The interior of the *Manor of Thorns* shimmered like a mirage woven from darkness and glass. Every step Joseph took echoed like a drop of ink falling into eternity.  

The butler who guided him—tall, expressionless, with buttons that blinked like eyes—led him through twisting corridors where portraits watched him breathe.  

At the last turn before the grand hall, Joseph stopped, slipping his hand into the *Ring of All Things.*  

A soft pulse of gold flickered between his fingers. He pulled out a small envelope filled with *Mingbi*, enough to buy an entire street block in the mortal world.  

He pressed it into the butler’s gloved hand. “For your trouble.”  

The butler froze, the faint blue flame in his eye sockets flickering. “Sir, I… I serve the King.”  

“I know,” Joseph replied smoothly. “Consider this… serving efficiently.”  

The butler hesitated only a moment longer before bowing deeply, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Then I serve you, too.”  

Joseph smiled. “Good man.”

The doors to the grand hall swung open.

Inside, a hundred chandeliers burned with black fire. The walls shimmered like living shadows, and at the far end of the room—sitting upon a throne of woven vines—was **Josmar Matuwen**, the Ghost King himself.

He looked up, a glint of humor in his dead eyes. “Ah. The living merchant arrives.”

Joseph bowed slightly, his tone light. “Your Majesty, thank you for the invitation.”

Josmar’s grin widened. “I don’t often invite mortals into my home. Usually they end up here through… less formal means.”

“I believe in proper introductions,” Joseph said. “And appropriate gifts.”

The King raised an eyebrow. “Gifts?”

Joseph’s fingers brushed against his ring. A moment later, the air shimmered as he placed several boxes upon the long obsidian table.  

A *Ghi Phaerielie* watch, ticking backward toward infinity.  

A silver goblet filled with luminous tears of the damned.  

A string of *Ghoulpearls* that pulsed faintly with captured light.  

A chessboard carved from frozen screams.  

The room grew quiet. Even the spectral attendants exchanged astonished glances.  

Josmar stared at the mountain of gifts, then laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that made the air itself vibrate.  

“Child,” he said, still laughing, “I have ruled this city for centuries. There is nothing left here that can be bought.”

Joseph smiled back. “Then I’m not buying, Your Majesty. I’m just showing gratitude for the invitation.”

The King’s eyes softened, though his grin never faded. “You remind me of myself before I died. Always calculating, always courteous.”

“Old habits die harder than we do,” Joseph said.  

Josmar chuckled again. “Indeed.”

Moments later, the doors behind them creaked open again. The other humans—those who had stood outside the gates—were ushered in by armored ghosts.  

Joseph turned to glance at them.  

Several were missing.  

Those who remained were pale, trembling, and covered in faint scratches, as though the very air in the corridor had clawed at them.  

One woman fell to her knees the moment she crossed the threshold, gasping for air. “We… we lost them,” she whispered. “The walls— they moved—”

A ghost soldier yanked her upright and shoved her toward the nearest table.  

Josmar didn’t even glance at her. His attention remained fixed on Joseph.  

“Mortals,” he said softly, “break too easily. But sometimes, they surprise even me.”

Joseph stayed silent, his expression unreadable. He knew this was how the Ghost King tested his guests—through fear, through chaos, through spectacle.

Josmar rose from his throne, spreading his arms.  

“Then let us begin the evening. The city still trembles outside these walls, and I tire of its silence. Tonight,” he said, voice echoing across the hall, “we feast.”

The chandeliers flared to life. Music returned—low, melancholic, and wrong. Dishes appeared on the tables one by one: platters of glowing fruit, cups filled with liquid shadow, bread that bled faint light when torn.

Ghosts, nobles, and lingering human survivors took their seats.  

Joseph found his chair near the front, directly across from the throne.

The King lifted his goblet, and the entire hall followed.  

“To the living,” Josmar said with a smirk, “who are foolish enough to dine with the dead.”  

The crowd repeated the toast in a low, unified murmur. “To the living.”

Joseph raised his own cup, calm and smiling. “And to the dead—who still know good hospitality.”

A few ghosts laughed softly. Even Josmar chuckled, raising his glass in response.  

“Well said. You may yet live through the night, mortal.”

Joseph’s eyes gleamed faintly. “That’s the plan.”

But even as the feast began, Joseph could sense it—the air tightening, the lights dimming just slightly. The energy in the room changed.  

This wasn’t just a dinner.  

It was the prelude to something else.  

He glanced toward the line of remaining humans.  

One man’s reflection was missing from the mirror behind him.  

Another’s cup filled itself with something red that didn’t smell like wine.  

And above it all, Josmar Matuwen’s laughter echoed, smooth and distant.

“Eat, drink, enjoy yourselves,” the Ghost King said. “When the plates are cleared, we’ll begin the real entertainment.”

Joseph leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquid shadow in his cup.  

“Let me guess,” he murmured, half to himself. “Another wager.”

From the throne, Josmar smiled knowingly. “Of course. After all—what’s a feast without a little risk?”