The laughter from the darkness did not deter Damon, nor did the bone-chilling fear that threatened to engulf him, freezing his limbs in place.

Damon was not even in his own body. This was Ghost's body. It might have been weaker, but it was still the body of a shadow, and Ghost was no weakling.

Originally, Ghost had been an elite assassin in the service of the Elf King, Kadelas Moonveil.

That was, until Damon killed him and turned him into a shadow.

Damon trudged through the dark passage as creatures slithered around him. He could see some of them lurking close; after all, what kind of shadow could not see in the dark?

An unusual imp-like creature peeked from the exit of the passageway, its face covered in warts and its skin rough like a toad's.

Damon's footsteps did not falter. He did his best to ignore any creature that did not attack him. That was a rule he remembered from the Duhu Mountains: if you see something, no you didn't.

He glanced at his arm, which had been crawling with maggots earlier but was now fine after killing the creatures before.

He walked past the imp-like creature as it whispered in a sweet, childish voice.

"Daddy, carry me."

He didn't glance at it, stepping into the open with his dealer's hand tingling in his grasp.

Lifting his gaze, he saw a dark sky stretching endlessly above. He seemed to be standing in a garden, or something resembling one.

The road beneath him was paved with cobblestone, the kind found in old castles. Plants lined the sides, but there were no roses or lilies, only grotesque and unnatural flowers.

A cluster of them was made of human eyes, arranged into petal-like formations. Each flower had at least three eyeballs staring in different directions.

That wasn't the only horror. The grass or what appeared to be grass was actually the bleeding scalps of people fused into the earth. Strands of colored hair formed a grass carpet while blood trickled down the cobblestone path.

To one side were pink flowers drooping with petals made of human tongues.

That was only half of it. This was a twisted garden where human body parts had become flora dull and grotesque, yet strangely colorful.

The place was wide, and distant wails echoed faintly, as though the bodies of the original donors were still being harvested.

Damon wanted to cover his nose against the vile stench of blood and rot, but his shoulders felt heavy. He rubbed one shoulder, feeling fatigue seep into him.

"Ahhh, Ghost's body really gets tired quickly."

He looked at the flowers again, wondering which direction to go next.

When he turned around, a hunched old woman was staring at him. Her withered face was stretched tight, and her mouth was lined with thin, serrated teeth. Her arms were long, nearly touching the ground.

Damon ignored her, focusing on the flowers as a chill crept down his spine. His grip on his dagger tightened. The old woman moved slowly, crouching beside the flowers.

Then—

In a voice that sounded far away, she asked,

"Do you like my flowers, youngster?"

Damon frowned, his grip tightening further. He could not afford to fight every battle. This body lacked endurance and mana, even assuming he could win.

He remained quiet, watching her. The old woman turned her head the other way and it kept turning until it made a full circle, while her body continued tending to the flowers.

She asked again, her voice rasping through the dark.

"Do you like my flowers, youngster?"

Damon stayed silent. Evil spirits were fickle; each had its own rules of engagement. Sometimes, silence could offend them. But acknowledging them could be worse.

Still, this one had already acknowledged him.

Damon looked at the grotesque garden before him. Evil horrors like this were born from twisted minds and tortured souls. Yet the mind was not always all evil sometimes, all it wanted was affirmation.

"It's beautiful," Damon said quietly.

The old woman's face twisted into a smile, her serrated teeth glistening as thin strands of spit dripped from her mouth.

"What makes it beautiful?" she asked again.

Damon glanced at her, half-expecting an attack.

"It's beautiful because they no longer feel pain. Life is painful, yet we hunger for it, illusioned by brief moments of comfort. Death is terrifying, but brief. All pain ends with death. That is why they are beautiful, they are dead."

The old woman stared at him for a long moment.

Then she laughed, a hideous, shrieking sound that echoed like a banshee's wail through the night.

She looked at Damon again, smiling with those jagged teeth.

"Would you like a flower?"

Damon nodded slowly.

"I would love one. However, I do not wish to disturb the garden. A flower is beautiful only because it is cared for. If you pick it for its beauty, it will wither. If you love something, do not touch its beauty with your ugliness."

The old woman clapped her hands and began hopping up and down, giggling wildly. Her frayed white hair bounced as she danced among the flesh-flowers.

Damon felt a weight settle on his shoulder, his neck aching slightly. He rolled it, trying to ease the stiffness, while his eyes stayed fixed on the dancing woman.

Slowly, she raised her withered hands, her pale face lifting toward him. Her eyes were white and blank blind, he realized a bit too late.

She raised three fingers, each thin and twisted like a dead branch.

"Three questions," she said softly. "You may ask me three questions."

Damon narrowed his eyes, keeping his expression calm. This must have been this particular entity's condition. She had acknowledged him, and by answering her questions, he had earned the right to ask his own.

Still, he stayed cautious. These creatures were never to be trusted. But it was better than nothing.

He asked the first question.

"Where am I?"

The old woman smiled, her serrated teeth glinting faintly in the dark.

"You are in the Garden of Hunger."

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