Nausea.
Regret.
Irritation.
And beneath it all, a deeper, stickier, lingering sense of helplessness.
Like the complex smells settled in this food stall, they layered and clogged Erika's chest, making it hard to breathe.
A few short days?No—it felt like he'd been struggling in this godforsaken place for centuries.
From being a "maggot" before departure,to this damned "vacation,"to the bristly sensation and the urge to vomit at the pot's edge just now…
What kind of life was this, really?
This place—from its people to its affairs to its meals—was downright sinister.
No wonder…
A cold thought suddenly flashed through his mind—
no wonder the Church, for so long, couldn't chew through this place.
"Please, just a few more days…" a man's voice pleaded, humble, on the verge of tears."Yeah, boss, have a heart… we… we didn't catch anything this meal…" another voice followed, hoarse, scraped raw by hunger.
It was those patrons.
They were gathered around the counter, pleading.
For what?A few more days of what?
Were they behind on payment?
Erika couldn't be bothered to think deeper. The pleading—like everything else here—grated on his nerves.
No response from the owner.
Only the clear, measured thump, thump, thump of knuckles against greasy wood, once, then again—dripping with utter indifference and finality.
That knocking sound was more despair-inducing than any shout.
"Pfft…"
A very soft, almost inaudible laugh escaped from Cole beside him.
Then Erika felt the arm under his armpit tighten, pulling him up from where he leaned against the wall.
Cole's strength was considerable. His movements weren't exactly gentle—but effective.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
Cole's voice was close, carrying the satisfaction of a full stomach and a hint of detached teasing as he steadied Erika on his feet.
He patted Erika's shoulder—not too hard, not too soft—but with clear intent, his gaze indicating Erika's tightly clenched left hand.
Erika instinctively opened his fingers.
In his palm, the rough metal pieces from the stranger in the soft cap were damp with sweat, their jagged edges having pressed faint red marks into his skin.
"There," Cole grinned, revealing teeth still flecked with meat fibers.The smile looked a bit too bright in the sunlight.
"Thanks to our 'southern friend,' we didn't come out too badly, eh?"
Erika shook his head, trying to suppress the nausea and sour mood.
He looked at Cole, his voice still raspy.
"What now? What's the plan?"
That was the most practical question.
After that bizarre meal—where to next?Do what?
Continue aimlessly "vacationing" in this sinister town?
Hearing the question, Cole's smile widened.
That familiar glint in his eyes—a mix of mockery and something deeper—flashed again.
He raised a hand, index finger pressed to his lips, making a shushing gesture.
"Vacation."Just those two words, light in tone, the ending lifted.
Then he shrugged.
Again. Always like this.Drop a word. A hint. Then toss the choice back to Erika.
Annoyance surged—but deeper than that was weary resignation.
If he didn't follow Cole, where else could he go?Wander Darenz until some unknown monstrosity swallowed him?
Cole suddenly looked back.
The afternoon sunlight gilded the grimy side of his face with a fuzzy golden edge.
His smile was almost blindingly bright—careless.
His voice lifted, carrying a pure, almost childlike triumph.
"Wasn't it fun, hahahaha!"
He even mimed a stabbing motion with his hand.
"I hit the jackpot!"
He meant the bite-marked steak.
In his view, that was the most commendable, tangible gain of this "Darenz vacation."
Erika stared at that smiling face swaying in the sunlight, at those white teeth.
The phantom sensation of bristles in his throat sharpened again.
Fun?Hit the jackpot?
He said nothing.
He merely tightened the empty right sleeve of his robe, lowered his head, avoiding Cole's overly bright gaze.
The metal pieces in his palm were cold and hard.
The "vacation" continued.In this downright sinister place that even the Church couldn't chew through.
Regardless, Erika didn't want to spend another second in this food stall—with its layered smells, dim light, and memories of failure and nausea.
The churning in his stomach had eased somewhat, but the phantom roughness in his throat and the lingering spice taste refused to fade.
He needed to leave.Immediately.
He didn't even wait for Cole.
He pushed himself upright with his good left arm, peeling away from the earthen wall.
His steps were unsteady, but his direction was clear—toward the door.
The same way the tall, fat attendant had carried the giant pot out earlier.
"Leaving, boss," Cole called from behind, casual as if bidding farewell to an ordinary stall."See ya," the owner replied, voice lazy and perpetually drowsy.
Erika's hand found the heavy wooden door.
He pushed.
Whoosh—!
Fresh afternoon air rushed in, warm with sunlight, laced with dust and distant street noise, instantly diluting the oppressive stench behind him.
He drew in a deep breath.
The congealed, sticky emotions clogging his chest were blasted apart by light and wind, dispersing somewhat.
At least—he could breathe.
He pushed aside the faded blue half-length cloth curtain and stepped outside.
Then—
He froze.
The scene before him made his nerves—just soothed by fresh air—snap tight again.
More visceral.More shocking than anything inside the stall.
Right there, on the empty patch of street just steps from the entrance, stood the tall, obese attendant—a silent mountain of flesh.
At his feet lay the same massive black iron pot.
It was overturned.
The still-scalding, thick, dark broth spilled out, along with the uneaten, overboiled or stubborn "ingredients," spreading across the stone pavement in a greasy, steaming, familiar stench.
But that wasn't what made Erika's scalp prickle.
What made his heart stop were the things gathered around it.
They.
More of them—four-limbed, long-haired, wrapped in tattered clothes—crawling on the ground with startling speed.
Now clustered densely around the spilled food.
Far more than the one or two he'd glimpsed before.
They scrambled over each other, burying their heads into the flowing broth and dregs, emitting loud, greedy slurping and smacking sounds—
madly licking, gnawing at anything edible.
Their movements were rough and frantic, bodies shoving and pressing—
yet there was no fighting.
Only a chilling, single-minded feeding frenzy.
Their filthy hair dragged through the grease.Their rags soaked through with sauce.
They ignored everything.
Pedestrians.The fat attendant.Even Erika.
The street bustled as usual.
People came and went.
Some detoured around the stain and the clustered figures, faces wearing habitual, mild disgust, as if avoiding spilled waste or dirty water.
No one stopped.
No one stared.
The sun was bright.The street was alive.
On one side—normal people living their lives.On the other—a dumped pot of leftovers, and a group of inhuman beings crouched on the ground, frantically licking it clean.
Both scenes existed together, divided by an invisible, twisted barrier.
Erika stood frozen at the stall entrance, hand still gripping the curtain.
The fresh air now felt icy, biting into his lungs.
He glimpsed the true nature of some dark chunks from the pot—
as one creature tore at something resembling an animal's windpipe, or a strip of ligament, instantly snatched away by another head buried beside it.
So… this was how the uneaten "ingredients" were processed.So… this was what those crawling things fed on.
A chill far deeper than nausea crept slowly up his spine.
Cole stepped out behind him, coming to a stop at Erika's side, also looking at the scene on the street.
He showed neither surprise nor disgust—only calm observation, as if watching an everyday street view.
Fresh air…
No.This wasn't "fresh" air at all.
The brief sense of relief from bursting out of the stall was instantly replaced by an even more complex blend of odors.
The wind still carried remnants of the stall's overbearing spice scent,but now it was mixed with an indescribable, sticky, uncanny stench—
like food rotting past its prime,oxidized grease,and something unspeakable—a fishy, rancid smell close to biological seepage.
These two extreme odors were violently fused, assaulting Erika's nose and throat with every breath.
His respiratory system—having just adapted to the stall's single, intense smell—was now completely overwhelmed.
"Cough! Cough—cough!"
He doubled over, coughing violently again, tears welling up uncontrollably.
But harder to shake than the physical discomfort was the bone-deep shock from the scene before him.
Those groveling, frantically licking figures,the filthy stain reflecting greasy light under the sun,and the pedestrians' willful normalcy—
this absurd, horrific tableau was hammered into his mind like a nail, freezing him in place, his stomach turning ice-cold.
As his coughing gradually subsided, a commotion of violent pulling and shouting erupted from a short distance away, piercing through the street's background hum.
"Hey! Stop it! Let go!"a man shouted, panicked and furious.
"Don't stop me! Get off! I—I can't take it anymore!!"another voice followed, hoarse and deranged, nearly howling.
Erika barely managed to suppress the last of his coughing, wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve, and looked toward the sound.
Right near the spilled food waste, two figures were pushing and grappling—
two of the patrons who had just been pleading at the counter inside.
One of them, eyes bloodshot, was staring fixedly at the mess being licked clean by the crawling figures.
His face was twisted with utter collapse, greed, and madness.
He stretched out his arms, fingers claw-like, scratching futilely toward the filth, his body straining to lunge forward, his mouth muttering nonstop, as if possessed:
"Hungry… give me… hungry… just one lick… just one lick…"
The other man was clutching him tightly from behind, dragging him back with all his strength.
His face was a mess of fear, desperation, and a thread of shared suffering.
He shouted hoarsely, his voice trembling:
"You can't! Snap out of it!!"
Their struggle drew a few sidelong glances from passersby—only glances.
People frowned, quickened their steps, and detoured around them, treating the scene as just another unsightly nuisance to avoid.
At that moment, the tall, fat attendant—who had been standing silently like a mountain of flesh—moved.
He showed not the slightest interest in the patrons' collapse and struggle.
He simply bent down and, with those astonishingly thick arms, easily lifted the now-empty giant black iron pot again.
Thick sauce and scattered scraps still clung to its inner walls.
He turned the pot completely upside down and gave it a firm shake.
A few dull clunks followed—the last stubborn bones or hardened bits fell onto the stained ground, instantly snatched away by several crawling hands.
Then—under everyone's gaze, or perhaps without caring whether anyone watched at all—
the tall, fat attendant swung the completely empty, still-dripping pot,casually, yet unmistakably,toward the two struggling patrons.
The action was utterly simple.
Wordless.
Yet it carried immense weight and icy mockery.
See? Empty.Not a scrap left.Even the dregs belong to "them."
Your hunger.Your struggle.Your despair.
They have nothing to do with this pot—or this place—anymore.
After this silent yet deafening display, the tall attendant did not linger.
Holding the empty pot, he took his heavy, thudding steps, turned, pushed open the stall door Erika had just exited, and went back inside.
The door closed behind him, shutting out—
the sunlight,the street noise,the madly struggling patrons,the licking, crawling figures,and the still-coughing, stunned Erika.
The thinner patron—the one who had been trying to lunge toward the dregs—
upon seeing the empty pot being swung, seemed to have his backbone instantly removed.
He abruptly stopped struggling.
Stopped howling.
His body went limp, barely supported by the sturdier patron behind him.
He no longer muttered "hungry."
Instead, he emitted a sound like a leaking bellows—a hollow, airless whimper.
His eyes were completely unfocused, staring at the ground that was being licked increasingly clean, as if part of his soul had been carried away with that empty pot.
Erika lowered his gaze to his own left palm.
The rough, irregular metal pieces lay quietly in the sweat-dampened lines of his hand, reflecting the stall's dim yellow light.
One by one.Heavy.
He instinctively weighed them.
They had substance, clinking together with a faint, dull sound.
Not many—but not so few they could be counted at a glance.
A gift from a stranger.
His gaze shifted back to the two patrons.
They had stopped their futile pleading.
The sturdier one was barely propping up the completely limp, hollow-eyed companion.
Both stood there like emptied shells, frozen in the wake of the owner's silent verdict, awaiting some preordained, bleak fate.
The despair lingering on their faces—
set against the greasy satisfaction at the corner of Cole's mouth,and the owner's indifferently lowered eyelids—
formed an acutely unsettling contrast.
A familiar, almost instinctive pity crept out from the cracks of Erika's cold, exhausted heart—like tiny vines.
Seeing others crushed before his eyes by some invisible rule…
His left foot, almost against his will, stepped half a pace forward.
These metal pieces in his hand…
Perhaps…they could buy a few more days?
The thought was vague and impulsive, not even fully formed—
An arm blocked his path.
Cole's.
The movement was quick and firm.
No extra explanation.Not even a glance.
Cole simply turned his side slightly toward Erika, his arm steady, cutting off the way forward.
His hand didn't even touch Erika—
yet it felt like an invisible, ice-cold wall.