Online Game: I Turn Monsters Into Food 10,000x Buffs

Liam’s chest rose and fell with deliberate slowness as Midnight nestled against him, her weight both foreign and somehow right.

Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Don’t wake her.

But her scent, like night-blooming jasmine with faint cinnamon, wafted up from her hair, making his nostrils flare. Her side pressed against his, soft curves moulding to the hard planes of his chest. Through the thin fabric of her tunic, he could feel the unmistakable peaks of her nipples hardening against him.

Is she not wearing a bra? Why isn’t she wearing a bra?

Liam’s mind short-circuited. His massive hands, capable of crushing stone, hovered uncertainly over her back.

Think about onions and think lettuce, think cooking, think burnt pancakes.

He mentally recited his shopping list, focusing on the mundane to distract from the warmth spreading through his lower abdomen. Midnight sighed contentedly in her sleep, burrowing closer. Her tail curled around his leg.

"You look like you’re about to explode, big guy."

Liam’s head snapped up. Rogue was slouched against the opposite side of the wagon, sharpening his dagger with methodical strokes. The wooden boards rattled under every tap of metal, and his mouth curved into a knowing smirk.

"Not exploding," Liam whispered, voice low so the driver on the bench in front wouldn’t hear. "Just... not moving."

Rogue chuckled, the sound drifting through the drafts between the slats. "Sure. That’s what it is." He tilted his head, ears perking. "How do you do it, man? Midnight, Elizabeth, Noir, Berry, all of them gravitating to you like moths to flame, you’re some kind of hot girl magnet."

Liam considered this. His tail flicked once against the wooden floor. "They’re fine with it. I’m not going against their wishes, so it’s fine."

"Hmm, okay." Rogue sounded unconvinced. "You know most guys would kill to be in your position right now."

"What position?" Liam asked, genuinely confused. "We’re just resting until nightfall."

Rogue’s eyes widened, then he burst into silent laughter, his shoulders shaking. The wagon rocked slightly as the lizards slowed on a patch of gravel. "You’re either the most oblivious man I’ve ever met or the smoothest operator I’ve ever met."

Midnight stirred, her ears twitching. "Liam?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Midnight is warm."

"Body temperature regulation," he replied automatically, then winced at his own awkwardness. "I mean, yes. I am warm."

She pressed her cheek against his tunic. "Midnight is not moving," she murmured, and smiled against the fabric.

Rogue raised an eyebrow, mouthing "smooth operator," before returning to his blade.

Liam stared up at the slanted roof, hyper aware of every point where Midnight’s body touched his. His inner monologue circled back to cooking ingredients, fighting the softness of her against his ribs.

’Flour, eggs, butter, salt. Don’t think about her. Flour, eggs, butter, salt. Definitely don’t think about— ’

"Liam?" Midnight whispered.

"Yes?"

"Midnight thinks your heart’s beating really fast."

Outside, the driver called, "Camp’s just ahead, halt!" The wagon jolted to a stop, the Lizards’ steam huffing as night settled around them.

Liam eased Midnight off his side with both hands, lifting her like she weighed nothing at all, and set her gently on the bench seat. She made a small noise of protest, a low, displeased hum that vibrated through her chest and reached for him, fingers curling into empty air.

"Midnight, no wants you to go," she mumbled, eyes still half-closed, dragon tail lashing once against the seat.

"You’ll be fine here," he said. "The bench is warm."

She blinked slowly, processing this, then settled against the wood with a resigned sigh, tucking her knees up. Her tail drooped, but she didn’t argue further.

Liam stood, ducking under the wagon’s slanted roof, and dropped through the rear opening. His boots hit the gravel with a crunch. The camp spread out ahead a clearing ringed by tall pines, a fire pit already stacked with kindling, the driver unloading crates from the front bench. The air smelled like pine resin and cold earth.

"I’m going to hunt boar," Liam announced, rolling his shoulders. "This area’s perfect for it. The soil has a dark, good root system. Boar’ll be fat."

Rogue leaned out of the back of the wagon. "Now? It’s almost pitch black out there."

"Best time." Liam was already walking, his tail cutting a steady line behind him. "They’re active at dusk. I’ll be back before the fire’s lit."

He didn’t wait for a response. The trees swallowed him within a dozen strides.

The forest floor was soft underfoot, carpeted in pine needles and fallen leaves. Liam moved quietly despite his size, each step deliberate, his ears swivelling to catch every snap and rustle. His nose worked harder than his eyes. The light was fading fast, but the scents were sharp. Wet bark. Rotting wood. Something musky and animal underneath it all.

He followed the musk.

It led him deeper, past a creek that cut through the undergrowth, the water dark and quick. His boots sank into soft earth near the bank, and he paused, nostrils flaring. There, beneath the musk, something else. Rich, earthy, almost sweet. Truffles. He knew that smell from working in restaurants, and from the rare ingredient lists he’d studied during downtime.

Liam crouched, pressing his palm flat to the soil. The ground was disturbed here, churned up in wide, shallow furrows. Boar tracks, fresh. He followed them upstream.

The trees thinned into a small meadow, and there it was.

[TOOL TIP]:

Status: Evacuation Successful

Pancake Deflection Failure: Reciting the tactical breakdown of standardised pancake ingredients provided 0% Damage Mitigation against Midnight’s unpadded tunic peaks. Liam’s brain short-circuited so hard his internal cooling fans defaulted to standard "Body Temperature Regulation" auto-replies.

The "Cat-Off-Counter" maneuver: Lifting a five-foot, half-asleep assassin dragon and placing her on a leather bench like a mildly inconvenient bag of flour has granted Liam a permanent [Unbothered King] status buff. Midnight’s fingers, grasping at empty air, have triggered a localised [Cute Protest] event.

The "Smooth Operator" Diagnostic: Rogue labelling Liam a high-tier pickup artist for being completely, bone-headedly oblivious to four different beast girls has permanently locked his [Accidental Rarity] aura. Liam genuinely believes hunting wild pork in pitch-black darkness is a reasonable alternative to dealing with female friction.