Hi. It’s me. The grim overlord of this side of the world.

 Listen. The Games will begin now.

It’s been forty years for you, huh?

As always, the five-party that win the Games will be rewarded with anything they chose.

And no, for the 142nd time, you can't wish for my death or the end of the world.

Did I forget anything? Of course not, idiot, I never forget anything.

Nilbog went still, the fork carrying a crispy piece of duck just a few inches away from his salivating mouth. Semi-transparent black screens covered most of his vision, and an odd but familiar body sensation overwhelmed his senses. 

With a groan he lowered his hands to the table, one holding a small steel knife, the other a fork. He closed his eyes, exhaling completely, inhaling deeply, and then requested his mind to return to sanity. He opened his eyes again, hoping the disillusions to disperse.

No Mental Afflictions Detected.

This was disheartening for Nilbog. He thought he was better than this. He’s seen what madness could do to people. Their whimpers were clear in his mind, the crazed look in their twitchy eyes was always present. Their bodies moved erratically at times, pulsing with some phantom pain, and had a slurred speech. 

While this wasn’t wholly unlivable, spending the rest of his life with black screens covering most of his vision would eventually drive him to a great feat of insanity.

But would you look at that. They had vanished as soon as Nilbog wished for it. Impressive! His insanity was quite accommodating. It was almost as if the Games had begun, and that he was trapped within one of its death rounds. Nilbog glanced at his surroundings, attempting to appraise how ill-fated he was.

 A mix of confusion and fear was apparent on Argento’s plump face, as well as every other person his eyes could bear to look at peep at. 

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Argento’s response was very clear, for his chair had tipped over and his clothes were ruffled. The poor man probably fell backward upon the screen’s’ abrupt awakening. Now he was standing up, his sweaty palms holding the tablecloth tightly while his eyes darted around on high alert.

The fools think the Games have begun. Ha! It’s just an illusion, a trick of the mind. They can’t have. No way. Nope. 

Oh, I almost forgot: Terms and conditions may apply.

...This joke never grows old.

A dream then, he figured, once the screen popped up again and vanished according to its own whims. should I? Nilbog thought, making note of every expensive dish around him. Instead, he opted for finishing his long-awaited meal. 

The duck's head sat in the middle of a mound of sparkling yellow rice, surrounded on all sides by pomegranate seeds the size of grapes. 

He brought down his fork with deftness, chunking a bigger portion of the duck’s cheeks. The meat was a dark gray, and because of the low Thermal heating, the insides were not as cooked as the crispy out layers, creating the best worlds from medium and rare doneness.

It melted on his tongue before his other hand could even reach for the radish, the cluster of flavors awakening long lost flavor buds. The black wine's intense, bitter flavor melded well with the sweetness of the duck meat, especially since he had requested the shankle leaves to be removed. 

His body instincts took over from there, his facade dropping as he began to tear apart the head with his teeth,  indiscriminate from the bone, meat, or even the eyes that popped on his tongue. He gulped down the rice and bread, whose only real purpose was to dampen the intense flavor of the meat. 

Having the head in one hand, Nilbog dug up the stuffing at the back of the skull. The brain was removed, and was instead filled with raisins, onions, black olives, raspberries, and cranberries for that sour explosion.

And so, while impeding chaos threatened the Drail Kingdom, Nilbog fed on an exquisite chunk of duck, a few dishes of potatoes and fried eggplant, lettuce and small, bite-size tomatoes. 

Inevitably, that apple tart would soon follow after.

The few prompts that did foolishly attempt to distract Nilbog from his deeds were ruthlessly put down, allowing the vibrant spectrum of spices to fill up all his valuable senses.

The First Round Begins! 

The raising undead has signaled the arrival of the Games! Take up your spoons, take up your forks, for death is below you!

Difficulty Curve: D-

First Rule: You will receive negative contribution points for any damage done to a source or entity which is the enemy of hostile mob units.

A rotting hand stuck out through the marble flooring, right below Nilbog. He pushed back his seat, his mouth ballooned from the many things he threw in it.

Nilbog watched it as it attempted to crawl it's way out, low growls echoing its frustration as it pushed aside the heavy stone.

Ts, not very creative, are we? The undead raising? Really? That's the best I can come up with? I disappoint myself. 

With a tired grunt, Nilbog returned to his place at the table, doing his best to ignore the screams around him. He might have been primitive, cruel, and filthy, but he was not, under any circumstances, despicable enough to leave a delicious dish half-eaten.

He kicked the Ghoul back into the ground, swallowing one bite after the other, taking a gulp of the Ent Life Force Juice whenever he would choke on a bone.

 He needed to take down that apple tart.