Saya stood on the edge of the plateau, her eyes wide with wonder and her stomach rumbling with an urgency that was becoming harder to ignore. The escape, the magical rope, the dizzying climb—all of it had left her feeling like she’d run a marathon through an enchanted obstacle course. Now, here she was, in the midst of a marketplace that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a storybook and dropped into a dream.

Saya Rève was hungry. Not just “I skipped lunch” hungry, but the kind of ravenous hunger that comes from running for your life. And now, standing on a plateau lined with charming, ancient shops and restaurants that looked like they belonged in a Studio Fibli film, her stomach growled like an angry beast.

The air was crisp, and the sunlight filtered through a thin mist that hung over the plateau, giving everything a soft, dreamlike quality. The shops and restaurants were a dazzling array of old-world charm and eccentricity. It was a mix of ancient Asian architecture and whimsical fantasy. Delicately curved rooftops with ornate wooden carvings, vibrant paper lanterns bobbing gently in the breeze, and the faint, tantalizing promise of exotic flavors hanging in the air—or so she thought.

“Alright, Rève,” she muttered to herself, her voice tinged with both determination and exhaustion, “it’s time to figure out where you are, what this place is, and most importantly, get something to eat before your stomach decides to stage a protest. You’ve survived the weirdest day of your life, and now you get to eat something totally new. If that’s not a win, I don’t know what is.”

It was the kind of place where, under different circumstances, she might have sat down and taken in the atmosphere, enjoying the peaceful moment. But she was tired, confused, and more importantly, starving. She needed food, and she needed it now.

She stepped toward the nearest shop, its wooden sign swinging lightly in the breeze. The characters on it were unfamiliar, a swirl of lines and curves that might have been letters, or maybe just artistic squiggles meant to look important. The shop’s display was filled with an assortment of dishes, each more enticing than the last. It was small and inviting. Bowls of steaming noodles, skewers of grilled meat, and an assortment of brightly colored vegetables arranged with meticulous care.

Saya’s mouth watered as she imagined the rich, savory flavors. Without thinking she stepped closer. She inhaled deeply, anticipating the rich aroma of grilled chicken, the sharp tang of vinegar, the warm, comforting scent of freshly cooked rice. Instead, she smelled… nothing. Not a whiff, not even the faintest hint of food. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on her nose. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she stepped closer, leaning over the display to see if maybe her nose was playing tricks on her.

Still nothing.

“What the—?” Saya blinked, leaning in closer to the food. She sniffed again, this time more deliberately, but the result was the same. The food, despite looking like it had just been pulled from the heat, didn’t have any smell.

Okay, maybe the steam was just for show, she thought. Maybe they’ve perfected the art of making food look good without actually cooking it. But that doesn’t explain the hunger pangs gnawing at my insides.

She hesitated, her stomach growling in protest. “I must be more tired than I thought,” she said, half hoping that saying it out loud would make it true. Her eyes narrowed at the display, and she reached out tentatively to touch one of the skewers, expecting the warm, slightly greasy feel of grilled chicken.The chicken looked perfectly grilled, its golden brown skin glistening in the sunlight. But as her fingers brushed against it, Saya felt a peculiar sensation—no warmth, no texture, just a vague sense of something not being quite right.

It didn’t feel like food. It didn’t feel like anything at all. Almost as if her hand had passed through something that didn’t quite exist.

“What the—?” She yanked her hand back, her pulse quickening. Her stomach, however, had no time for mysteries and ignored the strangeness of the situation. Hunger trumped curiosity. Her stomach grumbled again, more insistent this time, and she glared at the skewer like it had personally offended her. She was too hungry to care about how weird this all was. Maybe she was just too exhausted to think straight. Maybe her senses were playing tricks on her. Whatever the reason, she decided to just go for it.

She picked up the skewer again, more determined this time, and brought it to her mouth. She bit down with the eagerness of someone who hadn’t eaten in hours.

The moment her teeth should have sunk into the tender meat, it vanished. Saya blinked, staring at her empty hand in disbelief. The skewer was back on the plate, untouched, unbitten, as if her attempt to eat had been nothing more than an illusion. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered, half expecting the food to laugh at her. Saya stared at the skewer, her mouth still hanging open, not quite sure if she should be shocked or insulted.

“I’m not hallucinating,” she said firmly, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. “I definitely just took a bite of that chicken.”

But there it was, sitting innocently on the plate, as if it had never left.

She blinked, trying to process what had just happened. This place, with its serene atmosphere and picturesque setting, suddenly felt much less welcoming and much more like a trap. Saya’s mind raced, trying to reconcile what she had just experienced. Maybe it was a trick, or some kind of enchanted illusion? A safety feature to keep food fresh? She had to know more.

She looked around, hoping to see some clue that would explain the bizarre situation. But the people in the market—if they could be called that—continued about their business, oblivious to her growing frustration. Saya wasn’t one to give up easily, especially not when her stomach was involved. 

Still curious, Saya decided to conduct a little experiment. Her eyes fell on a tomato, plump and ripe, sitting invitingly in a nearby bowl. She grabbed a fork and, with a steady hand, pressed down on the fruit, fully expecting it to burst with juice, to feel the satisfying squish of the fruit’s skin bursting open.

The fork slid off as if the tomato was made of rubber

Nothing.

The tomato remained perfectly intact, as if the fork had never touched it. Saya lifted the fork to inspect it and found it completely clean, without even a hint of juice or seeds. No juice, no seeds—nothing. Where was her squish?

She raised an eyebrow, her intrigue deepening. “So it’s not just the chicken, then. This whole place is playing by some very weird rules.”

“Alright, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” she said, a mix of exasperation and curiosity bubbling up inside her.