The abyss no longer fought him. It fed him.

Leonard moved through the shifting corridors, blade stained with gore, hands reeking of blood both monstrous and his own. Each step forward was paid for in flesh, and each meal cooked was a transaction with the abyss itself—one life traded for power.

The rules had changed. Now, the hunt was a harvest.

The creatures had stopped attacking recklessly. They watched him, crawling from the walls, slithering across the floor, offering themselves not as enemies—but as ingredients.

They feared him.

No. They worshipped him.

The shadow-woman, the entity who had bound him into this nightmare, lounged high above, her eyes glowing brighter with every course he served. “My lovely little butcher…” she purred, “you’ve stopped surviving. You’re creating. I’m so proud.”

Leonard said nothing. There was no point.

His hands moved automatically—slicing through sinew, peeling back skin, stripping away the unusable while harvesting the essence. Each beast was a puzzle to solve, each meal a recipe to refine.

He roasted flesh over fires born from ichor. He ground bones into seasoning. He rendered venom glands into bitter reductions, balanced against the fatty organs of a creature whose form had no earthly equivalent.

Every dish was a gamble—one misstep, and the poison could kill him faster than any blade. But Leonard learned faster than he feared.

He didn’t cook to eat. He cooked to perfect.

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The abyss itself began to change around him. Walls that had once shifted in chaotic madness now rearranged themselves into a twisted kitchen. Hooks of bone dangled from above, holding still-twitching carcasses, while tables of smooth obsidian waited to be stained with blood and brilliance alike.

The entity watched, licking her lips each time he finished a plate. But Leonard noticed something else.

Her hunger was changing.

At first, she had craved his pain—his suffering, his fear. Now? Now she craved his craft.

Every dish was a masterpiece born from carnage. Each plate bore the mark of a man unbroken. And that? That drove her wild.

Leonard’s hands never trembled, even when his own blood mixed with the food. His fingers were burned black, his skin riddled with tiny mouths that gnawed hungrily, yet he kept cooking.

This was no longer about survival.

This was gluttony refined into art.

The monsters no longer howled at his approach. They knelt. They understood what he had become—the Abyssal Chef, the one who would carve them into the final, perfect feast.

Leonard’s body ached. His stomach roared, not with hunger—but with desire. A desire to create something that even the abyss itself would fear to consume.

The entity’s voice slithered into his ear. “My perfect little chef… what will you serve me when there’s nothing left to kill?”

Leonard wiped blood from his blade. “Then I’ll serve you your own heart.”

For the first time, she laughed in delight and fear.

The abyss trembled.

And the next door opened.