep cooking!"

By the fortieth, the staff was pale and trembling, sweat dripping into the broth as they scrambled to keep pace with this monster in human skin.

And all the while, Baelgor never once reached for the chopsticks again. His hands worked tirelessly, his appetite endless, his slurping thunderous.

The waiter’s thoughts cracked under the strain. This isn’t a hunter, it’s a demon! We’ll have to fumigate the table when he’s done! At this rate he’ll drink the sink water too!

Finally, the owner stormed out, only to stop short at the sight: a mountain of bowls, a crowd of wide-eyed patrons, and a hulking man shoveling noodles into his mouth like a siege engine.

And when the Hunter’s Badge hit the table, gleaming in the lantern light, the owner’s soul left his body.

"...Keep... serving him," the owner croaked.

And so the feast continued, chopsticks forever abandoned, as Baelgor devoured the city’s best noodles with nothing but his bare hands and bottomless hunger.

At last, after a mountain of forty bowls and a puddle of broth dripping off the table, Baelgor leaned back with a satisfied sigh. His chest rose and fell like a warrior after battle, his lips glistening with grease, and his massive hands still slick from eating rested proudly on his stomach.

"Truly," he said, voice booming across the hushed restaurant, "this was a worthy feast. You have my gratitude."

And then, without hesitation, he stood to leave.

The owner’s eye twitched. He darted forward, blocking the doorway with all the bravery a noodle shopkeeper could muster. "Sir," he said firmly, "you must pay for what you ate."

The restaurant went dead silent.

Baelgor blinked. "Pay?"

"Yes. Money. Coin. Gold. Anything." The owner gestured at the towering pile of bowls like it was a monument to financial ruin. "This much food isn’t free."

Baelgor tilted his head, utterly baffled. "I have blessed your food with my consumption. Is that not reward enough? Mortals dream of offering their harvests to a being such as I."

A ripple of laughter broke out among the customers. Some snickered openly, others covered their mouths. The owner’s face darkened.

"Reward enough?" he snapped, voice rising. "Reward enough?! You think ruining my kitchen and emptying my pantry is a blessing? I knew it look at you, all wild eyes and broken chopsticks. A real hunter wouldn’t act like a starving stray dog. Fraud! That’s what you are a fraud waving some stolen badge around!"

The laughter soured instantly. A few patrons turned away, disgusted. One muttered, "Eating with his hands like a beast... and now trying to skip the bill." Another whispered, "Shameless."

The room’s mood shifted, heavy with disdain.

Baelgor’s smile faded. Slowly, a low rumble filled the air not from his stomach, but from deep within his chest. Shadows coiled at his feet, dark energy dripping from his skin like smoke. The laughter died as an invisible weight pressed down on the room, crushing, suffocating.

The waiter dropped his tray, falling to his knees. Patrons gasped as their breaths grew shallow. The walls creaked as if bowing under some unseen hand.

Baelgor’s eyes burned with violet fire. His voice, once booming with humor, now slithered like a death sentence:

"You dare disrespect me? I will ....."

"STOP!"

A voice rang in the atmosphere