Leonard stood in the middle of his own living history, the labyrinth no longer a place, but a living reflection of every horror he had endured and every meal he had mastered.

Each wall was a page torn from the Book of Flesh, and each step forward caused those pages to bleed.

The air clung to his skin, humid with rot and ancient hunger. Every breath tasted like ash and copper. The floor pulsed beneath his boots, a tongue licking the soles of his feet.

He didn’t answer her question—pleasure or power—because deep down, he knew both were a lie.

There was only pain and creation.

The first creature burst from the wall, its face his own, twisted and screaming. A mirror monster, formed from the very pages he had filled with his suffering. Its hands were his hands. Its scars his scars.

But it didn’t cook. It only consumed.

Leonard moved like a knife in water, weaving between its lunges. His blade sang as it carved through the thing’s belly, spilling words instead of guts. Each cut bled his own memories back at him—his childhood, his first kills, the taste of stolen bread in a war zone.

It wasn’t enough to kill this thing.

He had to devour it himself.

Leonard didn’t hesitate. His hands, already slick with gore, tore free its heart—a pulsing, ink-black organ covered in scripture. He bit into it raw.

The world lurched.

His veins glowed, not with power, but with knowledge too sharp to hold onto without bleeding. New techniques forced their way into his brain—how to sear reality itself, how to flay the soul off bone, how to season pain into something palatable.

The next creature crawled out—a fusion of the monsters he had already slain, twisted into a single obscene dish meant only for him.

Its limbs ended in knives—his knives. Its teeth were his own—cracked from battles long since fought. Its belly carried the remains of meals he had cooked in desperation.

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It was his guilt, his hunger, his fear made flesh.

Leonard’s grin was feral. “Finally, something worth cooking.”

The fight was brutal. No elegance, no form—just teeth, steel, and survival. They tore into each other like rival beasts, cracking bones against each other, slamming into the bleeding walls so hard the pages themselves screamed.

When Leonard finally stood over its corpse, chest heaving, his body half-broken, the entity’s voice whispered into his ear, “Exquisite.”

But she wasn’t done.

The wall before him peeled open like blistered skin, revealing a kitchen unlike any he had seen. Tables forged from bone marrow. Cauldrons filled with boiling ink and molten gold. Spices made from shattered souls ground into powder.

It was a kitchen built for gods who had forgotten mercy.

And he was the only chef left.

“Cook,” she whispered.

The corpse at his feet shuddered, dissolving into raw ingredients right before his eyes. Every memory the creature carried—every scream, every moment of fear—became seasoning, marinade, garnish.

Leonard set to work.

His hands shook with fury and purpose. Every motion was a defiance. Every slice said I am not your pawn. Every sear said I own this pain.

By the time the dish was plated, the air vibrated, the walls themselves leaning in to smell what he had created.

It wasn’t food.

It was a curse, served beautifully.

He lifted the plate to her throne. The entity, lounging like a serpent coiled in silk, took the first bite.

Her eyes widened. Her smile split too wide.

She shuddered. Not in pain. Not in pleasure.

In fear.

Leonard had served her something she had never tasted before—her own control slipping through her fingers.

He stepped closer, voice a whisper drenched in exhaustion and rage.

“You asked me to choose,” he said. “Pleasure or power.”

The shadows coiled tighter around them both.

“I choose neither.”

His blade flicked up, pointing to her throat. “I choose to end this feast.”

And for the first time, the goddess of shadows did not laugh.