Edward floated in a place that was not a place. The Abyssal Bazaar was a chaotic mess of sights and sounds that hurt his mind. Stalls of bone and shadow sold weapons that cried and potions that squirmed. The air felt thick and greasy. Like breathing in old, dark secrets. He was still reeling. The shock of meeting the 50% soul corruption requirement to even get here. Not a club you wanted to be a member of.
The shadowy merchant in front of him had no face. Just a shifting void beneath a hood. Its voice was a dry rustle. Like dead leaves skittering across pavement. "The Life-Eater Plague," it rasped. Its long, thin fingers tapped on a counter made of solidified nightmares. "A nasty thing. It turns the soul to soup from the inside out. Very messy. But we have a cure."
Edward felt a small spark of hope. Immediately suspicious. In his experience, hope was usually the bait in a very sharp trap. "What's the price?" he asked. His voice sounded thin.
