The steps led them out into an open space—and heat hit them in the face, as if the door of a red-hot oven had been opened.
A desert.
An endless sandy plain stretched in all directions, disappearing beyond the horizon. The sand was white, almost glowing, reflecting the dim, lifeless light pouring from somewhere above.
The hero raised his head.
A black sun.
A huge dark disk hung in the gray sky. It didn't shine—it simply was, and somehow illuminated everything around with a weak, deathly glow. It was painful to look at—not with the eyes, but somewhere deeper, in the soul itself, as if it were slowly sucking the life out of them.
"What the…" Medusa covered her eyes with her hand and turned away abruptly. "I can't look at this."
The hero also looked away. He stepped onto the sand.
Crunch. Not the soft rustle of sand grains—the crunch of bones underfoot.
He crouched and scooped up a handful. White, jagged, sharp grains. Crushed bones. Billions of fragments, ground to dust.
"The entire desert is made of bones," he said quietly.
The jellyfish landed nearby, took her portion, and dumped it back with disgust.
"Of course. What's so surprising?" She stood up and looked around. "Where to now?"
The hero glanced around. No landmarks, no tracks, no distant silhouettes. Only dunes, sand, and the black sun overhead.
"Straight ahead," he decided. "Just forward."
They moved.
The heat was strange—it didn't burn the skin, but pressed from within, drying it out, sucking the moisture from every cell.
A few minutes later, it came.
Hunger. It wasn't an ordinary rumble in his stomach. A wild, all-consuming, animal hunger. As if he hadn't eaten for a month, two, a year. His stomach twisted into knots, pain shot through him, his thoughts began to blur.
"Hero..." Medusa's voice trembled. "Do you feel it too?"
He turned around. She pressed her hands to her stomach, her face contorted into a grimace.
"Hunger," he forced out. "Yes."
The snakes on her head hissed restlessly, biting each other—they were also starving.
They walked on. With each step, the hunger grew—no longer just physical, but something deeper, metaphysical. It devoured his strength, his will, his mind.
The hero stumbled and fell to his knees. The pain in his stomach became unbearable. He tried to remember: when was the last time he ate? In Lilith's brothel? How many floors ago? Days? Weeks? Time blurred here.
"Need... food..." Medusa croaked, also sinking to the sand.
The hero looked around. Nothing. Only white, bone-like sand.
Bones.
His gaze fell on his own hand. Flesh. Meat.
Hunger roared inside him, demanding, commanding: eat, eat, EAT!
He raised his hand to his mouth, his teeth touching the skin—
"No!" Medusa grabbed his wrist and pushed him away forcefully. "Don't you dare!" The hero blinked. Realization returned. What had he almost done?
"This place..." she breathed out, breathing heavily. "It drives you crazy."
He nodded and swallowed. The hunger was still there—pulsing, demanding, waiting.
"We have to go," he said, forcing himself to stand. "Otherwise we'll do something we'll regret." They continued on their way. Every step was a struggle. Hunger became their constant companion—it screamed, tormented, drove them mad.
A mirage appeared in the distance.
A table. Enormous, laden with food: roasted meat, fresh bread, fruit, jugs of wine. The scent wafted even here—tantalizing, enticing, unbearably real.
"See?" Medusa whispered.
"I see. This isn't real."
"I know... But gods, how I long..."
They skirted the mirage. It vanished into thin air.
But then a new one appeared. And another. Food was everywhere—on the dune crests, right before their eyes, in the air. Out of reach.
The hero closed his eyes and walked blindly, guided only by the feel of the sand beneath his feet. The jellyfish walked beside him, holding his hand, also with her eyes closed.
Hunger consumed his mind, turning his thoughts into a murky mess.
And then they heard sounds.
Chomping. The crunch of bones. A low, contented moo.
The hero opened his eyes. Someone was eating behind the nearest dune.
They approached closer, peering cautiously.
Creatures.
On all fours, emaciated beyond measure. Skin stretched tight over bones, ribs protruded, eyes sunken. But they ate. Devoured whatever lay on the sand. The hero looked closer and realized. They were eating each other. One creature was already dead, the others were tearing its flesh with their teeth, swallowing the pieces almost without chewing.
The hero's stomach clenched—but not from horror. From hunger. Hunger watched this scene and wanted to join in.
"Come on," Medusa hissed, pulling him away. "Faster."
They retreated. But the creatures had sensed them. They raised their bloody muzzles, their eyes blazing with a mad fire.
They growled.
They gave chase.
The hero and Medusa ran. The creatures chased after them, fast despite their exhaustion. Hunger gave them inhuman strength.
One leaped onto Medusa's back, its jaws clamped down on her shoulder, and tore, tearing out a chunk of flesh. Medusa screamed and fell. The hero turned—the Bloody Dagger sank into the creature's skull. It went limp.
But the others were already surrounding him. Five. Ten. Roaring, drooling onto the sand.
Medusa rose, her trident shaking in her hands, her shoulder bleeding.
The creatures attacked at once.
The hero slashed with his dagger, Medusa stabbed with her trident. They killed one, two, three. But for each dead one, the others pounced—devoured them right there in the middle of the fight.
One sank into the hero's leg, its teeth piercing the muscle to the bone. He screamed and collapsed. The others pounced.
Teeth, claws, blood. They tore them alive, swallowed them in pieces.
Medusa tried to fight back, but she, too, was felled. The snakes bit the creatures, injecting venom—but there were too many of them. Consciousness faded under a wave of pain and hunger. Even dying, he still wanted to eat.
Darkness.
Inhale.
The hero woke up on the sand a few meters from the scene of the massacre. His body was whole. But the memory of being eaten alive remained—sticky, nauseating.
Medusa lay nearby, coming to at almost the same time. They looked at each other. Silence.
The creatures were gone. Sated. For now.
"I..." Medusa's voice trembled. "When they were eating me... I thought... I thought I wanted to bite off a piece of it back."
The hero nodded.
"Me too. Hunger is driving me crazy."
They lay there for a few more minutes, then forced themselves to stand. The hunger returned, even stronger.
They continued walking, staggering, each step a struggle.
They died twice more.
Once, the hero broke. Hunger consumed his mind completely. He pounced on Medusa, trying to bite, to devour her. She defended herself—the trident sank into his chest. He died, choking on blood, his teeth still reaching for her.
He woke up in horror. Medusa stood to the side, trident at the ready, eyes wary.
"Forgive me," he choked out. "I... wasn't in control."
She slowly lowered the weapon.
"I know. This place turns us into beasts."
The second time, hunger killed him physically. His body simply gave up: without food, it began to deteriorate on its own. His heartbeat quickened, then became uneven, skipping beats. His legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the sand. Convulsions began—his body arched, his arms and legs twitching uncontrollably. Foam mixed with blood poured from his mouth, and his breathing became a wheeze. A sharp pain flared in his chest—his heart stopped.
Darkness enveloped him instantly.
And then—a sharp intake of breath. He came to on the sand nearby, his body whole again. But the hunger returned immediately, even more vicious and insistent, as if death had only fed him.
But through death, through pain, through madness, he began to learn.
He learned to ignore.
The hunger screamed—he didn't listen. He pushed it into the far corner of his mind, locked it there. Willpower—stubborn, tempered by hundreds of deaths—became a shield.
Medusa was learning the same. The snakes on her head gradually grew quiet, accustomed to the eternal hunger.
And finally, ahead, through the shimmering haze of heat, an oasis appeared.
Palm trees. Water. Greenery. And a table—a real one, with food.
They stopped at a distance.
"A trap?" Medusa asked.
"Very likely."
"Or real help."
"How can I be sure?"
The hero looked more closely. Tracks. Many tracks led to the oasis. None back.
"A trap," he said firmly.
"But there's food there..."
"Which will kill us. Or worse."
Medusa hesitated. Hunger pushed her forward, reason held her back.
"Let's just pass by," she finally exhaled.
They circled the oasis in a wide arc.
When they had gone far enough, the illusion began to crumble. The palm trees had turned black, the water had turned to blood, the food to rotting chunks of flesh. Figures sat at the table—frozen people, their mouths open, full of flies. They ate. And died, not noticing that the food was poisoned, that it was turning them into statues of eternal hunger.
"We did the right thing," Medusa whispered.
The hero nodded silently and moved on.
After another indeterminate amount of time—hours? days?—they came across others.
Three. What had once been people. Exhausted, with wild eyes. They sat in a circle, chewing something.
The hero and Medusa stopped a little way off.
"Hey, travelers!" one called hoarsely. "Join us. We... share."
"With what?" the hero asked, already knowing.
The man raised his hand. Two fingers were missing. Fresh wounds, crudely bandaged. "With ourselves. We eat little by little. Everything grows back here. Eternal food."
The second one showed his leg—the calf had been cut out, the meat was missing.
"Join us," the first one repeated. "Hunger becomes bearable if you eat."
The jellyfish retreated, horror and disgust in her eyes.
"You've gone mad."
"No!" the woman screamed. "We've found a way to survive! Give us some of your meat, and we'll give you some of ours..."
They began to rise, holding crude knives made of bone fragments.
"Run," said the hero.
They rushed away. The cannibals gave chase, shouting, urging them to come back, promising it wouldn't hurt.
But the hero and Medusa weren't that exhausted yet. They broke away and disappeared behind the dunes.
They stopped and sank to the sand, breathing heavily.
"I'd rather die a thousand more times," Medusa breathed, "than become like them."
"Agreed," nodded the hero.
They sat, hunger gnawing at them from within, but they held on. They learned to live alongside it—without giving in, without turning into beasts.
And then it appeared ahead.
The arch. Tall, stone, untouched by the sand.
Exit.
999 989.
They gathered their last strength and moved toward her. Hunger screamed, demanding they lie down and die. But they kept going.
They reached it. They stepped under the arch.
The hunger vanished instantly.
As if cut off. The stomach calmed. The pain was gone. Only the memory remained—heavy, like all the other agonies.
The Hero and Medusa stood under the arch, disbelieving. Then they fell to their knees—simply breathing, enjoying the silence within.
"Never again," Medusa whispered. "I will never complain about the food. I will be grateful for every bite."
The Hero smiled faintly:
"I subscribe to every word."
They sat for a while longer, then rose. They continued on—up the steps.
The dungeon never ended.
But they, too, did not break.
Together. Alive. After the Desert of Hunger.