Chapter 2 - Chapitre 2: The Forbidden Feast – Eat or Die

The massive doors sealed shut behind the last prisoner with a final, bone-rattling thud that echoed through the cavernous hall like a death knell. Warm golden light poured from unseen sources in the high ceiling, bathing everything in a deceptive glow that felt almost welcoming—if not for the metallic tang already lingering in the air. Endless rows of long black tables stretched into the distance, each one perfectly set with a single steaming dish at every place. The aromas assaulted the senses all at once: rich roasted meat laced with exotic spices that no one could name, sweet herbs that masked something darker and coppery, thick broths bubbling with an unnatural shimmer. It was the smell of a feast prepared by gods—or demons. Hunger clawed at every empty stomach in the room, yet terror clamped most throats shut. A thousand prisoners stood scattered across the polished obsidian floor, some still dripping rainwater from the storm outside, others shivering in their thin, soaked prison rags. Faces were pale, eyes wide. No one dared speak. The silence was heavier than any chain they had ever worn. At the far end, on a raised platform of gleaming black stone, stood the figure in the bloodstained apron. His smile was too wide, teeth too white under the unnatural light. A light dusting of flour clung to his broad shoulders like fallen ash. He looked like a chef who had cooked for empires—and then burned them down. "Welcome," he announced, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the hall without raising in volume. "To Forbidden Cuisine." He spread his arms wide, as though bestowing a grand gift. "Before each of you sits your first trial. One dish. One bite is enough to begin. Eat… and your body may accept the forbidden power hidden within these ingredients. Refuse… or fail to adapt… and rejection will be swift. And violent." A low murmur rippled through the crowd like wind over graves. Near the front, a gaunt prisoner with hollow cheeks and wild eyes could wait no longer. He lunged forward, snatching a plate from the nearest table. His fingers tore into the dark, glistening meat, swallowing huge chunks without chewing, broth dripping down his chin. For five agonizing heartbeats, the hall held its breath. Then his hands shot to his throat. Black veins bulged beneath pale skin like roots bursting through soil. His body jerked violently, limbs flailing as if pulled by invisible wires. A wet, tearing sound filled the air—flesh ripping from the inside. He collapsed to his knees, convulsing. His abdomen swelled grotesquely, then split open in a spray of blood and shredded organs that splattered across the nearest tables and prisoners. Screams exploded. Some staggered back, retching. Others stared in frozen horror at the crimson puddle spreading across the floor. The Judge never flinched. His smile remained perfectly fixed. "Adapt," he repeated softly, almost gently, "or disappear." Panic shattered into chaos. Some prisoners approached the tables hesitantly, lifting forks with trembling hands, taking the tiniest possible nibbles and whispering prayers under their breath. Others attacked the food like starving wolves, gulping it down in desperate hope that speed would somehow protect them. A middle-aged woman in the far corner sobbed openly as she forced spoonfuls of thick stew into her mouth, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the broth. "Please… just let me live…" she whispered between bites. A burly inmate with tattooed arms laughed hysterically as he tore into his portion. "Might as well die full, right? Ha! Better than starving in that cell!" But the laughter died quickly. Bodies began to fall one after another. A young prisoner's skin cracked open like overripe fruit, black tendrils slithering out from the wounds before his body went rigid and still. Another's eyes rolled back to pure white; he clawed at his own face, shrieking about "voices screaming in the fire" until blood ran from his torn cheeks.A man near Kael simply froze mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth—then toppled forward face-first onto the table, foam bubbling from his lips, dead in an instant. The guards in pitch-black uniforms moved like shadows, silent and mechanical, dragging the corpses away by the ankles, leaving wet red streaks across the floor. Three endless days passed in that golden hell. There were no clocks, no windows, no night or day. The lights never dimmed. The dishes never ran out—whenever a plate was finished or a body cleared, a new one materialized in its place, steaming as if freshly prepared. The air grew thicker with the stench of blood, bile, vomit, and the cloying sweetness of overcooked flesh. The floor became slick and treacherous. Fights broke out over untouched plates. A group of three inmates turned on a lone survivor who had claimed two dishes; knives fashioned from broken chair legs flashed. Blood sprayed again—this time from human violence rather than the food. The guards did nothing. They only watched. Kael stayed apart, back pressed against the cold wall, arms crossed, observing everything. His stomach had long since stopped growling—it was now a constant, burning knot of pain. He watched the transformations, the deaths, the madness. He remembered his mother's last visit: the doubt in her eyes, the way she hadn't asked if he was innocent, only stared as if seeing a stranger. He remembered the courtroom, the judge's gavel, the word "guilty" ringing like a sentence worse than death. He had already killed once—in self-defense, or so he told himself. The scarred giant's skull cracking against steel still echoed in his ears. What was one more line crossed? Yet every time he looked at the dishes, something inside him recoiled. On the morning of the third day—or what felt like morning, since time had lost meaning—his vision began to blur at the edges. Legs trembled. Hands shook. Exhaustion and starvation were winning. He finally stepped forward. The table in front of him held a single dish: a thick slab of dark red steak swimming in viscous black sauce, garnished with thin, glowing veins that pulsed faintly like living things. The smell was intoxicating—rich, forbidden, nauseating all at once. He picked up the fork. Hesitated for a long moment. Around him, the hall had emptied dramatically. Fewer than a hundred remained standing. The rest had been claimed by the trial—either exploded, twisted into unrecognizable shapes, or simply dropped dead. A few survivors eyed each other warily, hands hovering near makeshift weapons. Kael took one bite. The heat detonated in his throat and raced downward like molten iron poured into his veins. His knees buckled instantly. The fork clattered to the floor. He clutched his chest as foreign visions slammed into his mind: burning cities collapsing under dragon wings, ancient warriors torn apart mid-scream, their essence harvested like crops, thousands of deaths flooding his skull in a torrent of agony and rage that wasn't his. Muscles seized. Bones felt as though they were melting, reshaping, cracking and knitting back together in wrong ways. He collapsed forward, forehead slamming against the table edge. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow. "I won't… become a monster…" he growled through gritted teeth, voice raw. "Not like them. Not for this place." The pain built to an unbearable white-hot crescendo, every nerve screaming— Then it snapped. Utter silence inside and out. Kael gasped, lungs burning, sweat soaking his ragged clothes. He was still alive. And… different. A faint hum thrummed in his blood, subtle but undeniable. Strength returned—not overwhelming, but enough to steady his shaking limbs. From the platform, the Judge tilted his head, eyes narrowing with what looked like genuine curiosity for the first time. "Interesting…" he murmured, voice low enough that only Kael seemed to hear. "Very interesting indeed." Kael pushed himself upright. The hall was deathly quiet now. Only a few dozen survivors remained, scattered and changed. Their eyes were colder, sharper, predatory.No longer just broken men and women. They were players now. Something deep in Kael's core shifted—subtle at first, then clearer. [System Initializing… Partial sync detected.] His breath caught. The voice was inside his skull, cold, intimate, undeniable. [Compatibility: 87%.] [Survivor of the First Feast confirmed.] [Basic attributes unlocked: Strength +3, Vitality +5, Perception +2.] [Hidden trait detected: Unyielding Will.] [Welcome, Player Kael Blackwood.] [Prepare for Next Phase: The Hunt Begins in 24 hours.] The notification faded, leaving behind a cold certainty that settled in his bones. The ship's low hum grew louder—whatever unnatural engines powered it vibrating through the floor. The entire vessel tilted slightly, slicing deeper into the endless black ocean. Kael clenched his fist. For the first time since the nightmare began, something burned brighter than fear. Purpose. Whoever had framed him. Whoever had built this floating hell. Whoever sat behind the Judge's smile… They would pay. One way or another. The real game had only just begun.