After confirming through investigation that the fish soup was indeed suspicious, Erik and her companions decided to dispose of the entire bucket, ensuring the mute boatman wouldn't discover they hadn't eaten it.
It was a crude, simple tactic—Erik doubted that the NPCs would passively "feed" players without contingencies. There were certainly deeper mechanisms at play, but they had to try something.
Before going to sleep, the three of them braved the rain and poured the soup out. The storm had raged for hours, flooding the village; rainwater streamed down from every crevice. In the deluge, the tainted soup vanished swiftly into the current, leaving no trace. Only bones remained in the bucket, arranged to mimic the remnants of a finished meal.
The empty bucket was left in the corridor—who could have anticipated a player would sneak out in the middle of the night to "forage"?
And yet, that's what Erik believed had happened.
Most likely, one of the players had succumbed to the influence—wandering out to gnaw on fish bones in the dead of night.
No ordinary teeth could manage that.
A sharp metallic tang hung in the damp air—blood. Erik surmised the person's gums or mouth must have been torn by the bones' jagged edges.
The corridor was dim, shadows deepened by the persistent gloom. Erik peered out carefully. She could just make out a hunched silhouette, crouched low. From behind, it was impossible to discern who it was.
She retreated, leaving the door slightly ajar, eyes fixed on the living room. If the figure returned to their room, she could identify which player it was.
"Erik? What are you doing?"
Erik froze.
In the next second, she realized it was Emery's voice.
Emery had awoken and sat up on the bed, rubbing her eyes as the faint light from the living room spilled through the door. Seeing Erik crouched at the threshold startled her.
"Shh." Erik turned and motioned for silence.
Emery clamped her hands over her mouth, the last traces of drowsiness vanishing.
*Pat, pat, pat…*
Footsteps echoed again. Erik watched the living room intently.
The figure shuffled forward, each step leaving a damp footprint. They crossed the living room and entered a room—
**Bang.**
The door shut behind them.
It was one of the male players' rooms.
"Watch Silas and the others' room," Erik whispered to Emery as she walked over. "I'm going to take a look."
After a moment's hesitation, Emery nodded.
Erik lit a candle and held it high as she examined the bucket in the corridor. Sure enough, every bone was gone—the inside was wiped clean.
The metallic stench still clung to the air. Clearly, the person had injured their mouth while eating.
But who was it? Which of the male players had succumbed?
Brooks? Or perhaps Silas, Weston?
Erik couldn't yet tell.
As she returned to the living room, she noticed Delilah's door was open. The other woman looked at her in confusion.
Erik beckoned her over, then quietly closed the door behind them and relayed what she had witnessed. She believed Brooks was the least likely suspect and turned to Emery:
"Did anything strange happen in the room while we were out? Did Weston or Silas behave unusually?"
"No…" Emery frowned, trying to recall. "I wasn't paying close attention. I'm sorry."
"We'll deal with it in the morning," Erik said, motioning for Delilah to return to her room.
But Erik couldn't sleep. She lay in bed, eyes closed, listening to the endless rain hammering the roof. The second day in the instance dawned with the same relentless storm, the downpour gnawing at her nerves.
Worse still, in the living room she saw Weston and Silas chatting as if nothing had happened. On the surface, both looked completely normal. Brooks walked beside them, quiet and expressionless as always.
"I'm starving! I feel like I'm about to die!" Silas groaned.
He turned to Erik. "Miss, do you have any food?"
"No," she replied, shaking her head. Everything in the transit station's supermarket came at a price. If she produced more supplies, she'd either be branded a fool or arouse suspicion. She preferred to hide the fact that she used her props to shop there.
Suddenly, Brooks raised his hand and struck the back of Weston's neck.
"What the hell?!" Silas shouted, stepping back warily.
Weston?
Erik and Delilah rushed forward, helping to restrain him. They grabbed a length of old hemp rope from the wall and bound him to a chair.
"You saw it too?" Brooks asked.
"You're sure it's Weston? I saw someone empty the fish bone bucket last night, but couldn't see their face," Erik replied. She pried Weston's mouth open—a strong fishy odor wafted out, but strangely, there were no wounds inside.
"He ate the bones?" Brooks was stunned. "No wonder I smelled fish on him when he came back." He went to check the bucket in the corridor and confirmed Erik's claim.
"What is going on?!" Silas demanded, panicked.
"He got up in the night and ate all the fish bones," Erik said. "Think carefully—did Weston do anything strange yesterday?"
Silas paled, clearly recalling something, but shook his head. "No. I didn't notice anything."
"Think again. All of us who went out were fine. Why was Weston, who stayed indoors, the one who got affected?" Erik pressed. "You two were close after entering the instance. If he's been compromised, you might be in danger too."
That hit Silas hard. He began to reflect more seriously, but grew increasingly agitated. "No, really—I didn't notice anything!"
Then, finally, it was Brooks who recalled something.
"I think he got pricked by a fish bone."
"That bucket of soup? He never touched it!" Silas frowned.
"Not that one. It was a bone he picked up by the abandoned stilt house near the river," Brooks clarified. "I remember he yelped and held his hand."
"Oh—he *did* cry out!" Silas's face lit up with realization. He rushed to check Weston's hands.
Left—nothing. Right—nothing.
"There's no wound!"
"Calm down," Erik said. "Brooks wouldn't remember it wrong—"
"Then where is it?!"
"He had no wounds in his mouth after chewing bones. Of course the cut on his hand would vanish too."
"We have to be more cautious," she added. "The NPC will likely bring more soup today. I suggest we dump everything—bones included."
As soon as she finished speaking, the familiar sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.
"The boatman's here with breakfast. Let's move Weston," Delilah said.
Together, they hid Weston away just in time. The mute boatman set the food down, then collected the bucket. Upon seeing it cleaned thoroughly, he gave a subtle nod of approval—though hidden beneath a straw hat, his expression was unreadable.
He left with the empty bucket. Erik watched him disappear down the path and said, "I'll follow him."
"I'll check the shrine-like building again," Brooks said.
"I haven't explored the whole village yet," Delilah added. "I'll continue with that."
Their roles settled, the trio turned back to the others.
"We won't share our findings with anyone who hasn't contributed."
Silas still refused to go out. Both he and Weston had been affected—venturing outside now seemed even more dangerous. But he knew the veteran players meant what they said: no effort, no information.
So—
"I'll look after Weston. I can't just leave him here alone—it's dangerous," Silas declared.
It was a valid point. Brooks nodded.
"I'll go with you," Josephine said to Delilah, finally steeling herself.
Emery turned to Erik. "Then I'll come with you?"
"I prefer to go alone," Erik replied. She had already brought Emery along once. She couldn't do it every time, especially with tasks Emery couldn't witness.
Silas, keeping his expression calm, escorted them to the door. But once they left, his face changed. He slammed the door shut and bolted it.
He hurried back to Weston, checking his hands again.
"No wounds… Was it really the bone prick, or…?" Silas gritted his teeth, torn and restless.
Last night, after the others had left, Weston was ravenous. Silas, hoping to test the waters, had subtly nudged him.
Despite the others' warnings, it was only their first day in the instance—nothing had actually *happened* yet. Weston, half-trusting the veterans, also felt detached, like their words were still too abstract.
With his stomach growling and the rich aroma of soup lingering in the air, Weston couldn't resist. He had always struggled with gluttony, his enormous appetite ultimately leading to health complications—and, eventually, death.
Even when alive, Weston had failed to control his cravings. No matter how firm his resolve, hunger would always break it.
Now was no different. He had already consumed the two candies Erik had given him—hardly enough to fill a corner of his stomach. Overwhelmed by hunger, Weston gave in.
*Just a sip… Just one taste…*
That single sip led to another. And another. Soon he was devouring the meat.
Silas, worried, tried to stop him, even diluted the soup with rainwater.
When Weston showed no signs of illness, Silas had even thought of letting him try again the next day—and perhaps indulging himself.
But trouble had come before dawn.
Who else could gnaw on bones? Erik didn't seem like the lying type.
Silas inspected Weston's mouth himself—and just as he did, Weston awoke with a groan of pain.
"Ugh—my neck! Who hit me?!"
"Weston, do you remember what you did last night?"
"What? Why am I tied up?!" Weston struggled wildly, toppling the chair. It cracked under his weight, splintering apart. Panting, he clawed at the hemp rope around him.