The laughter, the music, and the clinking of crystal goblets created a strange illusion of elegance—  

but Joseph could already feel the rot beneath the beauty.  

From his seat beside **Josmar Matuwen**, he had the best view of everything: the ornate table stretching endlessly down the hall, the trembling humans seated among grinning nobles, the dishes that seemed to breathe faintly on their plates.  

The *Manor of Thorns* was alive tonight, feeding on the fear it had invited inside.

Joseph’s gaze wandered toward the walls.  

At first, he thought they were carved reliefs of faces—until one of them *moved*.  

The marble eye blinked.  

A human expression, twisted in silent horror, stared back at him for a heartbeat before melting again into stone.  

He hid his reaction behind the rim of his cup.  

“So that’s your secret,” he murmured. “They don’t just die here. They stay.”

The realization was cold and clean:  

these so-called “guests” were being turned into *art*.  

Each victim—transformed, immortalized, displayed.  

A collection of flesh and regret.  

He leaned back, exhaling slowly.  

“Good thing I’m not part of the exhibit.”

The Ghost King noticed his quiet observation and chuckled. “You see it, don’t you?”  

Joseph met his gaze. “Hard not to. You have excellent taste… in everything.”

Josmar laughed, pleased by the flattery. “Hah! You understand me better than most of my own court.”  

He poured himself a dark red wine that glowed faintly at the edges. “Most mortals panic when they realize what becomes of the uninvited. You, on the other hand…”  

“Adaptation is part of business,” Joseph replied smoothly. “Panic wastes profit.”  

Josmar threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Marvelous! Come—sit closer.”  

The king gestured to the seat beside his throne.  

Joseph moved, the hem of his coat brushing against the black marble floor that pulsed faintly underfoot.  

“Your Majesty,” Joseph said casually, eyes drifting to the shelves of luminous bottles along the wall, “you seem to have an extraordinary collection.  

Some of these wines—” he pointed toward a crystal decanter swirling with trapped starlight— “I’ve never seen before. Nor those artifacts in the alcove. Are they… local treasures?”

Josmar’s grin widened, delighted at the praise. “Treasures? Hah!  

Most of these bottles were distilled from the dreams of dying kings. That blade on the wall was once a church bell. The pearls in that chest? Tears of a sunken city. My collection spans both life and death.”  

Joseph leaned forward, tone polite but strategic.  

“Fascinating. If it isn’t too forward, I’d love for your butler to give me a short tour afterward. You see, I’m expanding my hotel—The Gates Estate.  

A few inspired displays might draw the right kind of clientele.”  

Josmar chuckled, clearly pleased by the attention.  

“You think like a ruler already, not a guest. Very well! After the feast, the butler will escort you through the archives.”  

Joseph smiled faintly. “I’m grateful, Your Majesty.”

The King waved a dismissive hand, laughing. “Grateful? No, no. You’re entertaining. That’s enough.”

The evening continued, though the illusion of civility was thinning.  

Halfway down the table, a woman’s scream tore through the music—her silverware had fused into her hands, veins turning to glass.  

Another man’s shadow began strangling him silently until it vanished under the table.  

The nobles only laughed.  

Each death followed an invisible rule—speak when not spoken to, drink from the wrong cup, refuse a toast—and punishment came instantly, almost playfully.

Joseph didn’t flinch. He merely adjusted his **Ghi Phaerielie** watch, watching time tick backward over the reflection of the chaos.  

*This is the apocalypse,* he thought. *You either watch the fire or you become it.*  

He sipped his drink, calm as ever. “Business as usual.”

Later, as the laughter dulled and the music shifted to a slower, darker tune, he turned once more to Josmar.  

“Your Majesty,” he said, as though discussing the weather, “I’ve been thinking. My current residence—the Gates Estate—is suitable for now, but I’ll soon need a more personal base. A place with… permanence.”  

The Ghost King raised an amused brow. “You plan to stay here long, mortal?”  

Joseph smiled faintly. “As long as profit allows. Perhaps a manor, or a district property. Do you know any ghost landlords in the city looking to sell?”  

Josmar leaned back, tapping his goblet thoughtfully. “A mortal buying real estate in the dead city… remarkable.”  

Then he grinned, showing teeth too sharp for kindness. “I do recall one place. City center. Five hundred vacant houses left behind after the last cleansing. The owners are long gone—consumed by the rules they broke. I can have my steward contact the deed keepers.”  

Joseph tilted his head. “You’d do that for me?”  

Josmar laughed. “You’re an amusing little creature. But tell me—what’s your real aim? Don’t tell me you plan to buy the *entire district?*”  

Joseph smirked. “Only if the price is fair.”

The King threw his head back and laughed again, the sound shaking the hall. “You’d make an excellent devil, Joseph Gates.”  

“Occupational hazard,” Joseph said lightly.  

For a moment, the two of them sat there—one living, one dead—sharing an effortless conversation while all around them, humans screamed and ghosts feasted.  

The contrast was almost poetic:  

a man and a monarch smiling across a table soaked in blood, both entirely at ease in a world collapsing around them.  

When the music stopped again, Josmar leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.  

“Enjoy the wine, merchant. Tonight, no harm will come to you. I find myself… fond of your ambition.”  

Joseph inclined his head. “You honor me.”  

“But,” the King added, a faint smile still on his lips, “fondness doesn’t exempt you from my rules. The night isn’t over yet.”  

The lights flickered.  

The chandeliers dimmed.  

And as the last surviving humans trembled at their seats, the King raised his goblet again and said softly—  

“Now that we’re comfortable… let’s begin the *real* game.”