Chapter 11 : For Whom the Bell Tolls

A feast?

This…?

Milly’s stomach churned as she stared at the writhing slab of meat on her plate. This grotesque pile had nothing to do with the word “feast.”

How in the world had Stacy created such an abomination?

She swallowed hard, trying to buy time, but one look at Stacy’s thunderous expression made the words die in her throat.

If she didn’t act now, she wasn’t leaving this table today.

But… the meat was moving.

A flash of the tendril that had invaded her mouth earlier sent a wave of revulsion through her.

Was this karma for all the calamari she’d eaten in her past life?

Did she really have to eat this?

If she didn’t, she’d be defying Stacy, and the punishment would be unimaginable.

But if she did… death seemed just as likely.

This insane woman.

A full day of torment wasn’t enough—now she couldn’t even have a peaceful dinner.

And to think, for a fleeting moment, Milly had held a sliver of hope.

How naive.

Her trembling right hand reached for the knife. But it shook so violently that the blade slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor.

It’s over…

“Master… I’m sorry…” She instinctively bent down, but the chair was too high for her small frame, and the tentacles held her fast.

No matter how she stretched, the knife remained just out of reach.

She slowly straightened up.

I really can’t get it. My arms are too short. It’s not my fault.

Meeting Stacy’s dark gaze, Milly swallowed nervously.

But then, a tendril coiled around the fallen knife and offered it back to her.

“Hold it tight this time, Little Milly.”

This small interruption wouldn’t end the meal.

Taking the knife, Milly once again faced the disgusting… thing… that couldn’t even be called food.

‘Maybe it just looks weird. Maybe it tastes… good?’

She repeated the desperate mantra in her mind, scanning the plate for even a tiny, remotely edible portion.

But it was all just a writhing, indescribable mess.

Stacy’s stare was a physical weight on her back.

If she hesitated any longer, she knew what would come.

Her eyes met Stacy’s.

An idea sparked.

The words she’d learned today—there had to be one she could use.

One last way to stall.

Taking a deep breath, Milly clutched the knife, her face a mask of conflict.

“Master… don’t know… which… to choose…”

With only single words at her disposal, her sentences were stilted. But pointing at the unholy mess on her plate should get the message across.

She snuck a glance.

Stacy’s expression had softened. She rested her chin on her clasped hands, a look of understanding in her eyes.

Ah, so that was it.

The meal was too rich, and the little one couldn’t decide where to begin.

Simple.

“This is the Shadow Octopus Jelly, rich in abyssal minerals.” Stacy elegantly sliced into the twitching tentacle steak. Rainbow-colored juices splattered onto Milly’s white napkin, creating a bizarre nebula pattern.

The cut surface revealed a dense cluster of compound eyes, each one reflecting Milly’s pale, horrified face.

The slice was offered to her.

And of course, it was the piece with a still-writhing tentacle and a cluster of eyes.

Milly instantly regretted her decision. She should have just picked something herself.

Her eyes darted nervously.

But the meat was already in front of her.

If she didn’t take it, Stacy would surely force it down her throat.

Here goes nothing. It’s just a piece of meat.

The moment the tip of her silver fork touched the slice, the entire thing let out a piercing shriek—like a newborn’s wail in the dead of night.

Her resolve shattered.

But Stacy’s gaze was a thorn in her back.

Gritting her teeth, she shut her eyes and shoved it into her mouth.

Fermented bean curd mixed with rust exploded on her tongue. The smell of burning plastic filled her nostrils.

Veins bulged on her slender neck.

She instinctively tried to spit it out, but a tendril clamped her jaw shut.

“Don’t waste food.”

Ahaha…

Milly didn’t dare chew. She forced it down.

Her stomach churned violently.

The vile morsel immediately surged back up her throat.

But her jaw was still held fast. She couldn’t vomit.

She had to swallow it again.

The color, the smell, the taste—all were revolting. Stuck in her throat, it was pure agony.

Her body screamed in rejection.

But then, Stacy pushed the eyeball-mushroom soup toward her, a look of anticipation in her eyes.

What, was she supposed to smile?

With a grimace uglier than a sob, Milly picked up the spoon.

As she neared the bowl, the floating fungal tendrils suddenly wrapped around the spoon.

Did Stacy not use fire when she cooked? Why was everything on this plate alive?

She scooped up a spoonful and, with her eyes squeezed shut, poured it down her throat.

It felt like molten plasticine.

Her fingertips dug into the gilded armrests, leaving bloody crescent marks in her palms.

“Ugh… this tastes worse than surströmming…” Her wail was cut short by the second wave.

An eyeball-mushroom, stuck to the back of the spoon, slid into her mouth on a tendril of its own, bursting on her tongue with a bizarre mix of mint and fermented bean curd.

This time, the churning in her stomach was even more violent.

Milly stared blankly at the star chart on the ceiling.

In a daze, she saw a silver river flowing above her.

On the other side, familiar yet strange faces beckoned, waving for her to cross.

Should she go?

Stacy watched, chin propped on her hand.

Milly’s reaction seemed a bit… extreme.

Did something go wrong with the recipe?

No matter. There was still dessert.

Tonight’s special: Molten Pudding.

Stacy went to the kitchen to fetch it, leaving Milly with unfocused eyes, her hands hanging limply, the spoon slipping from her stiff fingers.

When the lid was lifted from a smoking earthenware pot, several earthworm-shaped puddings slithered out, leaving scorched trails on the silver platter.

Stacy pierced one of the writhing desserts with a fork.

Its surface split open into a thousand tiny mouths, emitting a sound like nails scraping on glass.

“It seems Little Milly wants to be fed.”

Like a puppet, Milly opened her mouth.

She watched the squirming dessert enter.

Her tongue was numb.

She couldn’t taste anything.

Her taste buds must have all died.

A low, deep bell tolled in the distance.

It seemed to be ringing for her funeral.

Milly slumped in her chair, eyes glazed over. She couldn’t eat another bite.

But Stacy’s eyes still held that flicker of anticipation.

This insane woman was actually waiting for a compliment.

Milly looked at her, at the way she seriously stirred the poison—no, the sauce.

And she suddenly realized—there was something far more terrifying than horrifying food.

The chef’s confidence.