Chapter 7: The Smell of Honest Work (and Compost)

The cab ride home was a stark transition. One minute I was knee-deep in existential goo and cryptic warriors, the next I was encased in a slightly smelly Hyundai, watching the mundane world scroll by.

My mind, ever the faithful servant, immediately swapped genres. No more horror-action. Time for domestic slice-of-life.

Priority one: Decontamination. I subtly sniffed my jacket. Big mistake. It smelled like a public restroom that had lost a fight with a compost bin. The cab driver’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, filled with a profound and silent judgment. I gave him a thumbs-up. He looked away.

Priority two: Sustenance. The adrenaline had burned through my bacon and eggs. It was 3:00 PM. This presented a critical planning window. Lunch was a given. But dinner? Dinner required foresight. Mia would be home from school around 4:00 PM. She’d be hungry. She’d be teenage-ly dramatic about it.

“Alright, brain, culinary mode,” I muttered, ignoring the driver’s side-eye. “We did protein for breakfast. We need something robust for lunch to counteract near-dissolution. And something comforting for dinner to counteract… well, today.”

I had the cab drop me off not at the gosiwon, but at the local market—a bustling, covered alleyway of stalls that stubbornly persisted despite the monster-riddled world outside. Here, humanity’s other great talent shone: commerce.

I moved with purpose. The slime-stain on my jacket was my badge of honor here. It marked me as a Ranker, however lowly. The ajummas at the stalls didn’t flinch at the smell; they saw a working man.

“Eo, ajeossi! Fresh galbi today!” one called, holding up a beautiful marbled package of beef short ribs. My heart did a little flip. Too expensive for a Tuesday. Maybe not.

I settled for a more budget-friendly but still glorious cut: chadolbaegi – thin, paper-like slices of beef brisket. Perfect for quick cooking. I bought a generous portion. Then, to the vegetable stall: a crisp napa cabbage, a bunch of bright green scallions, a fat garlic bulb, a knob of ginger, and a few killer gochugaru (Korean red chili powder) for kick.

The groceries were my trophy. Better than any slime-core.

I arrived home, the familiar, slightly depressing hallway of the gosiwon now feeling like a sanctuary. I had maybe 40 minutes before Mia would burst through the door, likely declaring she was literally starving.

The first and most sacred task: The Purification Ritual.

I stood in the middle of our single room, holding my arms out. “I really need to take a shower. Now.” I addressed the empty room as if it were a council of elders. “Let us pray that my dear, sweet, patient younger sister isn’t so metabolically frantic that she cannot wait a mere extra fifteen minutes post-arrival for the culinary arts to reach their zenith.”

I stripped off the foul clothes, bagging them for a very, very heavy-duty wash, and stepped into the shower. The hot water was a baptism. I scrubbed until my skin was pink, imagining I was washing away not just slime residue, but the entire concept of responsibility I’d briefly entertained. Clean, in fresh sweats, I felt reborn. Ethan 2.0: Domestic Edition.

Now, the main event.

I laid out my ingredients on our small counter like a surgeon prepping for an operation. My [Three Times Grip Strength] wasn’t for fighting monsters today. It was for crushing garlic cloves with the flat of my knife in a single, satisfying crunch. My [Low-Light Vision]? Useless in the sunny kitchen. My [Minor Corrosion Resistance] (now 65%)? Hopefully it would protect me from any accidental chili oil splashes.

First, the jangjorim base. This was a soy-braised beef dish, but I was doing a quicker, pan-fried version. I took my chadolbaegi, those beautiful, thin slices. With a sharp knife (and my enhanced grip making the knife feel like an extension of my hand), I chopped the already-thin slices into even finer, bite-sized ribbons. They practically melted under the blade.

In a bowl, I made the marinade: soy sauce, a splash of mirin, minced garlic, grated ginger, a sprinkle of sugar, and a generous teaspoon of that glorious gochugaru. I massaged the marinade into the beef ribbons with my fingers. The smell was already divine—salty, sweet, spicy, umami. Food alchemy.

I let the beef sit for ten minutes, the time used to wash and roughly chop the napa cabbage and scallions. The cabbage would be a quick, crunchy side sauté; the scallions, a fresh garnish.

Pan time. I heated our one good non-stick skillet until it sang. A drizzle of sesame oil. Then, in went the marinated beef ribbons in a single layer. They hit the hot surface with a glorious SSSSSSSSSSS-zzzzzle! The smell that erupted—caramelizing soy sauce, frying garlic, toasting chili powder—was a weapon of mass destruction against hunger. I used tongs to flip the ribbons quickly. They cooked in under two minutes, going from red to a beautiful, glossy, dark brown.

I moved the beef to a plate. In the same flavorful fond left in the pan, I tossed the chopped napa cabbage. A quick sauté until it was just wilted but still crisp, soaking up all the beefy, spicy juices.

Assembly: A bed of the warm, savory cabbage. On top, the glistening pile of spicy soy-braised beef ribbons. A final garnish of chopped fresh scallions. A light drizzle of sesame oil over the top.

The dish was Spicy Chadolbaegi Bokkeum – stir-fried marinated beef ribbons. It was homey, deeply flavorful, incredibly fast, and looked like it came from a restaurant that charged too much.

I checked the clock. 3:55 PM. Perfect timing. The food was ready, filling our tiny room with an aroma that could probably summon a B-Rank monster out of pure envy.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a smug smile on my face. The slime gate, the mysterious woman, the near-nudity, the screaming… all of it was worth it for this. For the ability to conjure this moment of pure, delicious normalcy for Mia.

Now, all I had to do was wait for the tornado of teenage energy to arrive and hopefully appreciate it.

The key rattled in the lock at exactly 4:07 PM. The door swung open, and a bundle of navy blue uniform and exhaustion shuffled in.

“I’m home,” Mia sighed, her voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked about ten years older than she was, weighed down by a backpack that probably violated several child labor laws.

I was already in motion. “Welcome home,” I said, taking her bag from her shoulder before she could drop it. I placed it gently on the single chair by our small table, a small act of service that said you’re safe, you’re done.

“Eat for now,” I instructed, gesturing to the waiting plate on the table. The Spicy Chadolbaegi Bokkeum was still steaming faintly, the scent of garlic, soy, and chili a warm hug for the senses. “Hot meat is good when you’re tired. Crispy, with a bit of a kick. Clears the sinuses and the teenage angst.”

A flicker of life returned to her eyes as she caught the smell. She shed her coat and scarf, collapsing into the chair. She poked at a beef ribbon with her chopsticks. “It smells… not like you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean… not like outside-you,” she clarified, taking a tentative bite. Her eyes widened, then closed in bliss. She chewed slowly, savoring it. “Mmm. This is so good. Seriously, Oppa, you should just… be a chef. Forget the gates.”

I sat across from her, watching her eat. There was a profound, almost painful satisfaction in it. “Chef school costs more than our entire net worth,” I said, picking up my own chopsticks. “And, ironically, clearing gates pays better. Marginally. It’s a better ROI, even if it’s a massive drag to walk halfway across the city.”

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Author's Real Talk:

Okay, I gotta say it.

When I first started typing this out—a story about a cynical trashbag of a person with a weird power vacuuming up slime-essence—I genuinely thought, "Who the heck is going to read this?"

It felt too niche. Too weird. Too... me.

But here you all are. Reading about Ethan's kitchen triumphs and sewer traumas and the mysterious Seo-Yeon. You're here for the author's notes, the polls, the whole chaotic vibe.

You proved me wrong in the best possible way.

It's a cliché, but it's true: you really never know until you try. And trying, with all its awkwardness and doubt, is the whole point. So, from the bottom of my weird, story-crafting heart: thank you for giving this a shot.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming of near-death experiences and questionable life choices.