The corridor narrowed until it forced the trio to walk single-file, shoulder brushing wall, boot sinking occasionally into pulp pockets. The air was cloying, a heady mixture of decay and floral sweetness, like a perfumed corpse.
Stanley led, one hand out, fingertips skimming the pulpy veins that throbbed faintly beneath the skin of the walls. Rafael followed with a constant mutter of complaints and citrus-themed death scenarios. Calyx brought up the rear, her tail flicking irritably behind her.
"You ever get the feeling," she whispered, "that the fruit's starting to look back at us?"
Stanley didn't answer. The glow ahead was no longer a glow. It was a slow, pulsing rhythm—like the beat of a rotten heart.
They stepped into a chamber shaped like a peeled orange, each segment a different color—moldy green, bruised purple, sickly yellow. The center pulsed around a shriveled, floating fruit—blackened and misshapen, yet unmistakably alive.
From the ceiling descended threads of citrus peel, knitting themselves into a vaguely humanoid shape with long, curling arms and a too-wide grin of dried pith.
"Welcome," the being cooed. "To the Womb of Withered Truth."
Rafael tilted his head. "Why does that sound like a failed goth band?"
Calyx elbowed him. "Shhh. It's definitely going to monologue. You'll hurt its feelings."
"I am Savaal the Spoiled," it said, voice syrupy and thick, "once the Chosen Seed of Renewal. Cast away. Left to rot. But rot brings revelation. From the core of decay, truth ferments."
Stanley squinted. "You're a rejected citrus messiah?"
Savaal hissed. "I was perfect! But the world favors what is bright, what is fresh. It fears bitterness, though it is the only true flavor. You came here seeking power, penance, perhaps even purpose. But all things ripen. All things rot."
It raised a hand, and from the orange-flesh walls emerged shambling figures—husked fruit warriors, leaking syrup and sadness. One carried a broken ukulele. Another had sunglasses fused to its rind. A third appeared to be half-peeled and mumbling apologetically.
"They were like you once," Savaal whispered. "Adventurers. Heroes. Victims of their own expectations."
Rafael drew his blade. "Victims of bad metaphors, maybe."
The battle began with a squelch. Stanley ducked a syrup-fist and countered with a memory-blade conjured from his recent guilt.
Calyx conjured fireballs in the shape of angry kumquats, hurling them with wild abandon.
Rafael, ever the sword-swinging realist, sliced through a citrus zombie while yelling, "No pulp, extra regret!"
But the more they fought, the slower they became. Their limbs stuck to the ground. Their breath came heavier. Savaal's spores fogged the chamber, dredging up old failures and insecurities. Stanley saw flashes—his first boss calling him weak, his father's disappointed silence, his own reflection asking, "When will you stop faking it?"
"No," Stanley growled, forcing himself upright. "I've already faced this. I balanced the damn scale."
"Did you?" Savaal's grin widened. "Or did you only skim the rind?"
Stanley raised both hands, not to fight—but to pull the memory deeper. He shouted back through time at the version of himself who always backed down.
"I was afraid. I still am. But fear isn't rot—it's the proof I haven't given up yet!"
A pulse rippled from his chest, blowing the fog back. Rafael shook off the syrup. Calyx summoned a blade of candied flame.
Together, they surged forward.
Savaal shrieked as their combined blow struck his core. He exploded not in gore—but in laughter, trailing bitter mist.
"Face what comes next," he cackled. Next chapter awaits!"
The fog lifted. The chamber's walls seemed to dry and crack. The citrus constructs crumbled into sugared dust. All that remained was a silence, thick and waiting.
Stanley slumped, panting. "What a drama queen."
Calyx laughed. "If the next chapter isn't just a therapy session with a lemon shrink, I'll be disappointed."
Rafael grinned. "Or maybe it's a juice cleanse. Emotional and otherwise. Bet we get lectured by a yuzu monk who only speaks in koans and farts."
"Or worse," Calyx added, "a grapefruit judge who sentences us to exfoliation."
Stanley shook his head, chuckling despite himself. "Whatever it is, I'm bringing antacid."
They stepped into the next hallway, unaware that behind them, the pulpy remains of Savaal still twitched, grinning as they dripped into the floor. A faint rustling echoed in the silence—like old fruit skin folding into a new shape.
Far ahead, a dim light flickered. Not glowing. Not pulsing. But buzzing.
***