Unholy Player
Chapter 122: Meeting the Cannibal

Chapter 122: Meeting the Cannibal

Adyr gripped the doorknob and opened it with a slow, deliberate motion. The voice he heard, confident and calm, left no doubt. It was the Cannibal’s. And it was an invitation.

He stepped inside.

There were no traps. He could feel it in the air. The man’s psychological profile had already taken full shape in his mind.

Adyr had come here as a hunter. The Cannibal was the prey. For days, he’d been filling in the blanks of this man’s persona, thinking, calculating. Until now, the picture had felt incomplete. But this room, this performance, finished it.

The Cannibal wasn’t a gang leader. Not really. He probably didn’t even think of himself as one.

He was something else. A conductor. A curator of chaos. A man who believed himself to be an artist.

As Adyr crossed the threshold, the scent of burning myrrh and aged wine filled his nose. Heavy, indulgent, meant to impress. There was no trace of poison or chemical interference in the air. Just arrogance, masked as sophistication.

His eyes moved once, calmly, soaking in every detail.

Thick crimson drapes sealed off the windows, their fabric dustless and well-maintained despite the decay outside. In front of each one stood carved mahogany tables, atop which sat ornate vases brimming with carefully arranged flowers—lilies, orchids, a few night-blooming varieties that would never be found growing naturally in these soils. Imported. Artificially maintained.

The floor was polished wood, possibly cherry. It gleamed under the warm, low lighting. A deep red rug stretched down the center, thick and hand-woven. Imported as well.

At the center of the room sat a long dining table, its length drawing the eye directly to the man waiting at the far end. There were only two chairs. Both were antique, claw-footed, upholstered with faded velvet. Between them, the table was set for dinner—porcelain plates, silver utensils, each place accompanied by a crystal glass and a small vase filled with dark purple lilies.

Adyr closed the door behind him without a word. His boots made a dull thud against the carpet as he walked to his seat and sat down. Calm. Measured. He met the Cannibal’s gaze.

"You must be tired. Drink some wine." Cannibal leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers draped elegantly around a long-stemmed glass. As he raised it, the gesture exposed a mouth that stretched too wide, filled with sharp, uneven teeth. His grin reached almost to his ears.

His skin was metallic gray, almost reflective in the warm light. Smooth. Poreless. No hair, no eyebrows, no sign of age. His eyes, light hazel in color, caught the dim lighting and burned with a reddish tint.

He wore a white suit. Not just clean, flawless. Pressed, spotless, no signs of wear. A silk pocket square peeked from the chest, blood-red and perfectly folded.

Adyr glanced at his own place setting. The plate was pristine porcelain. The utensils were real silver, their handles engraved with faint floral patterns. The napkin was cloth, folded with care. A single purple flower stood in a narrow-necked glass vase near the plate.

He picked up the wine glass. Swirled it once. The movement was fluid, practiced. The color held beautifully. Deep ruby, clean legs, almost too vibrant.

He held it to his nose. High alcohol. Notes of iron, rose, a faint trace of clove.

Then the undertone hit.Raw, slightly coppery, unmistakably human.

"It’s... distinct. Let me guess. Homebrewed?" Adyr asked without drinking.

The Cannibal’s wide mouth stretched into a grin that reached almost to his ears. "It is. I ferment blood I collect myself. It goes through a long and careful process, but the result..." He paused, took a slow sip of the wine, then said, "Magnificent."

"I see," Adyr took a small sip, rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed. His expression didn’t change.

The moment he drank, the Cannibal’s expression shifted. Just briefly—his brow tensed. He hadn’t expected him to actually drink it. And worse, he hadn’t gotten the reaction he wanted.

His goal had been simple. Instill fear. At the very least, unease. Assert control over the uninvited guest and establish dominance. But he had failed.

And what came next shattered whatever image he had tried to build.

"You rushed the sulfiting. It’s unstable. Oxidized before it clarified. There’s a bite to it that shouldn’t be there. Smells better than it tastes."

The Cannibal froze for just a moment. His eyes twitched. Then he laughed, almost too loud.

"Let’s say I’m still refining the recipe. Blood isn’t exactly an easy ingredient."

"Whatever." Adyr set the glass down. He leaned back slightly and looked across the table. "So where’s the meal? We’re not just here for drinks, I hope."

Adyr could tell the Cannibal had known he was inside the fortress from the start. He probably also knew his underlings were dead and that his meal had escaped.

Yet he didn’t do anything. He didn’t come down to check. He didn’t even leave the room.

But that wasn’t what unsettled Adyr.

The real question was how he’d sensed his presence in the first place.

And that was something Adyr had no intention of asking. The Cannibal was clearly waiting for it—desperate for a chance to brag, to feel superior.

But Adyr wouldn’t hand him that moment. Not even a glimpse of it.

"I know you killed my men. Let the food escape." His voice was calm, but the tension showed. He took another drink, faster this time.

Adyr didn’t react. He knew exactly what this man was doing. Trying to reclaim the upper hand through mystery. But it wasn’t working.

The Cannibal placed his glass back down, his brow furrowed. "Don’t you want to know how I figured it out?"

Adyr let out a quiet chuckle. Just as expected. He said nothing. Just stared.

It worked. The Cannibal’s composure cracked further. "Are you from STF?"

Adyr tilted his head, glanced at his own uniform, and replied as if talking to a child. "Are you blind?"

"I’ve never seen anyone from STF as strong as you," the Cannibal said, trying to recover after realizing how foolish he sounded.

"Who said I was STF?" Adyr replied, raising an eyebrow, his tone still casual.

The Cannibal’s expression darkened. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The polite persona was gone. Whatever elegance he’d tried to project had crumbled.

Adyr just smiled. He could already see straight through him.

He wasn’t special. Just another mutant, born in a radiation-blasted ruin. Neither fragile nor powerful. Just average.

In a world ruled by violence, he had spent his life swallowing his weakness. Silently enduring the beatings of stronger men. Wanting power. Needing it. But wanting alone wasn’t enough. And so, he lived quietly under their boots.

Until he found the Spark. It changed everything.

Overnight, the powerless became powerful. The humiliated became the host.

And with it came delusion.

He drank the illusion dry. He surrounded himself with luxury things he couldn’t pronounce, couldn’t name, and couldn’t understand—but knew were expensive. He bathed in symbols of superiority. Dressed in them. Dined in them. Decorated himself like royalty.

Because he needed to believe he was different. A diamond in the dirt.

To Adyr, it was all empty. The decorations, the posture, the forced elegance—transparent and desperate.

He didn’t need more than a glance to see the truth of the man in front of him.

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