Chapter 28: The Trial of Gluttony and Temperance

The air inside the chamber of Gluttony was heavy, saturated with a sweetness that clung to Alucard's senses like honey. Before him stretched an impossible feast—tables piled high with golden fruits that glistened in the soft light, roasted meats that sizzled with fragrant spices, and cascading fountains of wine that shimmered like molten rubies.

The sight alone made Alucard's stomach twist. It wasn't just hunger that gnawed at him; it was something deeper, an ache that resonated in his very soul. He hadn't stopped moving since entering the trials, and every step of his journey weighed heavily on him. But this chamber offered more than food—it promised reprieve, indulgence, and escape.

A voice, low and velvety, echoed through the room. "You've fought long and hard, haven't you? Take a moment, Alucard. You deserve this. All of it."

His fists tightened at his sides. The temptation was immediate, primal. He tried to look away, but the scent of the roasted meats was overpowering, pulling him closer like a siren's call. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, a desperate rhythm urging him to take just one bite.

The voice grew softer, almost pleading. "You've sacrificed everything. Let yourself feel joy again, even for a moment. No one will know. No one will judge."

But the tables weren't empty. As Alucard stepped closer, he noticed figures seated around them—people, or what remained of them. Their hollow faces, sunken eyes, and desperate, animalistic movements filled him with unease. They tore apart legs of lamb, slurped wine, and crammed food into their mouths, their grotesquely swollen stomachs threatening to burst.

One of them—a young woman—turned toward him, her hoarse voice rasping. "Join us. It's endless. There's enough for everyone." Her lips twisted into a greasy smile, smeared with wine and meat juices.

Alucard stepped back, ignoring the growling hunger in his gut. "What's the point of this?" he shouted. "To see if I'll lose myself in excess? To see if I'll become like them?" He gestured at the hollow figures.

The voice laughed, sharp and cruel. "They were like you once. Warriors. Heroes. But they gave in. Do you think you're better? The hunger will consume you in the end, just as it did them."

Alucard's feet moved on their own, each step dragging him closer to the table. His fingers hovered over a golden apple, its surface smooth and perfect, as though plucked straight from a myth. He paused, his mind flickering to the trials he had already faced. But the hunger inside him roared louder, drowning out his doubts.

"Just one bite," the voice coaxed.

Alucard sank his teeth into the apple, the juice bursting onto his tongue. It was the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted—sweet, sharp, and utterly intoxicating. Before he could stop himself, he reached for another, then another. Soon, he was tearing into the roasted meats, the juices running down his fingers, washing it all down with goblets of velvety wine.

For the first time in years, he let himself feel. He let go of the weight of his grief, his anger, and his endless thirst for vengeance. As he ate, the void inside him seemed to shrink, replaced by the fleeting comfort of indulgence.

But then the warmth began to curdle. The sweetness turned cloying, suffocating him. The apple in his hand darkened, its flesh crawling with tiny maggots that wriggled and burrowed into his skin. The roasted meats on the table collapsed into piles of rancid, oozing sludge, their stench choking the air. The wine in his goblet thickened, turning black and viscous, dripping like tar between his fingers.

Alucard's chest heaved, his stomach churning violently. He stumbled back from the table, the bile rising in his throat. He dropped to his knees and vomited, the acidic burn tearing through him as chunks of rotted food spilled onto the floor. The stench was unbearable, and yet he couldn't stop retching, his body rejecting the poison he had so eagerly consumed.

The voice returned, its tone now cruel and mocking. "Do you see, Alucard? This is who you are. Greedy. Empty. Always consuming, yet never satisfied. You'll devour everything around you until there's nothing left—just like you destroyed Eleanor."

The words struck like a blade to the heart. Alucard's trembling hands pressed against the cold, slick floor as he struggled to catch his breath. His vision swam, but the image of the rotten feast burned in his mind, a grotesque reflection of his own soul.

"No…" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "That's not who I am."

"Isn't it? Look at what you've done. Look at how easily you gave in. You'll never be anything more than a monster."

Alucard clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, not from the stench or the pain, but from the crushing weight of the voice's accusations. Deep down, he feared it was right.

Then, like a whisper in the storm, a memory surfaced. Eleanor's voice, soft and unwavering, as she comforted a frightened child.

"Strength isn't about what you take, Alucard. It's about what you give. What you choose to let go of."

Her words cut through the haze, grounding him. He forced himself to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him. The table loomed before him, still laden with its decaying feast, but he no longer felt its pull.

"I am not defined by my hunger," he said, his voice growing steadier. "I am more than my desires."

With trembling hands, he turned away from the table. The chamber shuddered, the oppressive air lifting slightly. The voice, now measured and calm, spoke once more.

"And so you learn the truth of Temperance. To want is human, but to control that desire is divine."

The heavy silence pressed down upon Alucard as he stood alone, his mind raging like a storm at sea. His body still shook with tremors from the ordeal, each memory tasting fouler than the last upon his tongue. He grimaced at how easily the hunger had overtaken him once more.

For several long moments, he remained motionless, gazing emptily at the now-vacant table as his thoughts churned. Part of him wished to cry out in denial of the voice's stinging accusations, yet in his heart of hearts he knew a painful truth lurked there. How often had cravings—an endless yearning to fill an aching void within—driven him to consume all before him in a mad frenzy? It was never solely sustenance that drove his appetite; vengeance, dominance, significance all fell prey just the same.

His hands balling into tight fists, he whispered brokenly, "What the hell am i becoming?" His recollections drifted to Eleanor and the tender moments they once shared before her light was snatched away. Had chasing revenge warped him into the monster she so desperately tried saving him from? The voice's mockery echoed, taunting "Just as you destroyed Eleanor."

A stab of agony pierced his chest, yet he inhaled deeply past the pain. Closing his eyes, he reached inward for the sole comfort remaining—the memory of her gentle voice, his lone beacon in the gloom.

"Strength isn't defined by what you take but what you give. It's choosing to let go," the words cut deeper than any blade, offering steadiness. Letting go felt foreign, nearly impossible. For so long he clung to grief, guilt, unrelenting vengeance fueling each step. Those feelings sustained yet anchored in desolation, an abyss unclear if he could surface.

But what was the alternative? He glimpsed the soulless shells around the table, grotesque remnants consumed by cravings, eyes vacant of humanity, bodies distorted mockeries of what once lived. Was this to be his end? Devoured by the hunger keeping him alive?

"No," his voice surer, "I won't let that happen." Each step dragging from quicksand, every fiber screamed to return, taste fleeting comfort one last time. Yet he pushed on, confronting the gnawing void within.

The hunger roared louder, claws sinking into wavering resolve. It whispered promises of weakness without, assured failure if he strayed from its grasp. The whispers coiled tighter, pulling him downward.

His knees buckled against cold stone, breaths shallow and ragged. For a moment despair threatened to overwhelm. But through the chaos emerged a simple, undeniable truth.

Hunger had consumed him for as long as he could remember. It gnawed at his insides like a ravenous beast, never ceasing in its demands to be fed. Try as he might, there was no escaping its relentless grip. Night and day it tormented him, its talons sinking deeper with each passing moment. For so long he had believed himself to be its prisoner, a mere plaything to its savage whims.

But in that dark hour, as his stomach roared and his head spun with faintness, a realization struck him like thunder. This hunger was not his master but rather a force that coursed through his veins, as natural and uncontrollable as the pulse itself. The futile battle he had waged for years was of his own making; he had assigned it dominion which was not truly its own. From that insight calm stole over him, quelling the storm within.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, a new perspective took shape. This primal craving demanded satisfaction but did not demand he succumb to bestial impulse. It was part of his nature, but need not define his nature. How he oriented himself towards it was his choice alone. As the tormented past dissolved, potential for a freer future emerged in its place.

Before him the lurid feast remained, temptation's siren song still sweet on the air. Yet its lure could ensnare him no more. At long last he grasped that this drive, for all its ferocity, held only the power over him that he let it have. True mastery lay not in denial but acceptance of one's depths, and charting a course through them with open eyes.

A subtle shift stirred the surrounding atmosphere, as though an unseen presence endorsed the dawning of this realization. When next the disembodied voice spoke, it was with compassion rather than cruelty. "To crave is part of your design, but to rise above craving—that is humanity's highest art."

As the last echo faded, the grotesque banquet vanished too, leaving in its wake a simple grail of clear water on a plain wooden stand. Its purity was striking against the former scene's decay. A new day had broken.

Alucard moved with deliberation, his boots echoing down the hall. Reaching the pedestal, he raised the glass and swallowed a measured mouthful. Its simplicity soothed his parched throat, a stark contrast to the food he denied. It satisfied without ostentation—enough.

Setting it down, he turned as the door creaked open, revealing another passage. He lingered a moment, surveying the now-empty room. The hunger within persisted but no longer burdened; it was simply part of him—a part he could bear.

With restored courage, Alucard strode forward, the weight of hardships finally supportable.