As soon as the words left his mouth, the thorn patterns on Number Fourteen's neck flared up. Deep grey light seeped from the cracks in the patterns like a punctured ink sac, spreading layers of dark shadows across his skin. His body convulsed violently, and his tightly shut eyes snapped open. There was no sanity in those blood-colored pupils, only the frantic madness of being devoured by thorns.
"Aah!"
A low roar erupted from his throat, carrying the raw sound of tearing flesh. The air around him seemed to warp as the moving threads broke through the constraints of his skin, transforming into tiny thorny vines that spread from his neck to his limbs. Everywhere the vines touched, his clothes were shredded and his skin was left with bloody gashes. Blood dripped from the wounds, blooming into eerie flowers on the scarlet carpet.
"See? This is the price of stubbornness."
Number Fourteen's roars gradually grew faint, and his convulsions slowed. The thorny vines had covered his entire body, wrapping him into a massive ball of thorns. Only his wide-staring, blood-red eyes remained visible, reflecting his final resentment and despair.
Number Fourteen was dead.
However, just as Baron Blackmist raised his hand to cast the corpse into the Soul-Devouring Pot, his movement stopped.
Hmm?
Suddenly, the thorn ball began to shake violently. The deep grey light between the vines receded like a tide, and the vines began to wither. Accompanied by a series of faint cracking sounds, the thorns fell away. When the onlookers looked closer, they saw that what lay beneath the withered branches was not Number Fourteen's corpse, but a foot-tall rag doll.
In appearance, the doll was a miniature version of Number Fourteen. Its head was round, and its face featured a smile sewn with black thread that stretched up to its ears. It looked very similar to the masks everyone had worn when they were first invited. However, the doll's smile was sewn crookedly, exuding an indescribable eeriness. Its limbs hung stiffly, stained with wet blood and withered thorn fragments, yet the fabric itself was perfectly intact, without a single scratch from the thorns.
"Heh. A Substitute Doll. No wonder Number Fourteen was so confident."
After saying this, the Baron resumed his movement. He tapped his cane, firing a small red light at the doll. The moment the light touched the rag doll, a surge of black mist rose. In the next second, the mist tightened like sharp ropes, binding the doll's limbs and torso. The fabric was squeezed inward, yet it did not break. The sewn smile on its face twisted slightly, revealing a hint of mockery.
Crack!
A faint snapping sound echoed as the doll's head suddenly tilted to the side. The cotton thread at its neck was severed by the black mist, exposing the grey stuffing inside. In an instant, the entire doll collapsed and dissipated, leaving only a cluster of pale grey light.
"A pity Number Fourteen is no longer here. Still, this wisp of a remnant soul will serve as a little extra for the Soul-Devouring Pot."
As he spoke, the wisp of light plunged directly into the pot. The black mist inside boiled slightly. The slot on the side corresponding to Number Fourteen lost its luster completely, leaving no trace that it had ever been lit—as if Number Fourteen had never existed at this banquet.
A Substitute Doll...
Seeing the doll, Byrne recalled information he had seen while browsing forums. When someone completes their eighth Blood Letter Challenge, they might receive a special item as a reward from the Rules. The Substitute Doll was one of them. According to online accounts, it could replace the death penalty once when the holder encountered a fatal crisis. No wonder Number Fourteen had been so reckless; he had this life-saving trump card.
Over the next hour, one invitee after another was selected to attempt the creation of their Soul Main Course. Once everyone had eaten their respective dishes, only seven people—including Byrne—had survived the soul backlash.
Baron Blackmist struck his cane against the floor, and the dark purple crystal emitted sparks of red light.
"Excellent, excellent. Seven guests have managed to wake up. Next, we shall enter the final phase of this banquet."
The red light from the crystal flowed through the hall, reflecting in the guarded eyes of the survivors. The Baron rose slowly, the hem of his black formal suit sweeping across the polished floor tiles as the black mist crowded around him like living things. He began to pace slowly around the long table.
The patterns on the black pot were now dim, with only seven wisps of green fire flickering in the slots, representing the remaining vitality of the seven survivors. The scales hovered above the pot, the skull weight lying silently in the right tray, emitting a cold wisp of light.
"The final phase: Among the seven of you, one is the arsonist of the Red Maple Theater from three years ago. Now, everyone, look at your invitations."
Hearing this, Byrne immediately pulled out his invitation. The text on the inner page had changed once again.
To the Invitee: Mr. David Byrne.
The test of tasting the main course has been passed. The rules are now updated as follows:
Within thirty minutes, you must vote to identify the arsonist.
Each person has only one vote. You cannot abstain, and votes are non-transferable.
If the choice is correct, the other six people can safely leave the Red Maple Theater. If the choice is incorrect, everyone except the arsonist will be eliminated.
Free communication is allowed within the time limit, but physical conflict is prohibited.
Every five minutes, Baron Blackmist will provide one piece of information regarding the arsonist, for a total of three times.
After reading the invitation, the seven survivors looked at one another. Everyone's gaze was filled with scrutiny, searching for clues in the expressions of others.
Byrne scanned the table. The seven remaining were Number Three (Byrne), Number Four, Number Eight, Number Nine, Number Thirteen, Number Sixteen, and Number Seventeen. Perhaps annoyed by the staring, the young woman at seat number eight was the first to break the silence.
"I graduated last year and only moved to Phantom Sea City for work this year. I can't be the arsonist."
Her defensive statement immediately drew suspicion. The man at seat number four spoke up, "You say so, but who knows if it's true or false? The rules don't say we can't lie."
Number Eight's face darkened, her eyes flashing with anger. "Number Four, don't go throwing false accusations around. What I said is true. Three years ago, I was still at university in my hometown. I had never even been to Phantom Sea City. I only saw the news about the Red Maple Theater fire."
Hearing this, Number Four snorted. "Heh. 'Saw it on the news.' What does that prove?"
At that moment, Number Seventeen, who appeared to be the oldest among the seven, stepped forward to mediate.
"Alright, let's not argue yet. Our time is limited. To find the real arsonist, I think everyone should stop using code names. Why don't we start by stating our identities?"
"Well then, I'll go first."