The Feast of the Vessel.

  "Oh. I see. Okay then." Sam muttered, turning his back on Aryan inside the System Space. He walked toward Nine, who was busy analyzing the structure of the palace walls.

  "What? 'Oh, I see'? What do you see, Sam?" Aryan gritted his teeth, his mental voice dropping to a suppressed, frantic hiss. "I'm freaking out here, you know. Don't just walk away!"

  "Exactly," Sam replied, not breaking his stride. "Remember? As Amara said, the more you talk, the calmer you are. The fact that you are babbling nonsense and name that as nonsense proves you are sane enough to know you are panicked and you are talking nonsense. Call me when you stop talking—that’s when I’ll worry."

  Aryan’s face remained mask-still in the physical world, betraying no emotion other than the impatience of a starving man, but internally, he was screaming into the void.

  In the open kitchen, the performance concluded. The chefs, moving with the synchronized grace of military automata, stepped back from the steaming dishes. They turned to Markus, bowed precisely to forty-five degrees, and exited the hall.

  Markus glanced at Hunter Eight. She nodded. The dishes were served—neatly arranged for exactly three people, deliberately so—like an artistic performance masquerading as a ritual.

  The large, circular glass table was laden with a feast. It wasn't just food; it was a culinary map of the continent. Spicy curries from the South, delicate pastries from the West, and heavy, mana-rich roasts from the North.

  Aryan’s stomach let out a sound like tearing metal.

  Involuntarily, his body lurched forward. His hand reached out to grab a roll, his fingers trembling with a need that felt ancient and bottomless. But just before he made contact, a spark of danger flared in his mind. He stopped, forcing himself to step back.

  Hunter Eight’ noticed. She glanced at Aryan, then at Markus, frowned for a fraction of a second, and returned to normal.

  The Monarch stood up. He didn't signal for servants. He walked lazily to the table, picked up a silver ladle, and stood by one of the chairs.

  Aryan glanced at Amara. She gave him a microscopic nod, her muscles coiled tight. Aryan sat down. Amara followed, her movements sharp and deliberate, as if she expected the floor to explode with every step.

  “It is too weird, Sam,” Aryan said through the connection. “This hospitality... it feels wrong.”

  Only silence greeted him from the System Space.

  “It is too weird compared to the scene I saw through the Seer Eye,” Aryan pressed, his anxiety spiking. “Do you think something is wrong?”

  Finally, Sam’s voice rang out, grave and low. “It shouldn't be, Aryan. What you saw was one of many possibilities of the future. But Markus getting rid of you? That is a constant. That is inevitable.”

  “Exactly, Sam! That is what I'm saying,” Aryan argued. “Something must be wrong with Markus. He is too calm. It’s like the receding water before a tsunami. That’s the worst kind of calm.”

  Sam opened his mouth to retort, but then he saw what was happening in the physical world. “Focus on what is happening before you, Kid. Don't blink.”

  "What?" Aryan looked up.

  He froze.

  In front of him, Monarch Markus—the ruler of three nations, the architect—was personally serving food onto Aryan’s plate.

  Amara raised an eyebrow, her hand inching, but she said nothing.

  "Oh no," Aryan muttered under his breath. "This is the worst kind of problem."

  Still, he forced a smile, clearing his throat. "What kind of habit is this, Monarch? How dare we accept your kind service like this? Should I be worried about poison?"

  "Accept it, Kid," Markus said, his voice lazy and hypnotic. "Take your sister as an example."

  Aryan looked at Amara.

  "Serving food to guests is his habit," Amara said, though her voice was tight. "He likes to appear down-to-earth."

  "Haha. I see," Aryan laughed, a hollow sound. "No wonder the whole state says you are a God. No wonder."

  “More like fattening the pig before the slaughter,” Aryan muttered internally.

  Markus ignored the jab. He scooped a ladle of the spicy, sour, and sweet specialty from the Southern Region—a dish glowing with concentrated red matter—and brought it close to Aryan’s nose.

  That was it. The trigger.

  The scent hit Aryan not as a smell, but as a command. It bypassed his logic and slammed directly into the Greed Vessel.

  EAT.

  Aryan froze. His blood rushed faster than it ever had, boiling in his veins. The hunger wasn't human; it was the starvation of a black hole.

  He didn't wait. He snatched the bowl from Markus’s hands, ignoring the hot liquid spilling onto his skin. He shoved a spoonful into his mouth.

  Explosion.

  Flavor and power detonated on his tongue. He didn't chew; he consumed. He ate what Markus gave him, then grabbed the plate on the table. He ate like a man possessed, his golden eyes dilating until there was no iris, only hunger.

  Beside him, Amara broke.

  She started eating. With each bite, her eyes burned brighter. Her hands moved in a blur, shoveling matter-rich food into her mouth. She, who had trained for years to resist torture, to resist mind control, was powerless against the biological imperative of the Vessel.

  She reached for another plate. Her hand hovered. She froze mid-motion.

  She glanced at herself.

  Stop.

  Somewhere deep in her assassin’s mind, a warning bell rang. She looked at her hand. It was trembling. She looked at Aryan. He had lost all manners, all sanity. He was growling low in his throat, vibrating with the raw energy he was ingesting. He reached Rank Five, faster than lightning, but right now, he was nothing more than a feeding animal. She looked at Markus.

  He continued serving. More. And more. And more.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A faint smile on his face.

  He glanced at her.

  Smiled again.

  Her expression didn’t change.

  She tried to stop eating. Her hand refused to obey. The hunger wasn’t Aryan’s.

  It wasn’t Amara’s.

  It was shared—and it wanted more. The ‘Greed vessel’.

  Amara’s eyes flashed with desperate resolve. She gathered her Dark Matter into her left fist. She didn't aim at Markus. She aimed at herself.

  CRACK.

  She punched herself squarely in the jaw.

  The impact was brutal. It shook her entire skull, biting through her tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of her own blood flooded her mouth, overpowering the taste of the food.

  Pain brought clarity.

  Aryan, hearing the sickening crack of bone, flinched. The sound pierced his feeding frenzy. His golden eyes twitched, the pupil constricting back to normal. He looked at Amara’s bleeding hand. The blood overlapped with the future he had seen through the Seer Eye—himself and his sister burning inside this glass palace. The scene he feared the most.

  Realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.

  Aryan jumped backward in a single, explosive motion, and the force of his jump launched his heavy crystal chair backward.

  It flew a mile across the vast hall, smashing into the far wall with a deafening crash.

  Aryan stood panting, his chest heaving, wiping sauce from his mouth with a trembling hand.

  Markus didn't flinch at the destruction. He simply placed the ladle back in the tureen and slowly sat down in his own chair. Markus glanced at them lazily. He crossed his legs, looking at them with the satisfaction of a teacher whose students just failed a test.

  “This is Side Effect Number One,” Markus said calmly, gesturing to the mess they had made. “You demanded food without understanding the biology of what you have become.”

  He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

  “You have the appetite of a God—but the self-control of a starving dog. Infinite growth always has a price.”

  The Comedown

  "Amara… are you okay?" Aryan asked, his voice trembling as he tried to mask the adrenaline crash.

  "Okay," Amara replied, though her hand was still wiping the blood from her split lip.

  "I'm okay too," Aryan lied. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, terrified by how good the food had tasted and how much he wanted to kill everyone in the room just to eat more.

  "Good," Amara said. She walked over to the spot where Aryan’s chair had been before he launched it a mile away. She picked up a replacement chair from the side of the room and placed it behind him with deliberate calmness. "Sit."

  Aryan sat down heavily. He didn't argue. He looked at his hands; they were shaking.

  “I just asked for food, Sam,” Aryan whispered internally, his mind racing. “We didn't even start stating the so-called terms yet. Yet the backlash is near death. What happens if he hears our actual demands? Does he kill us? Or do we explode?”

  Instead of Sam, Nine replied, her voice cool and analytical. “Calm down first. Observe the situation. Markus is not angry. He is... intrigued. He is looking at you like a scientist who finally found a lab rat that doesn't die immediately.”

  “That Old Man,” Aryan grumbled internally. “Is he not tired of living so many years? Why does he need more power?”

  “He is still young in the grand scheme,” Sam interjected. “People with High-Rank Systems can live as long as the universe itself. Compared to him, you are barely embryos. That is why he is cruel—to him, you are just fleeting sparks.”

  As if reading his mind, Markus spoke.

  "You are too weak to negotiate terms with me," the Monarch said, his voice flat. "Your foundation is rotten. You are unstable, like loose electricity waiting to ground itself."

  Markus stood up, smoothing his pristine suit.

  "Your training starts tomorrow. For the next seven days, you will train the foundation skills, regardless of your Rank. If you survive, we talk. If you explode... well, the cleaners will handle it."

  "Okay," Amara said instantly. She looked at Aryan.

  Aryan raised an eyebrow, silently asking, 'Are we really doing this?' Amara just nodded.

  "Okay," Aryan sighed, playing the part of the resigned captive.

  "Good. End of discussion," Markus stated. "Sleep today. Sleep until tomorrow morning. Sleep is the non-negotiable variable you need to beat me."

  He said the words 'beat me' lightly, as if the concept was a joke, before turning and walking away into the depths of the glass corridors.

  Aryan slumped in his chair. "Sis. What do you say?"

  "He will not kill us yet," Amara said, watching the Monarch’s retreating figure with a predator's gaze.

  "What basis?" Aryan asked.

  "You said he called me naive," Amara explained. "So we changed our approach. Your sudden outburst—calling him 'Old Man,' acting like a lunatic—it worked. It disrupted his script. He thinks we are chaotic variables, not threats."

  "Ah. That is crazy," Aryan chuckled nervously. "Maybe this is the Butterfly Effect. One flap of a lunatic's wings changes the storm."

  "Possible," Amara agreed.

  ---

  The Crescent Prison

  Minutes later, Hunter Seven arrived. The "Cautious Brother" looked at them warily, keeping his distance as if they were ticking bombs.

  "The guest rooms have been designed just beside the Monarch’s quarters and the training hall," Seven said efficiently. "Come with me."

  He led them through a maze of glass.

  The layout was symbolic and terrifying. The living quarters formed a crescent shape.

  Left Wing: Aryan’s Room.

  Right Wing: Amara’s Room.

  Center: Monarch Markus’s Room.

  Markus was literally the keystone separating them.

  Directly in front of the crescent was the Training Ground, completing the full circle. It was an open-air arena with no ceiling, just the transparent, reinforced sky of the palace dome.

  "Sleep well for tonight, Brother," Amara said, pausing at her door. Her eyes conveyed a deeper message: Stay alert. "Markus won't kill us tonight."

  "You too, Sister," Aryan replied, forcing a casual wave.

  He entered his room.

  The interior was a stark contrast to the transparent nightmare outside. The moment the heavy door clicked shut, the glass walls turned opaque. The room was bathed in a deep, fantasy blue, elegant and soothing. As he watched, the ceiling shifted, turning into a black canvas illuminated by soft, artificial starlight.

  It was a sanctuary.

  Aryan collapsed onto the bed. In the other room, Amara did the same.

  “We will keep an eye out for you,” Sam and Nine spoke in unison, their voices merging in the shared mental space. “Sleep well. Don't worry about security. We are the ultimate sentries.”

  And that was it. The exhaustion of the Void, the Soul Bind, and the Greed Backlash crashed down on them. Both fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Time moved. No assassins came. No poison gas filled the room. The day passed, the night arrived, and the silence held.

  ---

  The Devil’s Bootcamp

  Four AM. Morning.

  The rooms didn't ring with an alarm; they vibrated. The very air buzzed with a low-frequency hum that jarred them awake instantly.

  "Come to practice. You have fourteen minutes."

  Markus’s voice was not loud, but it resonated in their bones.

  Exactly fourteen minutes later, Aryan and Amara stood on the Training Ground. The morning air was cold, biting through their clothes.

  Markus stood before them. Gone was the suit. He wore loose, grey training robes that made him look like a monk—a monk capable of shattering planets.

  "300 rounds running," Markus ordered, pointing to the perimeter of the circular track. "Start with body stretches. First hundred rounds: Slow. Next hundred: Speed up. Final hundred: Slow down. Start now."

  Aryan looked at the track. The circle was massive.

  "Sister... 300 rounds?" Aryan whispered, eyeing the distance. "Will I survive? That’s not a warm-up; that’s a marathon across the country."

  "I need to stabilize my Rank and settle the Dark Matter in my vessels," Amara said, already dropping into a stretch. "This is, by far, the most useful method. The same goes for you. If you don't burn off the Greed energy, you will explode again."

  As they stepped onto the track, a blue holographic screen materialized in front of both of them simultaneously.

  SYSTEM ALERT.

  “A new mission has triggered, Kids,” Sam announced, his voice sounding excited. “Based on the circumstances, the earlier mission of 'Surviving Amara's Spartan Training' has been forcibly upgraded.”

  MISSION: SURVIVE THE HELL’S DEVIL.

  OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE MARKUS’S TRAINING REGIMEN. Seven DAYS.

  DIFFICULTY: NIGHTMARE.

  REWARD:

  1. Three Billion Dollars.

  2. NEW SKILL: 'STABILIZER' (Passive: Rapidly calms chaotic energy).

  “Three Billion...” Aryan almost tripped over his own feet.

  “Plus the Stabilizer skill,” Nine added. “Since your souls are bound, your missions and rewards will be shared. If one fails, both fail. If one succeeds, both profit.”

  Aryan looked at the track, then at Markus, who was watching them with cold, golden eyes.

  “It is the best way possible, Kid,” Sam said, patting Aryan’s shoulder in the System Space. “Come on. Survive this. Make the Devil pay you.”

  Aryan gritted his teeth and started to run.

  "Let's go get that money, Sister."