Chapter 38: A Family of Monsters
Walking back into my house after a day like this felt less like coming home and more like staggering into the lair of an eccentric noble clan. Every muscle fiber in my body was frayed from sparring with Anaya, from the mind-numbing stretches she forced on me, from the weight of my new combat boots that clung to my feet like iron shackles.
I closed the ornate metal gate behind me, stepping onto the courtyard's red stone path. Our ancestral neem tree shaded the entrance—a silent witness to countless generations of my family growing stronger, wealthier, and far weirder than any normal hunter household had a right to be.
I unlaced my boots at the doorstep, squatting on the polished marble threshold. These weren't just any boots—they were my first proper pair, ordered specially through a black market dealer father trusted. Deep obsidian, stitched from the hide of a rank 3 marsh lizard whose scales were rumor to deflect bullets. The tips were capped with sharpened tusk fragments from a rank 3 were-elephant—a forest terror known for uprooting trees with a sneeze. Combined, each boot weighed a solid four kilos. Training in them was father's idea of 'building character.' My feet thanked me the second they were free.
I stepped inside our house—our fortress, really. In a city where land was worth more than gold, our 2000 square meter plot on the border of Delhi's East and Central regions was a quiet statement: We were here before the Cataclysm, and we're not going anywhere. We weren't the richest anymore—thanks to the Aditya Group fiasco that shaved off half our ancestral fortune like a rusty blade—but even now, we sat comfortably in the upper crust of Delhi's old money hunters. Just conservative enough not to flaunt it. Just dangerous enough that no one tried to cheat us.
Inside, the ground floor glowed with soft yellow bulbs. Smooth granite flooring, old teak furniture passed down since before mana ever danced through human veins. To the left, the drawing room with father's sacred nap couch. Straight ahead: the dining room and an open kitchen where all culinary sins and triumphs were committed. Off to the side: father and mother's master bedroom.
But the real heart of this house was its height—seven floors stacked like a fortress keep.
Ground Floor: Kitchen, dining, drawing room, parental quarters.
First Floor: My floor. My cave. Weapons on the walls, stacks of monster biology books, a tiny private training space.
Second Floor: Raj's domain—spartan, spotless, as if he was ready to move out at a moment's notice.
Third Floor: Uncle and aunt's private rooms.
Fourth Floor: Arjun and Vikram, my cousins, each with half a floor to themselves for study and gaming.
Fifth Floor: Reserved for Vikram when he comes of age—currently storage and some old heirloom junk.
Sixth Floor: Father's secret study—a mix of ancient books, monster bones, and suspiciously well-stocked liquor cabinets.
Basement: Mother's lair. The potion lab that gave half the city's top alchemists an inferiority complex.
As I crept toward the kitchen, I could hear the faint clatter of utensils and the occasional soft curse—father, wielding a ladle like a battle-axe.
Sure enough, he stood there, an apron barely containing his broad shoulders, stirring a giant brass pot that burbled ominously. One glance at the thick steam and the pungent clash of spices told me tonight's dinner would either be legendary or the end of my intestines.
He spotted me. His grin cracked through his stubble like dawn through storm clouds. "Ah! My youngest warrior returns. Did the beautiful harpy Anaya break your bones again?"
"Only the important ones," I muttered, rubbing my neck.
He laughed, turning back to his bubbling cauldron. Knowing father, it wasn't ordinary mutton or chicken in there. He had a taste for rare ingredients—rare as in 'should probably stay alive in the forest where they belong.'
I sniffed. There was a wild, almost metallic scent under the usual garlic and cumin. Not good.
Before I could interrogate him, my eyes drifted to the basement door near the hallway—a sturdy, iron-clad threshold that separated the mundane chaos of our living space from mother's precise madness. The faintest whiff of preservative chemicals and dried blood seeped through the crack. She was definitely working on something monstrous again.
With a resigned sigh, I opened the basement door. Cool air, heavy with a copper tang, brushed my skin. I carefully descended the stone staircase, each step carved with the names of rare herbs mother forced me to memorize as a child. She said learning the basics would make me a better man. I proved her wrong when I nearly blew up a mixing pot at age twelve.
The basement unfolded before me—a cavernous hall dug out beneath our property back when land was cheap and monster parts were not. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, neat glass jars containing everything from dried basilisk skin flakes to preserved chimera eyeballs floating in blue suspension fluid. The giant center table was a maze of glass tubes, copper coils, rune plates humming with restrained mana, and thick leather-bound notebooks scrawled with mother's neat Devanagari.
On the far end, on a stainless steel slab that could double as a morgue table, lay her latest patient: a dead chimera. A predator among predators—a lion's face twisted into a permanent snarl, horns sprouting behind its mane, scorpion tail amputated, wings featherless and limp beside its shredded ribcage. It was half-dissected, its belly cavity scooped clean. Nearby, a large glass tube gently rocked the stolen organs in a clear nutrient gel.
Mother, her hair tied back in a severe bun, surgical apron still spotless despite the gore, was bent over the carcass with the focus of an artist. When she noticed me, she didn't greet me. She never did.
After a moment, she said dryly, "Your father's cooking an experiment again, isn't he?"
"Don't remind me," I said, eyeing the chimera. "Don't tell me he...?"
She clicked her tongue, slicing into the last strip of chimera flank with smooth precision. "Raj brought it down. Your father insisted the meat would be 'a once-in-a-lifetime flavor.' So he's marinating it in vinegar and demon pepper oil like it's a street mutton curry."
I groaned. "He's going to kill us all."
She ignored me, carefully placing the cut meat into a vacuum-sealed canister. "Eat a small portion. If you feel your blood boil or vision blur, come to me immediately."
I shuddered. To change the topic before I lost my appetite entirely, I asked, "What about the Leonarch core I gave you?"
Her eyes lit up, a rare break in her eternally calm mask. "Surprisingly pure for a newborn mutant. The mana was stable. I refined it into two options: a lubrication gel for Ashratal, to channel storm affinity faster—or a mana capacity enhancer."
Easy choice. My spear was already growing alongside me; my mana pool needed the help more. "I'll take the enhancer."
She nodded once. "After dinner. Try not to die before that."
She waved her scalpel at me like a mother shooing away an annoying mosquito.
Upstairs again, I dropped onto our ancient living room couch, its faded upholstery hugging my sore muscles like an old friend. Laughter and footsteps filled the house as uncle and aunt came in with paper bags from the city market. Raj emerged from his room above, offering me a nod that said, 'You survived today, good job.' Arjun and Vikram followed soon after, still half-wrestling over some dumb academy prank.
Then came the grand moment.
Father burst from the kitchen, triumphant, a massive brass pot balanced between his thick arms. The air changed—garlic, vinegar, cardamom, and the unmistakable primal tang of fresh kill filled the room.
With a flourish, he slammed it on the center of the dining table, metal lid rattling.
"Family! Witness the pinnacle of culinary science! Behold—CHIMERA VINDALOO!"
He whipped off the lid. Red curry, thick as lava, danced with oil. Chunks of deep crimson meat floated like icebergs. A hint of charred scorpion shell poked out of one. The steam hit my face, carrying spice so strong my eyes watered instantly.
Silence. Then mother emerged from the basement, deadpan, and joined us at the table. Raj hid a smirk behind his fist. Arjun and Vikram leaned in wide-eyed, ready to gamble their intestines for bragging rights.
I sat there, spoon trembling in my palm, watching father serve each bowl with a reverence he reserved for monster hunts and old family relics.
"Well…" I whispered to myself, summoning every scrap of leftover bravado.
"Either this is the dish of the year… or the death of me."