As soon as these words were spoken, Number Eleven's hand paused. He turned to his right, looking at the person who had spoken—it was Number Fourteen.
Number Fourteen spoke while looking directly at Baron Blackmist:
"You said the Soul Main Course is the manifestation of the invitee's soul characteristics. Then how do you know the name of this dish? Could it be that this so-called 'exclusive main course' was preset by you from the very beginning?"
These words were like a precise probe, pricking the hidden doubts in everyone's hearts.
Whoa, Number Fourteen, you really are brave.
Byrne first glanced at Number Fourteen, then looked at Baron Blackmist. He had already felt that the rules for weighing souls and preparing dishes were forced; Number Fourteen's questioning happened to confirm his inner suspicions.
Hearing this, Baron Blackmist showed no sign of displeasure. Instead, the black mist around him churned even more violently. His red-glowing eyes flickered within the mist like something was brewing. Before long, he slowly raised his hand, and the dark purple crystal atop his cane lit up.
In the next second, the floating scales slowly turned toward Number Fourteen, the skull weight rattling slightly in its tray.
"You are quite sharp, Number Fourteen, but you are mistaken. Like everyone else here, this is the first time I have seen this gruel. Rather than being preset, it is more accurate to say that everyone's soul was marked by the Rules the moment you stepped into the Red Maple Theater. I was merely informed by the Rules the moment the dish was completed."
Hearing this explanation, Byrne's initial reaction was: I don't believe a word of it.
But on second thought, the Baron's words might not be a lie. The core of Supernatural Rules is that the Rules dominate everything. Even the power of the man in the suit originated from the Rules; perhaps this Baron was the same.
"Rules never emerge from thin air. They gnaw at the characteristics of a soul and engrave the corresponding tracks. This Gruel of Naive Sweetness is the fundamental color hidden within Number Eleven's soul."
Number Fourteen furrowed his brows and questioned, "If it truly is an inherent trait of the soul, then why didn't Number Six succeed? And the Rules you speak of—who set them?"
"Who set them is not important. What matters is that you must all obey. Number Eleven, stop wasting time. If you don't eat it soon, it will go cold."
Clearly, the Baron's final words carried a double meaning.
Number Eleven shivered, his hand holding the soup spoon trembling uncontrollably. He looked at the bowl of gruel brewed from his own soul. Thinking of the tragic sight of Number Six being devoured by the pot, he dared not hesitate for a moment. He closed his eyes, scooped a spoonful, and put it in his mouth.
The moment it entered his mouth, Number Eleven's tense body froze. His terrified expression instantly softened. To Number Eleven, the gruel melted the moment it touched his tongue. The sweetness was exactly like the fruit candies he used to hide under his pillow during childhood.
So sweet!
Number Eleven's tense shoulders slowly relaxed. The horror in his eyes dissolved like ice in warm water, gradually giving way to a child-like innocence. In a daze, Number Eleven seemed to return to a carefree summer night of his youth. The exhaustion from having his soul extracted and the fear of facing death dissipated within that single mouthful of sweetness.
"Delicious... so delicious..."
He no longer hesitated. His hand moved faster, scooping mouthful after mouthful of the gruel into his mouth, not even noticing the soup staining the corner of his lips.
Before long, Number Eleven had finished every drop. He put down the spoon and licked his lips, a satisfied smile still lingering on his face. However, his eyes became hollow, as if he had lost his spirit. He leaned back slowly against the chair, and wisps of blue light drifted from his forehead—the same essence as the soul he had offered earlier.
Observing Number Eleven's state, Byrne immediately sensed something was wrong. The blue light was flowing slowly along the table, converging toward the Soul-Devouring Pot. On the side of the pot, the green fire in the slot corresponding to Number Eleven abruptly went out.
Snap!
The lid of the Soul-Devouring Pot slammed shut. A few seconds later, the lid opened again, and another dish flew out. This time, it did not fly toward an invitee, but toward Baron Blackmist in the head seat.
The dish hovered in mid-air, enveloped in a faint black mist, and slowly landed on the empty plate in front of the Baron. As the mist dispersed, it revealed a small silver chalice containing a pale blue gelatinous substance. Fine patterns of light flowed across its surface—it was the condensed blue light from Number Eleven's dissipating soul.
Baron Blackmist picked up a spoon and gently scooped a portion. The gelatinous substance wobbled slightly, emitting a sweet fragrance identical to the Gruel of Naive Sweetness. He slowly placed it in his mouth, his red eyes squinting in a look of extreme enjoyment. The black mist around him ebbed and flowed gently, as if absorbing nourishment.
"Indeed, a soul immersed in greed produces the most mellow flavor." He put down the spoon and wiped his mouth with the silk napkin, his tone satisfied.
"Will he wake up?" Number Nine asked, staring at Number Eleven's hollow eyes.
"Whether he wakes up depends on his own luck. If he cannot rouse himself within ten minutes, he will never wake up again."
Just then, Number Eleven let out a faint moan. The blue light surging around him suddenly stagnated. His hollow eyes rolled slowly, and his fingertips twitched as if he were fighting an invisible force.
The Baron raised an eyebrow. "Oh? He hasn't given up yet. It seems Mr. Eleven has some degree of capability."
Number Eleven's face remained pale, but a glimmer of light gradually returned to his eyes. He struggled to raise his hand, trying to grasp something, but it fell back powerlessly. Muffled murmurs leaked from his mouth, as if he were calling someone's name, his voice so weak it was almost inaudible.
His body began to twitch violently. The blue light flickered like a candle in the wind, sometimes suppressed by the black mist and sometimes surging back with a stubborn tenacity. However, after struggling for less than three minutes, the bit of spirit he had managed to gather completely vanished.
Number Eleven was dead.
Baron Blackmist sighed. "Alas, poor Number Eleven. He still couldn't resist the temptation of delicacy and was devoured by his own greed."
He waved his hand, and a wisp of black mist drifted from the top of his cane, landing on Number Eleven. The husk that had lost its soul instantly turned into fine specks of light, carried by the mist into the Soul-Devouring Pot, leaving only an empty chair behind. Even the plate and cutlery in front of Number Eleven vanished entirely.
"Very well. The main course phase for Number Eleven has ended. Next, it is time for the next person."
A moment later, the wheel stopped. The pointer landed on number fourteen.
Seeing this result, Baron Blackmist seemed quite excited. He immediately turned his gaze toward the other end of the long table.
"Come, Mr. Fourteen. I am very much looking forward to your main course."