When you wander far enough into madness, you stop asking questions.You just start chewing through it.
That's where Sava found himself — standing before a giant cathedral built entirely out of stacked kebabs. No, seriously. Meat towers. Pita bridges. A flag made of seared onions flapped lazily at the top.
The structure smelled like holy sin.
The map in Sava's pocket burned hotter now, almost desperate. His tongue was still buzzing from the strange woman's touch earlier, and every breath he took smelled like roasted mysteries.
A low chant hummed through the air, vibrating his bones.
"Lamb... Lamb... Charred and chosen..."
Sava wiped his forehead, which was, unironically, sweating sauce.
He flicked a drop off his eyebrow and muttered,"Great. I'm seasoning myself. By the end of this, I'll be a walking shawarma."
(And yep, he glanced at you again. His eyes sharp, suspicious.)
"You still following me, huh? Good. I'll need a witness when I eventually get eaten by a sentient kabob."
He stepped forward.
Inside, it was dim, the only light coming from torches dipped in what smelled suspiciously like bacon grease. Hooded figures surrounded a massive rotisserie, their faces hidden under grilled pita masks.
The leader, distinguishable only by the glistening silver skewer he carried like a scepter, approached.
"You seek the One Bite," he said solemnly.
"I seek a kebab," Sava corrected."Same difference," the man said."Is it?""No. Not even close."
The cultists erupted into a series of synchronized hand gestures involving pretend-eating motions and something that resembled seasoning a ghost.
Sava awkwardly mimicked them.
(He shot you a look: "No, I'm not proud of this either.")
The High Skewer (yes, that was literally his title) beckoned him closer.
"To find the Path of Meat, you must pass the Trial of Tongues."
"...Sounds spicy," Sava muttered under his breath.
The cultists surrounded him, chanting faster, throwing handfuls of invisible spices into the air.
Suddenly, a figure rolled out a gigantic platter — piled high with kebabs.But not just normal kebabs.
Each one was... wrong.
A kebab with shifting colors.
A kebab smoking from the inside out.
A kebab whispering under its breath (yes, whispering).
A kebab with teeth.
"Choose," the High Skewer intoned."Choose the kebab that is truly worthy... or be devoured by the unworthy."
Sava grimaced."Okay, cool. No pressure. Just pick the non-demonic snack."
(He leaned toward you.)
"Hey.If you've got any psychic powers back there, now would be a fantastic time to use them.No? Just moral support?Great. Thanks."
Sava circled the platter.
He sniffed.He poked.One kebab tried to bite back. He withdrew his finger just in time.
Finally, he noticed something.The smallest kebab — hidden near the edge — was burnt. Blackened. Charred beyond recognition.
It looked... humble.Forgotten.
And yet... it smelled like truth.
"The ugliest ones are always the real deal," he muttered.
He reached out.
The cultists gasped.
The moment his fingers touched the charred kebab, a deep rumble echoed through the cathedral.
The rotisserie spun faster.The flames flared.The ground itself shivered.
And then — the world flipped inside out.
FLASH.
Sava was falling through a sky made of soup.(No, seriously, it tasted faintly of lentils.)
FLASH.
He tumbled past floating meatballs, kebab comets, rivers of sauce.
FLASH.
He landed — splat — onto a giant floating naan bread.
He groaned, coughing up a bit of cumin dust.
And floating above him, haloed in greasy light, was a vision.
An entity.Neither god nor demon.Neither chef nor butcher.
It was a being made of infinite kebabs, swirling, mutating, forever roasting.
It spoke.
"You have found the Door of Hunger.""But the Kebab of Eons is not given lightly.""You must earn your flavor.""You must become worthy of the final bite."
Sava looked up at it, trembling.
(Then, of course, he tilted his head toward you.)
"You heard that too, right?Please tell me you heard that.Otherwise, I'm definitely getting committed after this."
The entity extended a hand — a literal shish kebab skewer for a finger — toward Sava.
"Take the Skewer of Trials. Step forward into the Feast of Destiny."
Sava swallowed.
He reached out.
The moment he gripped the skewer, the naan beneath him began to crack. The soup-sky boiled. The spice-stars screamed.
And the real journey began.
Not just for kebab.
Not just for flavor.
But for the soul of hunger itself.
TO BE CONTINUED...