The stairs into the central pit descended in a slow, indulgent curl, like the tongue of some ancient beast unfurling to taste the air. Each step sank beneath my heel with softness, plush enough to make one forget they were heading deeper into hell.
The banister—gold-veined mahogany, warm beneath my glove—guided us toward a floor that shimmered like the promise of a dream and stank like a trap set by gods with a sense of humor.
Below us, paradise waited. Or at least, the kind of paradise that might greet you after death by gluttony—a place too beautiful to trust, too rich to be clean. Lush grass carpeted the ground in living green, freshly damp with dew that didn't belong indoors. Tropical trees burst from the floor, and waterfalls, yes waterfalls, fell from the ceiling above.
Between marble arches wrapped in flowering vines, long banquet tables stretched into the horizon like decadent rivers—groaning under the weight of meats glazed in honeyed oils, fruits cut to bleeding ripeness, pastries steaming with sinful heat, and fountains of cascading wine bubbling like blood in candlelight.
It was a cathedral of hunger, and we had arrived for communion.
The scent alone was dizzying—spices I couldn't name curled through the air like whispered spells, heady and thick, made only worse by the low sound that hovered beneath it all: chewing, slurping, moaning, feasting.
A dull, constant murmur of endless consumption. Everywhere I looked, guests were eating—not delicately, not with etiquette, but with a desperate, trembling urgency that bordered on grotesque.
Willow sighed like she'd just walked into a boudoir with silk walls and no rules. "Gods, it's like an orgy got swallowed by a vineyard."
Miko, already looking suspiciously intoxicated, rubbed at his temple and murmured, "I think I just climaxed from the smell of a roast pear."
Leo said nothing. But his eyes—those watchful, wounded eyes—narrowed with silent unease.
We barely had a moment to breathe before a figure materialized before us like a butler conjured by courtesy.
He wore a tight suit dyed so black and so rich it practically wept in the light. His mask was porcelain white, simple but elegant, carved into the serene face of a man mid-satisfaction. His hands, gloved and folded, moved only when necessary. When he spoke, his voice was silk pulled taut over a blade.
"Welcome," he said, with that reverent hush reserved for tombs and temples. "To the Endless Feast."
I raised an eyebrow.
"That doesn't sound ominous at all."
He either didn't hear or simply chose to ignore me, because he continued in that smooth, practiced tone.
"Here, any dish you desire—any flavor, any temptation, any hunger—may be yours. For a single golden crown."
"One crown?" Willow blinked.
"A whole roast pheasant for one?" Miko scoffed. "That's less than I paid to listen to a man describe his soup recipe to me for twenty minutes."
I wasn't laughing. I was digging into my coat, fingers moving with the practiced grace of a thief more concerned with currency than comedy. To my surprise—though maybe I should've expected it—I pulled out not one but five fat pouches of coin. Heavy, bulging, all full of golden crowns.
Ah. Yes. On the way back to the Baron's theatre. The crowd. The pickpocketing. I remembered it well.
I dumped them all into the grass with a clink and a sigh, stuffed them into the largest pouch, and tied it shut like it might keep my soul from leaking out.
Then I turned to my companions and leveled them each with a stare sharp enough to skin a lie.
"No eating," I said. "No sipping. No taste-testing. No licking the air. This floor is a trap. It's not feeding you—it's draining you. And we need to leave with our coin."
Willow groaned dramatically. "But it smells like an orgasm," She pouted. "And what if the foie gras asks me to eat it?"
"Then seduce it, steal its contacts, and ghost it."
They dispersed like sultry shadows, each swallowed into the feast like whispers into a storm. Willow sashayed toward a group of velvet-draped nobles, flashing them periodically. Miko slipped between tables with a wink and a smile sharp enough to cut pastry. Leo melted into the background like a wary ghost. And I?
I watched.
And I listened.
The guests didn't eat like nobles or even like starved commoners. They ate like addicts. Desperate, trembling, eyes fixed not on each other but on their plates. Fingers moved with frantic speed, pulling meat from bone, scooping creams with silver spoons, tearing bread into their mouths with a hunger that bordered on violence.
No one spoke.
No one stopped.
The only sound was chewing, gasping, swallowing. And it never ceased.
And still…they looked starving.
Gaunt faces. Eyes ringed with sleeplessness. Cheeks stained with grease and desperation. They chewed as if the food were the only thing keeping them alive—and I began to wonder if it was.
That's when I noticed the first man.
He stood suddenly, knocking over his chair, patting his pockets with wild panic. "No—no, no, no, I had another! I had another crown!"
The feast paused.
His voice cracked as he dropped to his knees. "Please. Just one more plate. One more bite. I'll pay, I promise—"
He didn't finish.
A large man, red-faced and bloated like a roasted hog in silk, rose from the next table with contempt leaking from his pores. "If you can't pay, you don't eat," he snarled, and kicked the man in the ribs with a meaty thud.
The man curled on the ground, sobbing.
And then the masked servants came.
They arrived like smoke—gentle, gliding, voices soft as sleep.
"It's all right," one said. "You'll be taken to the special dining quarters. You'll be satisfied soon."
The man lit up like salvation had come.
He was taken away, cradled like a child.
Five minutes later, the fat man stood.
Same panic. Same patting of pockets. "Where—where's my money?! Where the hell—?"
The servants returned.
He screamed.
They smiled.
And they took him too.
I sat under a flowering tree and tried not to vomit.
The coin pouch at my waist had grown heavy. Too heavy. Like it had absorbed the fear, the rot, the inevitable.
And then the realization slithered in.
The next floor was Greed.
Of course. This was a harvest. A ritual. Drain the guests of coin, then send them into a realm ruled by money. If they didn't starve here, they'd beg up there.
But something didn't add up.
The special dining quarters. What were they? They must be the key to finding the exit to this floor. A deep sense of unease crept over me.
I had to know.
I had to see.
My stomach cramped violently. My vision blurred.
Hunger, like a blade beneath the skin.
Time to put on a performance.
I stumbled out from behind the twisted fruit tree, clutching my stomach like it might split open at any moment. My lips trembled with practiced desperation.
"F-Food," I rasped, staggering into view. "Please—someone—help—"
I collapsed theatrically beside a roast pig, knocking its gleaming, caramelized body askew. A tray of sugared plums flew into the air, scattering like jeweled shrapnel. I screamed, loud and raw, into the cascading stream of a wine fountain.
"Oh, I'm simply starving!"
Gasps rose like birds startled from trees. Chairs scraped. Tables tipped. A pastry exploded in a poof of custard and disbelief.
The servants came swiftly.
Smiling. Serene. Their hands soft as glove-lined steel.
"This way, sir," one murmured, her voice like satin on skin. "You'll be sated soon."
I let them guide me, staggering between them as they ushered me toward the golden doors. Behind me, I caught a final glimpse—
Leo's brow furrowed, uncertain.
Miko stood still, wine halfway to his lips.
Willow tilted her head and raised a single, sculpted brow—curious, amused.
And then the doors closed behind me.
The hallway beyond was colder than death, a sudden, surgical stillness wrapping around my skin. The floor was gray stone, worn smooth by centuries of silent passage. Torches lined the walls, their green fire flickering low and mean, casting sickly shadows that seemed to lean too close.
Behind iron bars, I saw them.
The chefs.
Laughing.
Giggle-snickering like schoolboys, their aprons streaked with fluids in too many shades of red. They stirred vats that hissed and popped, filled with meat that shifted like it still remembered how to twitch. Their eyes, white and cracked like aged porcelain, followed me hungrily.
One met my gaze, smiled sweetly, and licked a spoon carved from what looked like rib bone.
"Enjoy," he mouthed.
Lovely.
Another door ahead.
It didn't creak or sigh.
It opened with absence—a silence so complete it pressed down on the bones, making breath feel like a crime.
I stepped inside.
Darkness wrapped around me, heavy as velvet soaked in blood. The air was syrupy and slow, thick with rot and sweetness—a nauseating perfume of spoiled sugar, like candy left to fester in the belly of something long dead.
The floor clung to my boots.
Each step landed with a soft, wet stick, as if I were walking across layers of old flesh. Beneath that: a crunch. Subtle. Brittle. Bone or burnt sugar—I didn't want to guess.
And then—
Sounds.
Fleshy, rhythmic squelching. Wet chewing. The occasional crack of cartilage splitting.
I crept forward, each step a deliberate betrayal of my instincts.
A shape loomed ahead.
Crouched. Hunched. Moving in frantic bursts.
Feasting.
I hesitated. Then reached out.
Tapped its shoulder with two fingers.
It turned.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was the first man—the one who had begged. His mouth was stained crimson, his chin slick with juices too thick to be wine. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, frantic. A mockery of joy lit his features.
In front of him lay the fat man who had kicked him to the floor.
Or at least, what remained of him.
His thigh was shredded down to the bone, torn open in thick, wet chunks. Blood had soaked the grass black beneath him. Strips of meat were missing from his side. His eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, still shining with the echo of fear.
The man smiled.
A child's smile.
A grateful smile.
Then turned back to his feast.