The moment the words "You are out" were uttered, the wisp of fire on the side of the Soul-Devouring Pot belonging to Number Six extinguished.
The eerie halo surrounding the pot suddenly surged, and a pitch-black tentacle shot out from the mouth of the pot, instantly wrapping around Number Six's neck. Number Six instinctively tried to break free, but his body felt as heavy as lead; he no longer had the strength even to lift his hands. The soul fragments he had "voluntarily" offered earlier had already drained most of his vitality. He had lost all power to resist, becoming a lamb led to the slaughter.
The tentacle tightened further. A faint cracking sound of compressing bone came from Number Six's neck. His face turned a bruised purple, his eyeballs bulged outward, and broken whimpers leaked from his throat. The tentacle was not merely a restraint; it was covered in countless tiny barbs that were frantically sucking away his remaining soul and life force.
The terror in his eyes condensed into tears that rolled down. He repeatedly muttered, "I don't want to die," but his voice grew weaker and weaker, eventually becoming an inaudible rasp. Within seconds, Number Six's body turned into a withered corpse. With a flick of the tentacle, he was dragged directly into the Soul-Devouring Pot.
The black mist at the mouth of the pot suddenly boiled, acting like the maw of a hungry giant beast as it swallowed the corpse whole, leaving not even a scrap of his clothing behind. Following this, the patterns on the Soul-Devouring Pot dimmed slightly, and the slot on the side corresponding to Number Six lost its luster entirely, as if it had never been lit.
Baron Blackmist sat in the head seat, his red-glowing eyes watching everything with great interest. He tapped his cane with his fingertips as if enjoying a brilliant performance.
"Cowardice and hesitation had already worn his soul down to an empty shell. He was unworthy of enjoying this main course."
The Baron's tone was flat. He treated Number Six's death as if he were discarding a piece of useless trash.
The moment Number Six was devoured, several suppressed gasps echoed through the banquet hall. Someone instinctively shrank their neck and pushed their chair back as far as it would go, as if this could distance them from the black pot that consumed life.
Witnessing Number Six's tragic death, Byrne stared at the Soul-Devouring Pot, his mind racing. Baron Blackmist claimed that the weight of a soul was measured by the scales, but the standard of that measurement was clearly under his control. What exactly was this fellow planning?
At that moment, the Baron waved his hand. The tentacles retracted into the pot, and the scales returned to a steady balance.
"Next, it is time for the next person."
The Baron pointed his finger, and the wheel began to spin rapidly once more. Soon, the pointer stopped on the number eleven.
Occupying seat number eleven was a young man in his early twenties, wearing casual clothes and sporting messy hair. Seeing the pointer select him, he curled into his chair like a startled rabbit. He looked up, his panicked gaze scanning the Soul-Devouring Pot and the scales before landing on the head seat. With a sorrowful face, he pleaded:
"Baron, sir, I beg of you. I don't want to offer my soul, and I don't want to eat any main course. I quit! I'll leave right now and never step foot in here again!"
Hearing this, Byrne shook his head, calling the boy an idiot in his mind. In the world of Supernatural Rules, the word "quit" never existed. One either completed the challenges of the rules alive or died halfway through; there was never a third option. Even Byrne was no exception; his cheat only gave him more chances to learn from mistakes, but the process of the challenge remained the same.
Baron Blackmist let out a low, mocking laugh. The laughter carried the chill of the black mist, echoing through the hall and making everyone's spine turn cold.
"Heh. Do you think this is a restaurant where you can come and go as you please? Once you step into the Red Maple Theater, you lose the right to leave this banquet halfway. Either offer your soul as required to complete the main course, or end up like Number Six, devoured by the Soul-Devouring Pot. Number Eleven, make your choice."
Tears instantly welled up in the boy's eyes. He glanced at the empty seat left by Number Six, and the image of the man being dragged by tentacles, turning into a withered corpse and being swallowed, flashed through his mind. His body shook even more violently.
Knowing he had no other choice, he tremulously raised his hands and silently recited "Offer the Soul" in his heart.
A moment later, a wisp of pale blue light drifted from the top of the boy's head. This light was denser than Number Six's and carried fine, shimmering spots of light as it slowly fell into the left tray of the scales. The tray sank under the weight, and the scales, which had been tilted to the right, wobbled slightly. However, it still didn't reach a balance; it was only slightly better than when Number Six had offered his soul.
"No, still not enough." The Baron's voice carried a hint of impatience. "Mr. Eleven, please continue until the scales reach a balance."
The boy snapped his eyes open, his gaze filled with despair. "I... I've already offered! If I offer more, I'll die!"
He could clearly feel the strength draining from his body. His head spun in dizzy spells, as if something vital was being forcibly extracted.
"Whether you die or not is not for you to decide. The green fire of the Soul-Devouring Pot has no patience to wait for you. If you delay any longer, it will come to take it even if you don't want to offer."
As he spoke, the green fire in the slot corresponding to Number Eleven on the side of the pot jumped violently a few times, its light dimming slightly—clearly a warning.
The boy turned deathly pale with fright and dared not hesitate any longer. He raised his hands again, allowing more of his soul to be extracted. This time, the pale blue light drifting from his head was much thicker, shot through with a few golden threads of light—the purest essence of a soul.
The moment the light fell into the tray, the scales shook violently. The left tray slowly sank until it finally reached a balance with the skull weight on the right.
The boy went limp and collapsed into his chair, gasping for breath. Cold sweat soaked his hair, and his face was as pale as a paper doll. He no longer had the strength even to lift his hands. He felt lightheaded, his mind a chaotic mess, as if he had forgotten something.
"Finally enough."
Baron Blackmist nodded with satisfaction. With a flick of his cane, the light of the soul on the scales turned into a streak of flowing light and plunged into the Soul-Devouring Pot below. The black mist inside the pot boiled, and the patterns glowed with a ghostly green light.
Before long, a small porcelain bowl rose from the black mist and slowly landed on the plate in front of the boy. The bowl contained half a portion of pale blue porridge, with fine golden spots of light floating on the surface. As the bowl landed, the fork beside the plate transformed into a soup spoon in the blink of an eye.
The boy looked at the bowl of porridge but had no appetite whatsoever. He only felt his stomach churning. This was food brewed from his own soul; every bite would be like eating himself.
Seeing Number Eleven remain motionless, the Baron urged, "Eat. This is your Soul Main Course—'The Gruel of Naive Sweetness.' I hope you enjoy this delicacy."
"Al... alright, I'll eat it now."
Just as Number Eleven picked up the soup spoon, an abrupt statement suddenly rang out.
"Wait a moment, Baron. How do you know the name of Number Eleven's main course?"