The goblin's corpse was still warm.

  Erin Man crouched in the shadows of the dungeon corridor, back pressed against cold stone, listening as the patrol faded into the distance. Three of them. Leather armor. Crude blades. One had stopped to piss against the wall—not five feet from where he hid.

  His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a traitor's drumbeat he was certain the whole dungeon could hear.

  They didn't notice. They never did. Erin Man, twenty-two years old, Iron Stomach Realm (the lowest possible), had one talent: being overlooked. Stay still long enough, and monsters, hunters—even other humans—forgot he existed.

  Tonight, that talent might actually save his life.

  The goblin lay in a crumpled heap where the patrol had left it—killed for insubordination, weakness, or whatever passed for law in this place. Its black blood pooled beneath it, faintly glowing in the phosphorescent moss that coated the dungeon walls. The usual stench of the deep dungeon—goblin filth, damp rot, and old blood—clung to everything.

  Erin had been tracking this group for an hour, scavenging whatever they left behind. Goblins were predictable. Always careless. A dropped copper coin. A broken blade. Sometimes—a rare treasure—a half-eaten ration that hadn't fully rotted.

  Tonight, he was lucky.

  The liver was fresh. Perfect. Untouched. Worth three silver in the Adventurer's Guild market—enough to buy a week of stale bread and thin soup. Enough to survive another week while figuring out how to stop being the weakest cultivator in the entire city of Thornwall.

  He waited another thirty counts, making sure the patrol wasn't returning. Then he moved.

  His knife was modest—a chipped blade sharpened on river stones—but Erin had learned a few crucial things since failing the Adventurer's Guild trials: cut fast, cut quietly, cut the parts that mattered before something bigger smelled blood and came looking.

  The liver went into his leather satchel, wrapped in oilcloth. Still warm. Still perfect.

  That's when he saw it.

  A fragment. No bigger than his thumbnail, embedded in the goblin's chest just behind where the liver had been. It glowed faintly—a deep amber, like honey catching sunset light.

  Dungeon core fragments.

  Erin had heard of them. Everyone had. Dungeon bosses sometimes shattered their cores at death, leaving fragments that carried trace amounts of the dungeon's power. Adventurers fought—and killed—for them.

  This one? It had formed inside the goblin itself, absorbing ambient dungeon energy. Or perhaps the goblin had eaten something forbidden.

  Either way, it was worth more than ten livers. More than a hundred.

  He reached for it.

  The moment his fingers touched the fragment, the world shifted.

  Not pain. Not exactly. More like plunging into freezing water while being set on fire. Every nerve in his body lit up. His vision went white. His stomach clenched.

  And then, inside his skull, a voice that wasn't a voice spoke:

  [System Initialization…]

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  [Gastronomic Path Detected.]

  [Host: Erin Man]

  [Realm: Iron Stomach (Awakening)]

  [Congratulations. You have consumed a trace fragment of Primordial Hunger.]

  Consumed? He hadn't eaten anything. Just touched—

  He looked down.

  The fragment had vanished, melted into his skin like snow on warm stone. Only a faint amber glow pulsed gently beneath his palm, fading slowly into his bloodstream.

  Panic seized him, cold and sharp. It was immediately incinerated by a flash of pure, helpless rage. And then, rising from the ashes of both, came the hunger.

  Not the familiar ache of an empty belly. This was deeper. Primal. His body screamed for more—fragments, cores, power. His Iron Stomach, pathetic until now, became the center of his universe.

  And then knowledge came.

  Not words. Instinct. Deep, bone-level understanding of what he could now do.

  The Gastronomic Path. An ancient cultivation method not dependent on meditation, martial arts, or strength.

  It relied on cooking.

  [Gastronomic Path Unlocked]

  [Primary Cultivation Method: Consume monster ingredients to strengthen body. Combine ingredients into dishes for temporary or permanent effects. Higher-quality ingredients yield greater results.]

  [Warning: Certain ingredients carry traces of dungeon corruption. Consumption may lead to… unintended consequences.]

  Erin stared at his glowing hand, almost gone now, just a faint shimmer under the skin. His breathing was too fast. His heart wouldn't slow. What the actual—

  A goblin patrol rounded the corner.

  Three of them. Fresh, mean-looking, carrying torches. They hadn't seen him yet—but they would. In about ten seconds.

  Erin should run. He always ran. Running kept him alive.

  But his body wasn't listening.

  Between him and the patrol, still fresh on the goblin corpse, lay the liver.

  No. Not just the liver.

  Heart. Kidneys. Brain. Each one a potential ingredient. Each one a step toward not being weak anymore.

  Seven seconds.

  The satchel felt heavy, warm, wet with promise. Heart, kidneys, brain—the words weren't even thoughts, just a desperate, instinctual checklist screaming in his mind as his body, no longer fully his own, lunged forward.

  The knife came out. Guided by instincts that weren't fully his own, his hands found the seams in the goblin's flesh. Heart—pulled, wrapped into the satchel. Kidneys—two swift cuts, same. Brain—he had to crack the skull; the sound was awful, but the patrol was right there, and silence was no longer an option.

  Four seconds.

  The liver went in last, on top of everything else.

  Three seconds.

  He ran.

  Not toward the patrol—that would be suicide. Toward the side passage he'd memorized earlier, leading to a collapsed tunnel. Dead ends could be climbed if you were small enough and desperate enough, and Erin was both.

  Two seconds.

  A goblin shouted behind him. They'd spotted him. That meant pursuit. That meant—

  One second.

  Erin slammed into the collapsed tunnel, leaped for the handhold he'd memorized, and pulled himself upward into darkness as goblin spears clattered against stone below.

  He ran for what felt like hours.

  Through tunnels. Through caves. Past sleeping monsters and active patrols. Once, terrifyingly, he passed a dungeon boss chamber. Something massive breathed slow and deep in the dark. The satchel bounced against his hip, warm, wet, smelling of blood… and potential.

  Finally, he emerged into the night air. The moons were high. Thornwall glittered in the distance.

  Erin collapsed against a tree, gasping, trembling, alive.

  He should go home. Should clean up. Should try to sell the ingredients before they spoiled.

  Instead, he opened the satchel.

  The heart pulsed faintly with residual energy. The kidneys glistened. The brain—he tried not to dwell on it.

  And his stomach growled.

  Not with ordinary hunger. With desire. Absolute certainty that if he consumed these ingredients—raw, here in the dark—he would become more than he'd been that morning.

  [Corruption Risk: 2%]

  [Consume raw ingredients? Warning: Raw consumption provides immediate power gain but increases corruption significantly. Cooking reduces corruption risk and may unlock additional effects.]

  In the distance, goblin horns sounded. They were searching.

  Erin looked at the ingredients. Looked at the city. Thought of being weak. Of being overlooked. Watching others rise while he stayed exactly where he was.

  [Decision Point]

  [ ] Cook the ingredients properly. Safer. Slower. Requires finding shelter.]

  [ ] Consume raw. Immediate power. Immediate corruption. Immediate survival.]

  The horns grew louder.

  Erin Man, twenty-two years old, Iron Stomach Realm (the lowest possible), made his choice.

  [Gastronomic Cultivation: Knife's Whisper detected (requires practice to unlock)]

  [Iron Stomach: 34% → next realm]

  [Corruption: 2%]

  [Inventory Update: Goblin Liver (1), Goblin Heart (1), Goblin Kidneys (2), Goblin Brain (1)]

  [End of Chapter 1]