Fat and Ugly Villainess Wins Back Her Five Beast Husband

Sora’s answer left the three men completely speechless.

Make beast-skin skirts?

None of them could.

The African savannah tribe had very clear traditions—women tanned hides, stitched clothing, and decorated them. Men hunted. If a hunter suddenly announced he wanted to become the village tailor, he’d be laughed at until the next rainy season.

So despite looking deeply wronged, the three quietly picked up the pots and started scrubbing.

Not another complaint escaped their mouths.

Victory.

One sentence.

Three unpaid dishwashers.

Sora nodded to herself in satisfaction.

Originally, she’d planned to ask some of the tribe’s women how to sew beast-skin skirts. But after hearing how a single trip by Ryan carrying her skirts had somehow become "Sora and Ryan spent the afternoon making cubs," she’d immediately abandoned the idea.

Absolutely not.

The women around here treated gossip like it was an Olympic sport. If she asked them for sewing advice, she’d leave with three skirts and thirty-seven new scandals.

No, thank you.

The women of the savannah could turn a greeting into an engagement ceremony before sunset.

She had no intention of becoming tomorrow’s campfire entertainment.

Instead, she turned toward Lukan.

Unlike everyone else, Lukan was meticulous.

He always dressed neatly, smelled faintly of crushed soapberries, and somehow managed to wash beast-skin clothes until they were softer than fresh antelope hide.

The original owner had always let him wash her clothes. Every beast-skin skirt came back smelling fresh from crushed soap pods, folded so neatly it looked ready for display.

The man ironed clothes without an iron.

If anyone in the tribe secretly had domestic superpowers...

It was Lukan.

Above her four beasthusband he knew tailoring, it was him.

Lukan blinked.

"Are you making new beast-skin skirts?"

Sora nodded, scratching her cheek with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"I’ve lost quite a bit of weight lately. These old skirts are getting so loose I have to tie knots in them just to keep them from falling off."

Lukan finally understood.

He’d noticed the knot around her waist for days.

He’d assumed it was some fashionable new style.

Turns out...

...it was emergency anti-wardrobe-malfunction technology.

"I can make them," he said without hesitation. "No problem."

"Really?"

"Of course. But first we’ll need fresh hides. After hunting them, they have to be cleaned, scraped, stretched, smoked, and softened. It’ll take a few days."

He rubbed the back of his neck apologetically.

"The chief has been keeping me busy lately, so I haven’t had time to hunt."

Sora smiled.

"That’s easy."

Then she casually turned toward the three miserable dishwashers.

"I’ll let them hunt."

The sound of scrubbing stopped.

Three heads turned simultaneously.

Us?

Weren’t they already paying for dinner with dish duty?

Since when had laundry... evolved into hunting assignments?

Sora folded her arms with the smile of someone who had absolutely no shame in exploiting free labor.

"Whoever brings back the best hides..."

She paused dramatically.

"...gets extra snacks."

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then—

Three pairs of eyes lit up like lions spotting a wounded zebra.

Snacks.

The legendary reward.

The magical word.

The sacred currency of Sora’s kitchen.

The last time she’d made popcorn, they’d nearly started a tribal war over the last handful.

Compared to that...

Hunting a few animals?

Easy.

"I’ll go!"

"I’ll bring the biggest hide!"

"You won’t beat me!"

Their previous complaints vanished faster than meat left unattended near hungry hyenas.

Sora smiled smugly.

Negotiation complete.

Lukan watched the entire exchange with quiet amazement.

He had never seen anyone manipulate three powerful hunters using... snacks.

Not threats.

Not commands.

Not emotional blackmail.

Honey-coated bribery.

Incredible.

He’d never imagined these three proud warriors could be motivated so easily.

One mention of snacks...

...and they became the most obedient hunters on the entire savannah.

He looked at Sora with quiet admiration.

She’s dangerous...

He looked at Sora with genuine admiration.

She noticed his expression and misunderstood it completely.

Poor Lukan.

He wanted snacks too.

She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially,

"Don’t worry."

She winked.

"You’ll get snacks too."

Lukan chuckled.

He wasn’t impressed by the snacks.

He was impressed by how effortlessly she’d managed three notoriously difficult beastmen.

She’d practically trained them like well-fed hunting dogs.

Moments later, the dishes were sparkling clean.

Ace, Xavier, and Lucas shot out of the kitchen like cheetahs chasing dinner.

Sora stared after them.

"...Did they really have to sprint?"

She hadn’t even told them how many hides she needed.

After thinking about it...

"One each should be enough."

If they came back dragging an entire buffalo, she’d probably have to invent beast-skin handbags next.

After dinner, Lukan headed toward Martin’s house.

The chief had summoned him earlier, and keeping the tribal leader waiting was a very good way to volunteer for every unpleasant job in camp.

Once everyone had left, Sora stayed behind in the outdoor kitchen.

This was her first time using her homemade menstrual pad, and she wasn’t entirely sure how long it would last.

Testing it in her tiny hut wasn’t exactly practical.

Too cramped.

Too many unexpected visitors.

Too much potential embarrassment.

The outdoor kitchen was peaceful.

Private.

And close enough that she could discreetly check on things every now and then.

To her surprise, the homemade pad worked far better than expected.

After an entire meal, everything was still comfortable and dry.

She patted herself proudly.

"Ancient women really knew what they were doing."

Since she had some spare time, her thoughts drifted back to clothing.

The tribe’s standard beast-skin skirts all looked exactly alike.

Wrap.

Tie.

Hope for the best.

Functional?

Yes.

Fashionable?

Absolutely not.

And after losing weight, tying knots around her waist every morning wasn’t exactly glamorous.

"I need something adjustable."

Something that would fit whether she lost ten more kilos or gained them back after discovering fried honey cakes.

No way was she making a brand-new skirt every few weeks.

Processing hides took forever.

She needed something smarter.

An adjustable waistband.

Maybe side laces.

Perhaps overlapping panels.

Primitive clothing...

Modern tailoring.

Now that was innovation.

Besides...

If she planned on charming five handsome beast husbands...

Looking like she’d escaped from a pile of drying hides probably wasn’t the best strategy.

If she was going to survive in this prehistoric African savannah—and somehow win over five impossibly handsome beast husbands—

She needed fashion.

Even cavemen appreciated someone who dressed well.

With no paper available, Sora dragged over a flat stone slab, picked up several charcoal from the fire, and began sketching designs directly onto the rock.

She became so absorbed in drawing that she didn’t notice two women quietly approaching.

Only when a shadow fell across her sketch did she finally look up.

"Oh?"

She smiled.

"Looking for me?"

She recognized them immediately.

Clare...

...and Zainabu.

Unlike most of the tribe’s women, neither followed Serena around like loyal guinea fowl trailing the loudest bird in the flock.

They tended to think for themselves.

That alone made Sora remember them.

The two exchanged nervous glances.

After several awkward moments, Zainabu finally gathered enough courage to speak.

"Sora..."

"We were wondering..."

She glanced at the pottery lining the shelves.

"Could you teach us how to make those?"

Both women stared at the beautifully shaped clay pots with unconcealed admiration.

Ever since watching Sora refine salt, they had realized those strange clay containers were incredible.

They held water.

They survived fire.

They cooked food evenly.

And unlike stone pots...

They didn’t weigh as much as an angry rhinoceros.

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