The room upstairs served as an apology for the basement.
Beech and walnut wood lined the walls, reeking of ostentation.
My fingers tapped on the polished table.
It was an irregular, nervous, completely human rhythm.
No primordial being would perform such a movement. Primordial beings knew patience; they could sit in waiting for centuries without blinking.
But this vessel... this impatient piece of meat did not understand patience.
The only thing it understood was a black, acidic hole in its center that screamed a single command: "Fill!"
Hunger، what a primitive, vulgar concept.
The digestive system of this body felt coiled inside me like an independent beast, claws scratching at the walls of my stomach.
Before this, I was self-sufficient. Complete.
Now, I was forced to chew physical matter, crush it, and convert it into waste just to survive a few hours longer.
Moisture touched my cheek. I touched it. Wet.
Tears? Again?
It was not sadness. It was overflow. This frail vessel was trembling under the strain. The sheer weight of my consciousness was cracking the container.
"Fragile," I whispered, wiping the water away. "You crack so easily."
...
The sound of metal wheels on uneven stones tore the thread of my thoughts.
It was Malakor.
Gone was the luxurious robe of high priesthood. In its place, he had tied a dirty leather apron over his clothes, making him look like a bankrupt butcher.
He pushed a silver-wheeled table with extreme caution, as if he were transporting a time bomb.
Fear still swirled around him like an aura of stench.
But now, it carried a new top note: the sickly-sweet smell of cowardly flattery.
"My Lord..." Malakor's voice trembled. "We... We did not know exactly what kind of sustenance... a transcendent being like you... would appreciate."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"In the ancient texts, it is said that demons feed on bone ash and the blood of virgins, but... we imagined perhaps your human vessel might have needs that are... more earthly."
He lifted the silver lid. Steam rose.
"We tried to prepare the best and purest food of mortals, so that it would be the least insult to your presence."
I looked at the plate.
A piece of roasted meat, probably beef. Steamed vegetables. A glass of red liquid.
Without a word, I picked up the fork.
My hand was shaking. Not from fear, but from the pathetic weakness of these muscles.
I plunged the fork into the meat.
Its crude reality lay bare before me: the scorched flesh of a beast and the fibrous roots of the earth. In the glass, the fermented blood of fruit.
This was not a meal. It was a ritual of decay.
I was about to bury the carcass of one creature into the graveyard of another, absorbing its death to prolong my own stolen life.
Reluctantly, I cut a piece and put it in my mouth.
Jaws moved. Saliva secreted. Enzymes rushed in.
And suddenly... explosion.
A scream of raw, chemical pleasure echoed in my skull.
It flooded my senses, a wave of warmth designed to enslave the mind. The brain cheered for me.
A bribe. I thought
Like a master tossing a scrap to a loyal hound, this flesh suit was rewarding me for obeying its command to feed.
It conditioned me with pain, and now it enslaved me with pleasure.
I swallowed the morsel.
The bitter truth settled in my chest along with the meat.
"This is not a body," I realized, the horror of it cold and sharp. "This is not even a biological suit. This is a parasite."
"This coffin with windows... this vessel is a parasitic organism that conditions its host with the punishment of hunger and the chemical reward of dopamine. I am not the owner of this body; I am its janitor."
I cut another piece. Faster.
The craving for something I had never known until now overcame my logic.
My hand moved on its own. The fork scraped against the porcelain, faster and faster.
The plate was empty.
I had even wiped the sauce stains with a piece of bread.
A feeling of heaviness settled in my stomach—a sensation simultaneously disgusting and soothing.
I tasted the glass of wine. Its quality was low, but the alcohol softened the sharp edges of reality just enough.
I pushed the chair back.
I stared at Malakor, who was still drying the sweat on his forehead with a dirty handkerchief.
The young apprentice—the same one who had given me the clothes—stood in the shadow behind Malakor. His eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and wonder.
"Speak, Priest," I commanded.
"No useless incantations. Facts. Why me? And why now?"
Malakor swallowed his saliva, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"My Lord... We are in the Zonia. Specifically, the sub-basement of the 'Gilded Quill' antique shop." He took a breath.
"It is November 14th, in the year of the Name 11998, and the world... The world has reached a deadlock."
He looked up, meeting my gaze for the first time.
"For four hundred years, the sky has been closed."
11,998 years since discovering the first Name...
I raised an eyebrow. "Explain."