Chapter 8: Dig That Tunnel to the Kitchen—I Want a Hot Meal
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I stood straight by the broken fence, raised my right hand, and shouted, “Dig! The! Tunnel! To! The! Kitchen!”
Tanuki raised a paw. “Boss, didn’t we agree to dig out of here first?”
“That’s the long-term goal.” I patted his shoulder. “But people need dreams. And tunnels need the scent of food. We’ve been eating cold dough lumps for three months. I! Want! A! Hot! Meal!”
Kindling chimed in, “And the kitchen throws out so much food every night. If we can just get a tiny hole through…”
“We’ll get meat-flavored soup!” I said, full of passion.
Everyone: “Oooohhh!!!”
The only one not clapping was the guy leaning off to the side, pretending to watch the sky—Little Wolf Cub.
I walked over and patted him. “Your face says, ‘These idiots are going to get themselves poisoned.’ Change it to ‘I proudly join the dinner initiative.’”
He said flatly, “You know the kitchen wall is made with lime cement, right? Mud on the outside, but reinforced inside. You’ll hit it and get stuck.”
“Oh?” I raised a brow. “So what do you suggest?”
He looked up at me. “There’s a useless kitchen apprentice. Every night he sneaks food through a vent under the stove. He’s greedy but timid. Catch him, and we can use that air duct to bypass the wall.”
I clapped. “You finally started using that brain! Congrats, you’re now the official Grey Tower Technical Advisor.”
He snorted. “Don’t get so familiar.”
My eyes lit up. “So… you’ll help us dig?”
“My leg’s still busted.” He sat down. “But I can teach you how to avoid the overseers and prevent tunnel collapses.”
I marveled. “Ah, the joy of genius—leg’s broken, brain still sprinting.”
That night, I caught the food thief apprentice just as planned.
“I didn’t do anything! I only licked the edge of the pot!” he cried.
“We’re not gonna hurt you.” I patted his head gently. “Just share a bit of that broth next time before you go licking.”
“Who… who are you?”
“We’re the Kitchen Legitimized Observation Team,” Kindling said with a straight face.
“…You want soup scraps?”
“Don’t underestimate soup scraps. If they’re hot, they’re happiness.” I leaned close. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Pot-Licker.”
Three days later, the tunnel broke through.
The first batch of hot food came through the air duct.
Just a bit of meat, a bowl of cloudy broth, a hint of warmth—and the entire slave shack went quiet for three seconds.
“…Is this… meat?”
“It really… is meat…”
I sat in the corner, watching them quietly gulp down the soup, and my nose stung.
In my past life, no matter how clever or patient I was, I never gave them a single bite of something hot.
But now, just this tiny bowl of soup made me feel—I was actually changing something.
I turned away, not wanting anyone to see my eyes redden.
Next to me, the icy guy said softly, “You’re crying?”
“I am not!” I snapped. “The soup’s just too hot!”
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s the wind!”
He suddenly pulled an old cloak from the rags and draped it over me. Staring into the distance, he said,
“You always said you didn’t believe in fate. But now, you live more devoutly than anyone.”
I went quiet for a second, then grinned.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“I’m gambling—my life, in exchange for theirs.”
“If I win—”
“Then no one in this world will ever define me by the word ‘slave’ again.”
He looked at me. And in his eyes—for the first time—there was something new.
Not wariness.
Not coldness.
Just a flicker of—
Belief.
