World Eater In Another(?) World.

Space

The sensory overload of flavors and aromas overwhelmed his senses as the delectable feast was spread out before him: pizzas, chicken nuggets, hamburgers, sausages, and a tantalizing array of culinary delights. Each dish meticulously arranged, tempting his insatiable appetite. As the waiter gingerly placed the last morsel on the table, a touch of apprehension flickered in his eyes, as if fearing that he too might become the main course.

“Shuggoth.” said a voice, but the man ignored.

With a mouth stuffed full of food, a mischievous chuckle escaped the man's lips, relishing in the waiter's unease. This wasn't the first time such fear had crossed the waiter's gaze. The man was a regular at this buffet, a fixture who never missed a day. His hunger seemed insatiable, an eternal craving within him that couldn't be extinguished.

“VulgtlagIn.”

Contrary to his voracious appetite, the man's appearance defied the stereotype of an overindulgent gourmand. Far from being obese or chubby, he had sculpted his body into a pinnacle of health and strength, channeling all his consumed calories to fuel his physique. His elevated metabolism plagued him with constant dark circles beneath his eyes, tireless reminders of his perpetual hunger.

“Ya.”

But this hunger was different. It couldn't be satiated, no matter how much he ate. Even when his body reached its limits, his soul raged on, yearning for more. Though momentarily satisfied by gorging himself on food, the relief was transient. It was a hunger that held dominion over his very being, an insidious emptiness that refused to be filled.

“Y'.”

His family had attempted to intervene, concerned for his well-being. They had admitted him to the infirmary repeatedly, desperately trying to save him from his self-inflicted destruction. Yet, the legal constraints prevented them from keeping him against his will. They persisted in their pestering, forcibly prying his food away from his insatiable mouth.

“Goka.”

Maybe they fear for their newborn? It's not like he eats babies. They don't taste good. Don't ask how he knows.

“Gotha.”

“Mmmfgh?!” Mid-bite, as he vigorously crammed a mouthful of cheese pizza into his voracious maw, a sudden pain pierced his chest. Startled, he paused, his eyes dropping down to behold the source of his discomfort. The familiar sensation of an overstretched belly, a signal that his body had reached its limits, was assumed. It was a plea for respite that he refused to heed from his body.

“Hai.”

Today, and tomorrow, he shall feast.

That is, until everything he had ever consumed erupted from his mouth, congealing into a grotesque gray soup. A barf dragon he became, as the vomit turned to blood in a disturbing display of a human fountain. The horrified waitress nearby let out a piercing scream before fleeing the scene, leaving the ringing bell behind of the diner's door as a woeful farewell.

The man, teetering on the precipice of Death's Door, cast one final gaze downward. Between his quivering legs, a grotesque tableau lay bare. His stomach, in a desperate attempt to make room, had expelled his internal organs: kidneys, lungs, everything, even his still-beating heart. The thud of his head hitting the table resonated, his strength, honed through countless consuming endeavors, now failing him. And in that moment, he succumbed, dying with his face buried in the very food he had cherished throughout his life.

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