Chapter 1: A Day in the Lives of Certain Heroes

The Aros Temple Cult.

Shrouded in mystery, this cult emerged abruptly several decades ago. Its leader, an enigmatic figure known as Aros Hawkeye, preached reverence for a so-called “One True God,” and the sect openly opposed the dominant Kenneth Orthodoxy.

The Kenneth faith, deeply entwined with the ruling structure of the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid, was a true theocracy. To spread heretical teachings in the very heart of Gerleid was not merely heresy but was a blatant act of provocation.

At first, the Kenneth Orthodoxy regarded the Aros Temple Cult with caution but restraint. So long as they refrained from overt crimes like murder or kidnapping, the Orthodoxy limited its response to diplomatic pressure, calling for dissolution of the group or exile.

Unfortunately, Aros and his followers only escalated. With sudden and terrifying force, the cult produced seven battle-ready magi and launched a formidable military strike against the Orthodoxy and the kingdom itself. It was the first full-scale clash between the two major religious forces within Gerleid.

The results were catastrophic. One high-ranking official of the Kenneth Orthodoxy vanished without a trace. An entire village was slaughtered. Women and children were abducted.

That single incident shattered the fragile illusion of peace between the sects. From then on, war was inevitable.

The Holy Kingdom declared the Aros Temple Cult a target of absolute eradication, issuing an unambiguous decree to the world: heresy would be answered with destruction.

Decades passed.

Now, on an otherwise ordinary day, Celestia Hothound, seventh in the hierarchy of the Kenneth Orthodoxy, was battling an entirely different threat—a sudden, coordinated outbreak of magical beasts across the country.

When not engaged in administrative duties, high-ranking members of the Orthodoxy were required to patrol the territories, confronting not only cultists but the natural disasters and monsters that plagued the land. Rest was a luxury none of them could afford.

That day, the emergency was so widespread that all the ranked clergy, save for the first, were deployed across the nation.

Silver hair streaming behind her as she soared through the sky, Sister Celestia cut a striking figure in her flowing black habit. From her aerial vantage point, she rained holy destruction down upon the creatures below, driving them back toward the perimeter. Yet an unsettling chill gnawed at her chest despite the apparent success of the operation.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

What is this feeling? Something’s not right… I’m sure of it.

Celestia’s sharp eyes narrowed behind wind-swept strands of silver hair. What had unsettled her wasn’t the number of beasts—she had faced worse. It was the pattern. Both the monsters and sightings of enemy cult operatives were clustered unnaturally from the northern regions down to the east. If something were to suddenly erupt in the southwest, there would be no one left to respond.

This isn’t just paranoia. Those bastards are cunning. I’d better clear this area quickly in case they’re planning something.

With a snap of her wrist, blades of wind lashed out from thin air, shredding a colossal spider into mist. The force of the attack scattered rubble across the battlefield, one chunk hurtling through the monster’s core like a cannon shot to finish it off.

More than two hundred left to go.

Individually, none of the monsters was formidable. But in these numbers, eradication would take time, and that was the one thing Celestia didn’t have. To make matters worse, there were civilian settlements nearby. That meant no wide-area spells, no scorched-earth solutions.

Even as her mind juggled strategy and risk, her body moved faster, her attacks sharpening into a blur of divine precision. Her focus was narrowed to a deadly point.

Suddenly, just as her rhythm hit its peak, a voice echoed in her mind, cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap.

“Celestia-chan! We’ve got a problem. Metasim is under attack!!!”

Her heart jolted at the familiar voice. It was Cress Walker, who ranked third among the Orthodoxy’s elite. A towering man with command over lightning, Cress wasn’t just strong; he was one of their sharpest weapons. He was supposed to be handling the northern front.

Which meant—

Damn it. I was right.

Without missing a beat, Celestia’s speed increased, twin bursts of divine light blasting through another row of creatures as she replied.

“What’s the situation? Who’s attacking?” she asked.

“The Prophet himself! And the Thorn Witch is there, along with that muscle-headed woman!”

Celestia’s lips pulled tight in displeasure.

The muscle-head…

She knew that description all too well.

She had fought her three times. And every single time, that infuriating woman had escaped. A cursed name—Joanne Sagamix—now brought destruction to the Metasim region.

Her concentration only faltered for a heartbeat, but it was just enough.

A flicker of movement, followed by pain. One beast darted in low, its tongue lashing out with unnatural force, carving into her left arm like a scythe. The entire limb was severed, but Celestia barely flinched. Holy light engulfed the wound, her flesh and bone regenerating in seconds.

Still, the sting wasn’t just physical. Joanne… You’re testing my patience.

“Where’d the intel come from?” she asked coldly.

“Giather-chan’s summon. She’s down right now—got hit with something, I think—but her familiar got the warning out.”

Giather, rank five. A quiet girl with no combat skills of her own, but a summoner of rare and powerful creatures.

Celestia quickly pieced it together. Most likely, Giather had sent one of her flying summons to patrol the Metasim region. That was how the information had gotten through. And if the source was Giather, there was no room for doubt.

With a sweep of her arm, Celestia reduced another group of monsters into ribbons of light. It took less than thirty minutes to completely exterminate the horde.

“Did you notify the others about the attack?” she asked, her voice taut as she hovered above the final blast site.

“Of course! But the only ones heading to the scene are you and me. The rest will keep handling beast outbreaks.”

“Understood. I’m on my way.”

“Right. Cutting the link now.”

Her silver hair whipped wildly in the wind as she accelerated, slicing across the sky at full speed, a black arrow through the night.

Cress, with his mastery of lightning magic, could move fast—very fast—but even he wasn’t capable of instantaneous travel. Crossing the vast Gerleidean territory would take no less than an hour, even at maximum speed.

Celestia knew all too well how catastrophic that hour might be, given the names tied to this assault.

The Prophet Aros. Pawk, the necromancer of thorns and poison. And Joanne, the one I failed to kill. They’ve targeted Metasim, where our defenses are weakest… This is the worst possible scenario.

They still didn’t know the full extent of Aros’s powers. But those who had fought him and survived described sorcery leagues beyond the other elite members of the cult. According to Cress, Aros wielded some form of shadow-based magic—fluid, elusive, and lethal.

Pawk and Joanne might not match Aros’s arcane tier, but their individual combat prowess was nothing short of catastrophic. Pawk commanded a swarm of thorns that grew without end, her corpse-manipulating venom spreading death in her wake. Joanne possessed monstrous regeneration and pinpoint projectile accuracy, making her a nightmare to pin down.

There were only a handful of people in the entire Holy Kingdom capable of defeating them. Unfortunately, at the moment, nearly all of them were tied up elsewhere.

As Celestia flew, the image of Joanne’s smug face burned in her mind, kindling the bitter memory of her own failure.

Damn it! If I had just eliminated that man first, she would still be dead!

Under the glow of a sharply etched moon, Celestia clenched her teeth and pushed faster, her flight cutting through the clouds like a divine missile. One name surfaced in her thoughts, a name that, until recently, had seemed utterly forgettable.

Oakley… That dull little man turned out to be a tactical genius.

She would never forget it. In the middle of her duel with Joanne, he had blindsided her with a crossbow bolt and a concealed bomb. And then, he’d done the unthinkable. He had resurrected Joanne.

Not just by spellwork or miracle. He had hidden a piece of her flesh. Preserved it to use as a failsafe.

The mere thought made her skin crawl.

Who even thinks like that? It’s logical, yes, but twisted. Soulless.

Oakley was dangerous. After barely escaping that battle with her life, Celestia had immediately reported him to the High Council.

Now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that his fingerprints were once again all over this latest attack.

Something’s wrong. Very wrong. I have to reach the city now.

There was no more time for speculation or pointless anger. She shoved her thoughts aside and surged forward.

After what felt like an eternity in flight, the burning ruins of Metasim finally came into view.

Thick black smoke billowed from a dozen places across the city. Even though it was the dead of night, the sky glowed a dreadful crimson, as if a false sunset had settled over the land. The walls of flame inside the city limits showed no signs of dying down any time soon.

“I’m too late.”

The stench hit her next. In the air was a foul, nauseating mix of scorched earth and something far worse. The acrid wind carried the unmistakable, sickly-sweet odor of burning flesh. Screams echoed faintly through the night, chilling the air with the sound of life being snuffed out.

It was like staring into the gaping maw of hell itself.

Celestia hovered above it all, her expression twisted in silent agony. It felt as though something had reached inside her chest and crushed her heart.

“Why… Why would they do something like this?”

With her chest tight and her mind spiraling, she began to descend. Hovering high in the air made her an easy target, especially for her. Joanne’s throws had long since surpassed the category of “projectile.” The rocks she hurled were more akin to anti-aircraft fire, and they moved faster than Celestia’s reflexes could hope to match.

Her boots touched down on the outskirts of the ruined city just as a rustling noise came from the brush behind her.

“Celestia-chan,” said a voice, “it’s me.”

“Next time, say something sooner. I almost mistook you for the enemy,” she replied.

Out from the shadows stepped Cress, cloaked in an aura of crackling lightning. He looked as if he had run the entire way, crossing a distance several times longer than her aerial route. And now, the two of them—Celestia and Cress, ranked seventh and third within the Orthodoxy—stood side by side on Metasim’s scorched frontier.

“You ready?” he asked, nodding toward the burning city. “Let’s move in.”

Celestia didn’t speak. She advanced into the darkness, grim resolve in every step.

There was little hope for victory. With the Prophet Aros himself involved, their chances were exceedingly slim. If they were to have the slightest chance of turning the tide, it would require the aid of the Orthodoxy’s ultimate trump card—Gerleid’s supreme leader.

Their objective here was not to reclaim the city. It was too late for that.

Instead, they would search for survivors, gauge the enemy’s movements, and—if possible—prevent this nightmare from spreading to other regions.

The city glowed unnaturally bright in the distance, its sky alive with fire and thunderous explosions that rumbled from somewhere far ahead. Every instinct screamed at them to hurry.

Still, they couldn’t afford to be reckless. Not with him out there.

Just knowing Aros was nearby pressed an invisible weight down on their minds. Even the air seemed heavier, difficult to breathe.

They emerged from the forest into open terrain. Before them lay a web of vicious thorns, glistening with a faint toxic sheen.

Cress stiffened, his jaw clenched, and said, “Looks like a damn birdcage. There’s no getting in.”

“This isn’t the time to complain. We’ll have to make our own path,” Celestia replied.

“Hold up. Someone’s there.”

Cress had spotted a figure near a stream, a small silhouette, barely distinguishable in the dark. Celestia turned to look, and immediately, her nose was hit by a reeking stench, as if a wave of sewage had overcome her. That river must have merged with the city’s underground sewer systems.

She narrowed her eyes, peering through the smoke and shadows.

A small body stood there, half-hidden at the water’s edge. From this distance, it almost looked like… a child.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

Cress muttered under his breath, a flicker of violet lightning sparking to life in his palm. The shadow by the river stirred.

As if reacting to his voice, the figure staggered forward unsteadily, barely making it a few steps before collapsing to the ground with a lifeless thud.

Celestia was already moving. She reached the child first, her heart twisting at the sight.

The small figure was burned nearly beyond recognition, their skin blackened with soot, clothing scorched to tatters. Kneeling beside them, Celestia gently caught the child’s fragile body and immediately began casting a healing spell, golden light blooming softly between her hands.

“Cress, we have a survivor!” she called, urgency in her voice.

Cress stepped closer, his eyes widening as he took in the charred, broken form.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispered, stunned.

To have made it out alive from that inferno?

The child, trembling in Celestia’s arms, began to speak. Not to anyone in particular. Just muttering, like a broken toy caught in a loop.

“Kill them… I’ll kill them…”

There was no fear in their voice. Only a deep, blistering rage that refused to die even as their body had nearly done just that. This child had no right to still be conscious. The fact that they were breathing was nothing short of a miracle.

Shockingly, they still were.

That fury… It’s the only thing holding them together.

Cress hesitated, then asked the one question they were both afraid to hear the answer to, “H-Hey, kid… Did you see any other survivors in the city?”

The child’s head jerked up.

Their voice trembled with grief and rage as they shouted, “They’re all dead! Everyone’s dead! They ate them alive! Alive! Burned them in the flames, while they screamed, until there was nothing left!”

Celestia’s arms trembled as the child thrashed and wailed, their small frame convulsing with fury and despair. There was no mistaking it now.

This child was the only one left.

She and Cress exchanged a glance. Neither said it, but the truth hung heavy between them.

Everyone else was either dead or captured. Still, Cress clung to the barest shred of hope. He turned toward the city and launched himself at the outer wall.

Thorns pierced his legs mid-ascent, their poison seeping into his bloodstream, but he didn’t stop. With a growl, he forced himself over the top, his body freezing the instant he made it.

What he saw wasn’t a battlefield.

It was hell.

Flames raged unchecked through the streets. Charred bodies littered the ground, twisted and broken. Cultists—hundreds of them—prowled through the carnage, looting, slaughtering, laughing.

There, standing on a rooftop, almost as if they’d been waiting, were three figures. Even from afar, Cress knew exactly who they were.

The moment Cress’s eyes locked onto them, the masked man raised one hand and waved as if they were old friends meeting across a crowded plaza.

Then, like smoke in the night, he vanished.

“Son of a bitch,” Cress hissed.

There was no more room for delusion. No survivors. No chance of reclaiming Metasim today. The only option now was to retreat, regroup, and prepare.

Cress dropped down from the wall, eyes grim, and shouted, “Celestia, we need to move! Aros is coming!!”

Returning to them, Cress scooped up both Celestia and the injured child in a single motion before bolting into the trees. Not a heartbeat later, the ground where he’d just stood shimmered, and the Prophet Aros appeared in his place.

Moving with an eerie calm, Aros tilted his head, as though sniffing out a particular scent in the air. Then his masked gaze turned sharply toward the forest, tracking the three fleeing figures with unerring precision.

“W-Wait! No, don’t go! There’s still someone… someone alive in the city!” The child’s cries were desperate, but Cress didn’t falter.

Lightning wrapped around his legs, launching him forward with explosive speed. Bolts of violet cracked beneath his soles, each step increasing his momentum. His body blurred into streaks of light between the trees, but—

Even so, it wasn’t fast enough. Aros was right behind him.

Blinking through space in successive flashes, the Prophet closed the distance no matter how fast Cress ran. It was a relentless pursuit—unstoppable and suffocating.

Celestia could feel the danger pressing against her skin like a furnace. She clenched her teeth and raised her hands, summoning wind with ferocious intensity. An invisibility veil cloaked them, distorting their presence against the surrounding forest. Then came the magic barrage—walls of slicing wind, razor-sharp gales, every spell she could fire to force their pursuer back.

The air howled with her desperation.

Strike after strike battered the trees behind them. The masked man never stopped moving, but little by little, his figure began to fade. And then, he was gone.

Cress skidded to a halt minutes later, gasping for breath, face drained of color.

“Looks like he gave up. Damn… that was close.”

Celestia landed beside him, eyes still scanning the shadows.

“They’ll cover Metasim in cognitive obfuscation spells now, I’m sure. Lock it down with every enchantment and trap they have. Retaking that land won’t be easy…”

Cress looked down at the soot-covered child in his arms. “Our priority is keeping this kid alive,” he said solemnly. “We run for the next city.”

Without waiting, sparks lit up around his boots once more, and he launched into motion. They didn’t stop until Metasim was nothing but a smear of red on the horizon behind them.

When they finally arrived at the nearest settlement, the three of them—one broken child and two battle-scarred warriors—delivered the grim news.

Metasim had fallen.

There was nothing they could do.

Celestia stood in silence, heart heavy, her eyes drifting to the child huddled beside her.

She had wrapped her cloak around them to keep the chill away, but it did nothing for the storm inside. The child wasn’t crying anymore. They only stared upward; eyes locked onto a distant point on the skyline where their home once stood.

Muttering over and over…

“I’ll kill them… I’ll kill them all…”

Chapter 2: Of Course, I’m Popular (Kill Me)

The night I shared a kiss with Joanne, I found myself sitting alone in the ruined outskirts of Metasim, stewing in a swamp of emotions.

Something inside me was unraveling.

Just for a moment, just one stupid, fleeting second, Joanne’s eyes had looked… sane. In that instant, I’d honestly thought she was beautiful. Charming, even.

And now? Now I was disgusted with myself.

Had I finally gone full heretic, heart and soul?

I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Somewhere deep down, I’d started to soften under the sheer, relentless gravity of Joanne’s affections. Her wild, unfiltered obsession was slowly wearing me down like ocean waves against a cliff.

Men are hopeless, I thought bitterly. Give them a girl who likes them enough—any girl, really—and their brain folds like cheap laundry. It’s pathetic.

If I’d met a girl like Joanne in my past life, I wouldn’t have looked at her twice. That level of yandere would’ve driven me away immediately. But now, after months of life as a heretic, surrounded by blood rituals, demon cults, and a daily flirtation with death, I guess I’d gone numb.

Or emotionally concussed.

Pull yourself together, I told myself. Don’t lose your resolve now. Or has the corruption already reached your soul?

I glared at my reflection in a broken shard of glass, as if the answer might blink back at me. Then I realized something.

Joanne wasn’t here.

That was weird. She’d been glued to my side all day. Why did her absence feel so unnatural?

Oh, right. She’d returned to the stronghold to pitch her most recent plan to the executive board. The “Mobile Fortress Plan” or whatever it was she’d been obsessing over lately.

Of course. That makes sense. She’s not ignoring me. She’s just away… doing supervillain PowerPoint presentations.

Still, it felt wrong without her here. Like I had suddenly noticed I was missing a limb.

She really is… annoyingly pretty, I admitted.

In my mind, she sparkled. Hair like twilight silk, eyes ablaze with bloodlust and love.

That was definitely the cult life talking.

I must destroy the heretics.

Soon. All of them.

To snap myself out of it, I clenched my fist and swiftly punched myself in the jaw. Not metaphorically; I threw an actual punch. One of the zombies nearby twitched violently in surprise, like even it thought that was excessive.

Joanne’s absence also meant one other thing: there would be no human experimentation tonight. With Metasim still lacking proper lighting after our little invasion, there wasn’t much to do after dark except sleep. So, I’d just have to wait for her to return.

I flopped onto my makeshift bed, pulled a tattered blanket over my head, and closed my eyes.

The next morning, I woke to the grating noise of cultists shouting and cheering outside my window. Apparently, they hadn’t stopped celebrating since the night before.

Their voices were shrill with excitement. To them, the invasion of Metasim wasn’t just a battle but the first glorious step toward Aros’s grand ambition: to crush the Kenneth Orthodoxy and seize control of the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid.

In their wild joy, I thought I saw Steve’s face among them, just for a second. It appeared like a flash behind my eyelids that wouldn’t leave. But of course, he was gone. He’d been dead since the moment we’d met. That fact left a wound within me that simply wouldn’t heal.

During the early reconstruction of Metasim, I hadn’t seen him anywhere. I thought perhaps he’d outlived his usefulness and had been discarded. I had no way to know. And no way to ask.

Metasim, now hailed as a “holy site,” had become a strategic base for our operations, though its defenses were far from polished. The cult had managed to slap together a rudimentary defense system against the Orthodoxy.

Pawk had lined the shattered outer walls with her living thorn brambles, forming a crude but effective barricade. They also encircled the surrounding outskirts, turning the ruins into a poisonous nest.

Anyone attempting to pass through the dense foliage without using the designated paths would be shredded by hidden barbs. The thorns weren’t just sharp; they were laced with toxins that would paralyze or kill if any escapees or intruders got too close.

The cultists had, quite literally, built their own prison.

Aros is moving fast, I thought, watching the walls quietly from a distance. If I’m going to turn the tables, I need to start cultivating seeds of rebellion before it’s too late.

For several days, I’d had no contact with Pawk or Joanne. The zombies were busy working beneath the city, and the cultists had been scattered across various assignments. For once, I wasn’t being watched.

I took the chance and slipped away.

Destination: an old facility I’d scouted during the initial invasion.

“Lucky this place didn’t burn down,” I murmured as I arrived.

In front of me stood a red-brick building, somehow untouched by the chaos. Judging by the layout, and assuming my half-baked memory of school chemistry was still worth anything, this was likely a refinery or a foundry. Maybe both.

I checked for movement. No guards. No cultists. No undead.

Good.

I ducked inside.

The stench hit me instantly, the very air thick with the smell of blood, smoke, and rusted iron. I nearly gagged.

Still, I pressed forward until I reached the center of the building. There it is.

A massive piece of machinery, partially protected by scaffolding, jutted out like some half-exposed fossil from another age. It was a blast furnace, a machine used to extract metal from raw iron ore and purify it into usable material.

This was no ordinary tool.

It was the kind of industrial-grade tech that dictated the quality of weapons and armor in a war economy. I’d heard the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid had developed and refined these machines for centuries, constantly upgrading them to suit their endless conflicts.

The process was straightforward, surprisingly. The ore would be heated until molten, then channeled into a ladle or crucible before being poured into a converter, where the impurities would subsequently be burned off.

Boom. Steel.

Useful steel. Weapons-grade steel.

Honestly, a machine this advanced feels totally out of place in a rural town like Metasim… But, then again, there was a mining operation nearby, wasn’t there?

Of course, this smelting facility wasn’t just a random find. This was the whole reason I’d come here.

If I could throw someone into the blast furnace or converter while it was active, dumping them in with the molten metal, there was no way even a freakishly strong executive could survive. They’d vaporize—end of story.

The real problem, I reflected grimly, is that no one’s going to let me casually dump them into a pot of liquefied iron. And if they destroy the container mid-process, they could escape and regenerate. Which means… unless I pull it off perfectly, it’ll only work on the physically weakest ones, like that noodle-armed freak, Fuankilo.

Even so, I couldn’t afford to underestimate her. Whenever her magic activated, Fuankilo became one of the most dangerous beings alive. Those cursed chains of hers? If you’re caught in their range—just two meters—it’s over. No exceptions. Even Aros wouldn’t walk away from that.

The furnace had impact. No denying that. But for it to work, I’d need to pave the road to it myself—lure the target, manipulate the timing, everything. It would be no small task.

The furnace is in working condition, I told myself, studying its structure. There’s still fuel and ore. If I can reactivate this thing, then even a loser like me has a shot. I’ll remember that.

For the first time, I’d secured a real, tangible way to kill an executive. And no one had seen me. No one knew. That day, I sharpened the fangs of rebellion in perfect silence.

A few days later.

I ran into one of Pawk’s zombies while walking through town. The thing looked at me funny—too quiet, too hesitant—so I called out.

“Pawk-sama, a quick word if I may—”

“Yeah, you… You’re kinda messed up, huh.”

Coming from her, that was rich.

She seemed unusually wary. Out of nowhere, I’d been branded as a “weirdo” by the definitive weirdo of the cult. The woman who commanded corpse armies and literally bathed in thorn-covered, poison-magic was calling me messed up.

Pot, meet cauldron.

“Joanne told me about that plan of yours. Honestly, it’s kinda amazing you came up with something like that. I’d love to poke around inside your head sometime.”

One of her zombies shuffled closer, peering cautiously at my left hand.

“Ugh, gross. You really did swap fingers…”

It recoiled with a horrified expression, both hands clamped over its mouth like it was trying not to scream. I definitely heard the thing say most of the word “creepy.” That from a zombie, no less.

I suddenly understood why Pawk had been acting distant. Apparently, both the finger-swap and the Mobile Fortress Plan were too creepy for these psychos to handle. Just great.

Sure, if you looked at it from the outside, it was technically deranged behavior. I mean, it was deranged. But still, being called gross by these guys? That stung a little.

I sighed.

“About that plan,” I began, trying to salvage my reputation, “I actually got the idea from—”

“Ugh! Don’t come near me! You’re disgusting!”

After a short pause to collect myself, I changed gears and said, “It would mean a lot if we could focus on the plan’s effectiveness instead.”

The reaction went beyond mere discomfort; it was a full-on scream of visceral repulsion, and from a zombie to boot—a rotting, shambling corpse that had no business talking about hygiene standards.

Even I had to admit… that one hurt.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s kind of gross,” Pawk’s zombie admitted sheepishly. “But the Mobile Fortress Plan itself? Brilliant. When Joanne told us about it, even I was shocked. Everyone was.”

Apparently, even Aros had gone silent in sheer awe before breaking into thunderous applause. He’d called it “a stroke of genius,” something even he hadn’t thought of. According to Pawk, Aros had literally said: “Truly exceptional. I couldn’t have imagined it myself. Oakley-kun is a rare and remarkable talent.”

Which would’ve been amazing to hear—if it were actually true.

The real idea had come from Joanne. Though it only existed because of my finger-swapping stunt, which must’ve sparked her inspiration. Generous as ever, she’d presented the whole thing to the executives as my plan.

Now, I was left with a weird cocktail of regret and reluctant pride. On one hand, I kind of wished I’d never brought it up. On the other hand, being praised by Aros while still managing to avoid the spotlight wasn’t exactly a bad outcome.

When I asked how the other executives had reacted, Pawk gave me the rundown. Fuankilo had narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Of course. That approach never occurred to me.”

Stella—the one with the cannibalism fetish—had apparently been very interested.

Which was not good news.

If she locked on to me as her next obsession, I might not survive. And not in the figurative “oh no, she likes me too much” way. In the literal “I may be eaten alive” kind of way.

“Aros-sama said he’s seriously considering moving forward with the plan,” Pawk’s zombie continued, “but physical compatibility is a major factor. For now, he’ll keep observing you and Joanne before making the final call.”

“I see. Thank you for the update,” I replied.

So that was it. The plan had officially been greenlit. And with that, any chance of nudging the story toward the original grand finale route had probably flown straight out the window. Things were off-script now—way off.

Still, getting in Aros’s good books was important. If this were the setup phase, I would have to endure. I needed to swallow back every ounce of unease.

“So anyway,” Pawk said, starting to wrap up the conversation, “You and Joanne will be conducting a lot of experiments together going forward.”

A second zombie emerged from behind the one speaking and handed me a piece of paper labeled “List of Experimental Tasks.”

I skimmed through the neat, meticulous handwriting—likely Aros’s own. To no surprise, most of the content mirrored what I had already planned to test myself. He really could have come up with this kind of stuff if he wanted. That made him all the more dangerous.

The list included dozens of tasks aimed at determining magical ownership. It was essentially a “to-do” list of grim magical experimentation. But one line stood out.

“Head-swapping.” As in, literally exchanging heads.

I’d theorized that the brain—the command center—might be the key to controlling spell ownership. But now that it had been officially written down in black ink by the cult’s prophet, the idea suddenly felt a lot more… real.

And much more difficult to stomach.

“Don’t chicken out now,” Pawk’s zombie said casually. “You can probably survive like, three seconds without a head, right?”

That’s… not the kind of thing you ask casually.

As soon as the conversation ended, the zombie froze mid-motion. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, it went slack. A moment later, glowing wirework laced through its limbs, and it resumed moving, now in autopilot, shuffling off to help with city repairs.

Man, Pawk’s magic really is handy, I thought distantly, watching the body lumber off. Then, with no one left to interrupt me, I turned back to my work and didn’t stop until nightfall.

It had been about two weeks since I’d started work in the scorched remains of Metasim when Joanne arrived.

Armed with a fifty-centimeter blade and an oversized pair of pruning shears, she strolled into the square like it was the most natural thing in the world, except this time, she wasn’t alone.

Following right behind her… was Stella.

My mind went blank.

Our meeting had been postponed, delayed indefinitely, I’d hoped. But now, without warning, the confrontation I’d been dreading was standing right in front of me.

My pulse spiked. Everything in my vision throbbed with each wrenching beat of my heart. Standing beside Joanne was a girl with a bizarre, almost otherworldly hairstyle, watching me with eyes like deep, empty wells.

Stella Belmont, fourth-ranked executive of the Aros Temple Cult. A lunatic obsessed with the culinary potential of human flesh.

Her hunger was insatiable, her possessiveness extreme. But none of that showed in how she carried herself. On the surface, she behaved like a refined lady plucked from some forgotten aristocracy.

She was much shorter than Joanne—just under 150 centimeters, by my estimate. Her figure was delicate, verging on emaciation. From a distance, she looked like she’d snap in a strong breeze. When I raised my eyes, I was met with ringlets of pitch-black hair styled in an elaborate gothic fashion. Her outfit was full-blown gothic lolita: black frills, lace, ribbons. Her skin was almost waxen, so pale it bordered on blue, and her face was sculpted with the elegance of an antique porcelain doll.

A disturbingly beautiful girl.

She tilted her head slowly, deliberately. And in that moment, I snapped back to reality. I realized I had been standing there, speechless, right in front of her.

Of course, she’d noticed. Of course, she was wondering why this random man was frozen like a deer in headlights. Her presence was overwhelming—so much so that I instinctively dropped to one knee in deference.

I didn’t even think. I just moved.

I kept my head bowed and waited, holding my breath. When she began to step closer, I remained perfectly still until I sensed she was just the right distance away.

Then, without raising my gaze, I said, “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Stella-sama.”

No reply. Out of the corner of my vision, I caught a glimpse of her lower half—a white-gloved hand at her side, her legs perfectly still.

She was watching me. Her skin made even Joanne’s look flushed by comparison. It wasn’t just pale—it was bloodless, like cold porcelain. Then, in a voice so soft I almost mistook it for wind, she whispered.

“So, you’re the one they’ve been talking about?”

Stella’s voice was soft, nearly expressionless, but every syllable felt like the tip of a scalpel pressed against my spine.

With her black parasol resting lightly on her shoulder, she fixed her gaze on me, scrutinizing every inch of my body like a collector inspecting a rare specimen. I felt like her eyes could see through skin, through bone, straight into the arrangement of my internal organs.

A chill clawed up from the pit of my stomach.

After another long pause, she murmured, “Well-toned.” Her eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity. “A fine body indeed.”

“I’m… honored by your praise,” I managed, trying to suppress the instinctive urge to flee.

“You look delicious.”

It took me a moment to find my words. “Thank you, I suppose.”

As one crisis ended, another began.

First Joanne, then Fuankilo, then Pawk, and now this. Stella. The high-ranking cannibal with all the elegance of a porcelain doll and all the danger of a nuclear warhead. At this rate, I was going to develop an ulcer just from socializing.

Stella’s magic revolved around a highly specialized barrier. Deployed directly over her skin, it functioned on two terrifying principles: Reflection and Absorption. Physical attacks were automatically deflected. Magical attacks were swallowed whole. And once she absorbed enough magic, she could unleash it in the form of devastating thermal beam blasts. Pure offense and defense rolled into one.

She did have weaknesses, sure, but only under very specific, highly contrived conditions. Taking her down in a head-on confrontation? Not happening. Not in any realistic scenario.

Of course, like any good mid-to-late boss, she came with regeneration. Unless you reduced her body to absolute nothingness, even a scrap of flesh could be enough for her to revive.

So yeah, she was basically unbeatable.

She was one of the final bosses in the original story, considered equal in power to Aros himself. Some fans even argued she was stronger, depending on the circumstances.

I risked a glance at Joanne, standing quietly beside her, and tried to telepathically scream, Why is she here?!

Stella was supposed to be stationed at the northeast branch. What was she doing in Metasim? Joanne caught my eye and shrugged, mumbling just loud enough for me to hear.

“She said she just had to see you in person.”

“She came to see me?” I asked, confused.

“Stella was curious. That’s all,” Stella replied flatly.

“She probably got curious after hearing about your little fortress plan,” Joanne added. “Don’t let it get to your head, Oakley.”

Joanne suddenly slipped between me and Stella, jamming her shoulder in as if to wedge us apart.

For a tense moment, an eerie silence settled between the two girls—no words—just a quiet, suffocating standoff. Like two predators sizing each other up over contested territory, they locked eyes in a fierce, unblinking stare.

What about me? I stood there like an idiot caught in the crossfire, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot with absolutely no idea what to do with myself.

Thankfully, the uncomfortable moment didn’t last too long.

Eventually, the three of us descended into the makeshift underground lab beneath Metasim.

There wasn’t much to look at since it had been converted from the ruins’ existing subterranean spaces. But it had the essentials: restraints, clean tables, sharp instruments—basically everything you’d need to perform unspeakable bodily horror in the name of science and magic.

Today was the day.

We were finally beginning the body-part grafting experiments. A horrifying venture that would involve detaching and reattaching limbs—and possibly transplanting organs—to determine magical ownership conditions. Who would be doing the reattaching? Well… we had a special assistant for that.

Stella. After all, there weren’t many people alive—or undead—with her level of anatomical expertise.

Joanne clearly wasn’t thrilled, but she didn’t outright object. Instead, she just muttered half-hearted complaints like, “No snacking,” and “Touch him and I’ll kill you,” which, frankly, made her sound like a manager reciting rules from a very niche spa.

Please stop talking like I’m a snack on a platter.

Now that we were in the lab, the reality of what was about to happen began to hit me hard. This wasn’t just theory anymore. There would be blood, bone, sinew, and a whole lot of screaming.

Even I couldn’t face that with a cool head.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly. “Would it be all right if I… purified myself first? To mentally prepare?”

“You mean a bath?” Joanne asked. “Whatever. But you’re just going to get dirty again, you know.”

“Still…”

She sighed, her expression softening. “Look, no matter how devoted you are to the Prophet, this is going to hurt. But fine. Go clean up.”

Grateful that no one stopped me, I made my way to the stairs.

Before leaving, I half-joked, “Joanne-sama… would you care to join me?”

To my surprise, her eyes lit up just a little.

“You idiot… Fine. I’ll come with. Can’t let you fall apart before the big show, after all.”

Was it meant as a reward? Probably. Would it actually feel like one? Questionable.

So, it was decided. I would be bathing with Joanne.

As we reached the door to the surface, she cast one last mocking glance at Stella and, with a smug grin, wrapped herself tightly around my arm.

“You wait here,” she said to Stella. “We’ve got some quality time to enjoy.”

She even stuck out her tongue to complete the taunt. But Stella, true to her unnerving nature, didn’t react. She neither flinched nor frowned. Her doll-like face remained eerily blank.

Still, it felt rude to leave her out, and who knew—maybe she actually wanted to join?

“Stella-sama,” I offered, “would you care to join us for a bath?”

“Huh?!” Joanne squawked in surprise. “Oakley, what the hell are you—?!”

“A passionate invitation,” Stella murmured, ignoring the other woman. “How… charming.”

Her expression shifted slightly. Her pupils narrowed, a faint smile touched her lips, and for the first time, there was a flicker of life in her eyes.

After a long pause, she murmured, “Very well. I think I will.”

Joanne looked like she’d just been hit by lightning. “O… Oakley… Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Stella gave her an elegant glance over the shoulder, visibly pleased. With a polite hand covering her mouth, she ascended the stairs ahead of us—graceful, deadly, delighted. Joanne, cheeks puffed up in a furious pout, slapped my hand away and stormed after her.

I was left behind for a second, blinking at the ceiling.

Is this… what a popularity arc feels like?

For a brief moment, I felt genuinely happy. Then I came to my senses.

The public bathhouse had survived the destruction in Metasim, suffering only minor damage. As soon as the fires were extinguished, it was one of the first facilities to resume operation.

Naturally, that was where we headed to wash up and, hopefully, steel our nerves.

Baths, I’d heard, weren’t just for hygiene. They were also places of leisure, socializing, even dining and drinking. For the common folk, they had once been sanctuaries of warmth and relaxation. Metasim might’ve been a small town, but the bathhouse was surprisingly well-equipped.

As I stripped down inside, reality began clawing its way back into my skull.

When I cut off my ring finger, I’d pushed through on sheer adrenaline. The pain had triggered a kind of twisted euphoria, a numb high that had made even the idea of the next experiment seem bearable.

Now, days later, with my mind clearer? It felt like I was marching toward the gallows.

Pain is a survival mechanism. It’s how the body warns you: Something’s wrong. Fix it. Stop it. Without it, you might bleed out from a wound you never even felt. No matter how monstrous or corrupt you become, pain will always remind you that you’re human.

I’d heard that high-ranking cultists underwent training to endure torture through repeated exposure to agony, until even searing pain became something they could endure with a straight face.

That’s what it means to abandon humanity, I thought, shuddering.

Joanne had said, “If you’re prepared for the pain, it’s not so bad.”

Maybe she was right.

Still, I refused to believe there was anything that she could see that I couldn’t. I’d held on to my sanity this long, hadn’t I? I’d survived horrors, deception, and fanatics. I’d suffered and schemed in equal measure.

Don’t underestimate my madness just because I still blink.

“Hahhh… it stings…”

I let out a soft groan as I slid into the tub, letting the hot water climb up to my chest. Muscles unwound, nerves dulled, and for a blissful second, the hell outside faded to static. I sank a little deeper, nearly up to my nose.

A bath after everything. That was the real treasure in this twisted world. I started to feel… almost human again. And then I heard it.

Slap, slap.

Footsteps. Two sets. Getting closer.

Joanne and Stella, no doubt.

Ah. Crap. Did I just get in the bath before my superiors?

A chill that had nothing to do with water crawled down my spine.

Was there some kind of twisted cult bath etiquette I didn’t know about? Some unspoken rule like, “Thou shalt not soak before the executives?” Panicking, I hauled myself out of the water, dripping wet and stark naked, and dropped to one knee like a supplicant.

Better to err on the side of excessive respect.

When the two girls stepped into view, something didn’t add up. They were… in swimsuits.

“What’s with the outfits?” I asked, blinking.

Joanne flicked a glance my way, cheeks flushed.

“Found them lying around,” she muttered. “Thought I’d wear one. You’re just… naked, huh?”

Her eyes darted about. And although her cheeks were red from embarrassment, I could tell she was taking in the view.

She was wearing a black string bikini—ornate, bold, and scandalously cut against her pale skin. Her thin frame, delicate enough that her ribs almost showed, contrasted dangerously with the seductive design, creating a tension that shouldn’t have worked… but absolutely did.

This was an eroge once, I reminded myself, staring at the absurdity. Somehow, this was worse than nudity.

“It really suits you,” I said honestly, the words tumbling out before I could filter them.

Joanne turned a deeper shade of crimson, steam practically rising from her ears as she twisted away, lips tight with flustered pride.

Her suit left her back bare, too. That should be illegal.

Meanwhile, Stella—completely unaffected—was staring at me unflinchingly. Her eyes traveled over every inch of my exposed body like she was evaluating a cut of meat.

Her swimsuit was a ruffled monokini, pure black and edged in lace. It gave her the look of a gothic woodland creature—cute, quiet, yet dangerous. As long as she didn’t open her mouth, she could pass for a shy, bookish doll.

I wasn’t about to admire her too long. Not with Joanne standing right there, armed with pruning shears and a record of jealousy-related homicide attempts.

I dropped my gaze.

Wait… hold on a second.

Isn’t it kind of cheating to wear a swimsuit in the bath?!

I came here to clean myself, not attend some damn swimsuit pageant!

I was about to regain my composure, maybe even reclaim my dignity, when Joanne stepped forward and dropped a bomb.

“Let’s get in together, Oakley.” Joanne took my arm and pressed herself against me. Instantly, my brain short-circuited.

H-Holy…

It was pure, primal astonishment. I wasn’t even leering; I was just stunned. How are they that big? I wondered. They swayed with every movement of her arm, a living force of physics that refused to be ignored.

It wasn’t just her chest. My eyes followed the elegant line of her nape down to her shoulders, across her shoulder blades, and lower to the curve of her spine and the base of her tailbone. It was a graceful, sinuous silhouette, so seductive it was almost surreal.

Then, surrounding that hypnotic curve was skin that was so thin and pale you could see every rib etched like an anatomical diagram.

The contrast was striking—mesmerizing curves on a frame so frail it made you worry. Beautiful, yes… but also fragile.

“W-Why are you staring like that?” Joanne muttered, suddenly self-conscious.

“Forgive me. I was… captivated,” I replied.

She flushed crimson, lips trembling with something between pride and embarrassment. “Y-You’re such a smooth-talker…”

I couldn’t help it.

How could I look at this delicate creature—this girl who had once been blown to pieces in front of me, only to be stitched back together again—and not feel a strange kind of awe?

Life really is mysterious…

While Joanne was still blushing so hard she looked like she was about to melt, a quiet voice cut through the steam.

“Oakley. Wash me.”

I turned reflexively. It was Stella, seated calmly on a stool, her voice as delicate as bone china.

I bolted to her side like a guilty dog.

Joanne’s expression collapsed in an instant, her face hardening into a blank, icy glare that could freeze oceans.

Honestly, I’d rather brave Joanne’s wrath than risk offending Stella.

Up close, her body looked even more unreal. She was so thin, so light, that I felt like I might snap her in half just by looking at her wrong. Her body was all skin and bones, like something that belonged in a medical museum behind glass.

Despite her frailty, she carried herself with the ease of someone used to being served. I got the distinct impression this wasn’t her first time being pampered by subordinates.

Without flinching, she issued her next command. “Oakley. Carry me.”

I resisted the urge to groan and lifted her gently, my face twitching involuntarily as I did. She was lighter than a bag of rice.

I carried her toward the bath, careful not to look back at Joanne.

I knew if I did, I would see the blizzard still raging behind her eyes.

Yeah. That glare could probably stop time.

Okay, damage control, I told myself. Next chance I get, I’ll give Joanne all my attention. Just… don’t make any sudden moves or she’ll use the shears again.

I turned back toward her, voice trembling like a man facing divine judgment, “J-Joanne-sama…”

She refused to look at me. With an icy little huff, she turned away sharply, puffing out her cheeks like a child denied dessert.

“Um… Joanne-sama…” I reached out to her with all the desperation of a doomed man.

I approached her carefully, tension rising with every step. Joanne’s response came without hesitation—and it was ice cold.

“Sure. Go ahead. You like Stella better anyway. I’ll just kill you later.”

Oh, come on… Give me a break.

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to rip my own hair out, I did the only thing I could to defuse the walking yandere bomb in front of me—I hugged her from behind.

“My number one is you, Joanne-sama,” I murmured.

I was absolutely being held hostage by that line. This wasn’t romance; this was emotional blackmail through cuddling. I could practically feel Stella’s unimpressed, soul-piercing stare boring holes into the back of my head. If the sharpness of a glare could cause bleeding, I’d be gushing from five different orifices right now.

Joanne, on the other hand, lit up like a furnace. Her ears flushed red, the blush creeping down her neck as she leaned back into the hug, visibly pleased.

“I know. I love you too,” she said sweetly, grabbing my arms and hugging them tighter around her waist. Her voice was playful, almost dangerously cheerful.

What the hell is this scene?

“You look like you’re having fun, Joanne,” Stella suddenly commented from the side.

“You’re not invited.”

After a brief pause, Stella countered, “Didn’t ask to be.”

After soaking in the bath for a while, we finally climbed out. As I reached for a towel, Joanne tapped her head with a pout.

“Dry my hair.”

Of course. The jealousy hadn’t worn off yet. She’d seen me drying Stella earlier and was clearly still stewing about it. I held back a sigh and got to work in silence. Her hair was fine and soft, almost weightless between my fingers. As I combed it gently with my hands, the strands slid over them like silk, barely resisting my touch.

Just as I was carefully blotting the moisture from Joanne’s glossy hair, I caught a flash of movement in the corner of my eye.

Whoosh!

Stella, in true eldritch-lolita fashion, had opted to dry herself by reflecting the water off her body in a single explosive blast. It was like watching a dog shake itself dry—if that dog were a magical apex predator in human form.

Water splattered everywhere, soaking the entire changing room in an instant.

“The hell! Now I’m wet again!” Joanne snapped.

Stella said nothing, already striding off toward the underground lab like she hadn’t just turned the floor into a shallow lake.

Left behind in the watery aftermath, I resumed my drying duties and maybe, just maybe, took a few liberties with how long I spent brushing through Joanne’s hair. She didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, as I gently played with it, she glanced back at me and asked, “So… what do you think of my hair?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “Translucent, almost. Great texture too.”

A pause followed my praise.

“Do you have a favorite hairstyle?” she asked.

Now that was a dangerous question.

One wrong word, and I was done for. If I so much as mentioned Stella’s vertical drill curls, we’d be repainting the changing room in arterial red. But the truth was, I didn’t have a favorite hairstyle. I’d never cared about that kind of thing. So how the hell was I supposed to answer without setting off another jealousy-fueled explosion?

After a moment of hesitation, I said, “I think your current hairstyle is the most beautiful, Joanne-sama.”

Yes! Internally, I pumped my fist. Nailed it. Perfect score.

Joanne blinked at me, eyes wide for a moment. Then she burst out laughing, bending over and clapping her knees like I’d just delivered a flawless stand-up set.

“Ha! You’re such a flirt, Oakley.”

“That’s… not true.”

“Now I’ve got something new to worry about.”

“What?” I asked, confused by her sudden shift in demeanor.

She’d been laughing just a second ago. Now she was frowning, fingers massaging the space between her brows like she had a migraine. I’ll never understand this woman.

“By the way,” she said, lowering her hand with a casual tone that immediately set off alarm bells, “are you into smaller sizes?”

“Smaller-sized what?”

“Boobs, Oakley. I’m talking about boobs.”

“Oh… Understood. I prefer larger ones.”

There. Clean. Direct. Firm.

“Wanna touch them?” she asked after a moment.

I was too stunned to respond.

“Forget it,” she amended quickly, turning away. “Feels too early for that. Never mind.”

I honestly didn’t know what the hell the rules were anymore. Was she messing with me? Was this a test? Or was she actually serious?

She always kept the line fuzzy, just vague enough that you couldn’t tell whether she’d shank you for stepping over it or scold you for not stepping up fast enough. In the end, she told me to get lost so she could change, literally shoving me out as she did.

Now alone in the cool corridor, I slowly dressed in my usual gear, letting out a sigh long enough to fog the walls.

Stella was waiting. So, hair still slick with water from our bath, Joanne and I made our way back to the underground lab.

On the way down, she grabbed a passing zombie and whispered something into its ear, probably calling in Pawk for the next phase of the experiment. The zombie’s reaction was somewhere between reluctant and deeply concerned, but it didn’t resist. It followed us down the hall, albeit stiffly.

When we reached the lab, Stella was polishing a massive knife, its blade easily fifty centimeters long.

A doll-like girl from the pages of a storybook should not, by any reasonable logic, be wielding tools of death with such casual grace.

Yet there she stood, clutching a machete-length blade as if it were her favorite pen. There was no trace of hesitation. No sense of incongruity. Her cannibalism wasn’t a rumor or twisted joke—it was her true nature. That was why it felt so disturbingly authentic.

She set the machete on the desk with practiced care, then took up an oversized pair of garden shears. Opening and closing them with deliberate rhythm, she tested their strength.

Shk-shk.

Each satisfying snip sounded like a crisp apple being bitten in a too-quiet room. Compared to the cold, impersonal steel of surgical tools, this felt far more intimate… and more unsettling.

Pawk’s voice echoed from a puppet-zombie nearby, a distinct note of dread in her usual monotone.

“I can’t believe I actually have to help with this… Ugh, I seriously hate this.”

“Let’s begin,” Stella said, turning toward me. “You. Over here.”

I was manhandled onto a padded slab cluttered with bizarre restraints. Joanne climbed up beside me without protest and lay back, her body rigid with anticipation. It was happening.

“Just to confirm,” I asked warily, “what are we doing for pain relief?”

Stella blinked once. Then, in that hauntingly serene voice of hers, she offered:

“Human beings feel less pain during sexual arousal. If you want anesthesia… Stella could help with that. Personally.”

“N-No, thank you,” I croaked. “I’ll manage.”

That matter-of-fact tone—like she was reciting from a textbook—was its own kind of nightmare. Clearly, the cult had been using endorphin-triggered states as a form of primitive analgesic for quite some time. In a world without morphine or clean syringes, it was the cheapest option.

Still, being sliced open while someone stimulated me? That was a line I didn’t want to cross. I’d already sold most of my dignity; I wasn’t willing to auction off what little I had left, not like this.

Joanne, lying beside me, glared daggers at the other woman.

Then, the gothic lolita with the bone-white skin lifted her blade.

It was time.

This experiment—the first official step in the creation of the Oakley Mobile Fortress—would determine how my body reacted to grafted flesh from Joanne. Our goal was to observe the fusion—the magical transfer—and perhaps plant the seeds of something monstrous.

“First, let’s start with your ring fingers,” Pawk muttered, clearly trying to keep the process clinical. “Let’s make this quick and clean, okay? Okay.”

Before I could so much as flinch, my torso was bound tight by enchanted straps. I felt a gloved hand pin down my arm, then the cold steel edge of Stella’s shears pressed gently, almost lovingly, against my left ring finger.

Wait—

I’m about to be—

Snip.

The instant I realized what was happening, something sank into my flesh.

A sickening crunch came from the soft meat of my finger as the shears bit deep. The blade slid between bone and sinew with mechanical precision, severing right at the base of my ring finger.

Then—

Schlck.

The digit separated cleanly, a sharp pain searing through my entire arm like fire.

“Ahhh!!”

Heat surged up from my shoulder, boiling over into every corner of my body. Goosebumps exploded across my skin. I writhed against the restraints as the workbench creaked beneath me, and somewhere, distant yet far too close, I heard a sobbing moan echo around the room.

Was that… me?

My vision blurred with tears just as another sound sliced through the fog—a faint metallic shnk. Another finger had been severed. Probably Joanne’s.

Moments later, my hand was gently grasped again. Her finger, now where mine once was, was fused into place, and with it, her healing magic surged through me. Warm, invasive light knitted the wound shut, and within seconds, my hand was whole again.

“The graft healed perfectly. Hm… That’s invaluable data,” Pawk murmured, jotting madly in her zombie’s journal.

Meanwhile, Stella’s long, serpentine tongue traced my blood-soaked fingers, licking clean every crimson streak like she was savoring the remnants of a delicacy.

Across from me, Joanne leaned in close, worry clouding her expression.

“Oakley…” she whispered, “are you all right?”

“Haha… once the blade’s past the throat, the heat’s easy to forget,” I replied.

“Whoa! Oakley, I think I might actually respect you a little now. You know, this is something every future executive has to go through.”

Sweat slicked my face, gluing hair to skin. Between Pawk’s casual comment and the creeping dread of everything still listed in that goddamn experiment plan, my body started shaking again. Uncontrollably. Unreasonably. Unceasingly.

“Okay, then. Same procedure, round two!”

“Here we go,” Stella said, and it was the only warning we got.

Another searing flash of pain and another finger gone.

So, this is what Joanne meant by “the shock.” It wasn’t just pain—it was a spiritual beating. To endure it required more than willpower. Either I killed my sense of self… or I let madness take me.

As the world blurred around me and the agony threatened to consume my mind, something reached through the chaos. A hand. Warm, trembling, firm.

Joanne’s.

She was holding my right hand, steadying me. I didn’t have the clarity to appreciate it. I didn’t have the strength to speak.

I just… let it anchor me. My limp body lay sprawled on the table, eyes glazed over, watching through a veil of exhaustion as her ring finger was once again carefully attached to my mangled hand.

“Yeah, it’s bonding perfectly. You two are incredibly compatible.” Pawk’s voice was chipper, as if she were commenting on a good wine pairing rather than experimental body fusion.

Joanne leaned over me, gently cradling my face, “Stay with me, Oakley. I’m right here.”

You’re the reason I’m here in the first place, I almost said. But even now, in this madness, her presence grounded me.

“Next up, we toss Joanne’s body in the blender. Then we’ll see just how much regenerates from a fused ring finger!”

Joanne sighed, lifting her arms with theatrical resignation. “And I just took a bath, too…”

“Target condition: All biological tissue aside from the grafted finger is completely destroyed. All right, Stella, you’re up!” Pawk added.

Joanne carefully placed her severed finger—my new left ring finger—into Pawk’s hand, then unfastened her cloak and stepped out of it. Naked beneath, she reflexively crossed her arms to cover her chest, glancing once at me with a coy flick of her gaze.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped into the radiant, rippling field conjured by Stella’s heat. The sound was instantaneous:

Fssssshk—CRACKLE.

The very air seemed to tear apart. Flesh seared. Bones shattered. Her silhouette dissolved in a blinding flash of flame. Something dark—scorched hair?—drifted past my face. The scent of carbonized protein filled the room.

This wasn’t an illusion. This wasn’t magic. This was death.

And yet, despite everything, my hand—her finger fused to mine—began to twitch.

Why go this far? Why do you keep hurting yourself? What are you even trying to prove?

Seconds after her body vanished, I felt it—an eerie tremor in my left hand. A bone-deep chill crawled through me. Blood seemed to drain from my limbs all at once, and a blinding dizziness struck me.

The finger throbbed, and then it moved.

“If Oakley dies too,” Stella murmured, “Stella will just eat what’s left. No worries.”

Her tone was deceptively gentle, but the implications were lethal. High-ranking cultists like her didn’t just heal. Their regenerative magic reconstructed—even if obstructed by steel, earth, or time itself.

That same regeneration was now being channeled through me, and yet, there was a risk: If my body—fused with Joanne’s—was seen as an obstruction, I might be overwritten, erased.

Still, I had faith. If there was one thing Joanne excelled at, it was her command over magic, especially healing. I had to trust in that much.

Please… come back.

I gripped the fused finger like a lifeline and prayed.

Then—

“Ugh… ah—!”

Pain exploded through my hand, as though something were tunneling up through muscle and marrow, digging its way out from beneath the skin.

As the pain reached its climax, it burst like a supernova, and then something grew.

Bone and sinew surged forth, erupting from the back of my hand. Vertebrae stretched out in perfect symmetry and ribs branched on either side, the skeletal structure emerging like a fossil mid-restoration. Over the stark white of fresh bone, muscle, and tissue slowly knitted into form, wrapping it all in a grotesque, efficient miracle.

Reverse dismemberment—a resurrection of flesh.

Eventually, as if nothing had happened, Joanne was whole again. Completely naked. Straddling my waist and grinning like she’d just won a prize at the fair.

“How about that, Oakley? I nailed it, didn’t I?”

She tilted her head playfully, basking in the spectacle of her own rebirth. I averted my gaze if only to retain some thread of sanity.

When I glanced down at my hand, I noticed a portion of the skin on the back was missing. Even though my flesh had served as the anchor for her rebirth, it had been partially rejected. Judging by the others’ expressions, such minor damage was considered a miracle. Pawk, rubbing her chin, looked genuinely impressed.

“From now on, severing a part before summoning seems to be the smarter move,” Joanne commented.

“Agreed,” Pawk said. “If any of us need to transfer through him directly, we might end up blowing off his whole upper body just to make room!”

This was the true strength of Joanne’s healing magic, not just in speed or potency, but in precision. Her ability to rebuild a body without annihilating its surroundings made her the most dangerous kind of miracle worker.

She slipped off me, back into the conversation as if she hadn’t just died a few moments ago. That serene smile hadn’t budged in the slightest. Perhaps that was what made it so unsettling.

I couldn’t help myself. After a final hesitation, I asked, “Why, Joanne-sama? How do you endure the pain and stay so composed? What drives you to keep pushing forward like this?” The questions came tumbling out one after the other.

Not just Joanne. Pawk, Stella. All of them lived on the knife’s edge of madness. What pushed them to walk this path?

I knew the answer. I’d heard it a hundred times, but I still had to ask.

“Now, now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten,” Pawk said with a knowing smile.

“Because if we follow Aros-sama… Stella will finally know happiness.” Stella murmured.

Their voices rang with manic devotion. Pawk’s, light and lilting, Stella’s, a breathless whisper veined with madness.

Joanne turned to me, eyes glinting with something warmer—something tender. “We’re going to build the perfect world. One within the holy land of Metasim.”

Her tone was gentle, like a teacher explaining something simple to a confused child. It chilled me more than anything. Because deep down, I knew the truth.

This is the purpose Aros carved into them. The dream beaten into us through sermons, screams, and silence.

On the day of the total solar eclipse, Aros will become a true god, and the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid will be reborn as a utopia. Or so the creed goes. Every cultist was a brick in the foundation of that promised paradise, a world brimming with happiness and devoid of death itself. Moreover, it was said this new world would avert the inevitable end of all things.

It was a ludicrous theory, but Joanne and the others truly believed it. The dream of that ideal nation burned in their eyes, establishing a devotion so deep it tainted their gaze with a cloudy, fanatical hue.

“For that person, Stella can endure any pain,” Stella murmured, pressing her blood-and-saliva-soaked hand to her chest.

A strange hush fell over the underground chamber. The atmosphere became oddly solemn.

I—thanks to the pain—remained perfectly grounded in reality.

“My apologies,” I said eventually. “The pain addled my mind for a moment there. Stella-sama, shall we resume the experiment?”

I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes—tears not born of emotion but of raw agony—and surrendered myself to the two women who would soon carve me open again.

Perhaps mistaking my expression for something more heartfelt, the three of them exchanged quiet glances, visibly moved.

“You really do look especially delicious,” Stella said wistfully. “If Joanne weren’t here, Stella’d have sampled you already.”

“The hell you would! Keep your freaky hands off him!”

Cue Stella’s earnest cannibalism joke, followed by Joanne’s usual sharp retort. The mood in the lab softened with their laughter.

Even cult executives know how to read the room. What a workplace.

“Heh, I’m glad to see you’ve not given in to the pain, Oakley,” Pawk said cheerfully. “Let’s keep going, shall we?”

The next item: torso exchange. Our experiments had only just begun.

By the time we reached the final checklist item, I was little more than a stitched-together sack of meat, but at least they finally released me from the restraints.

We had swapped organs, limbs, heads. We had even tested full upper- and lower-body exchanges. One experiment was especially absurd. My finger was reconstructed into alternating segments: first joint mine, second Joanne’s, third mine again. We wanted to know which portion would trigger healing in the event of trauma.

Somewhere along the way, my body had evolved—or simply broken—because pain no longer registered the way it used to.

“Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! I’ll make sure these results are thoroughly documented,” Pawk’s zombie gushed happily.

As Pawk’s zombie shuffled off toward the surface, Stella followed in its wake, her gothic lolita dress soaked with blood. Not once did she seem to care about the mess clinging to the ruffles of her dress or boots. Typical.

I swear she drank my bodily fluids at least a few times during that experiment.

There was something about the way she looked at me—like I was a particularly rare cut of meat—that lingered uneasily in my mind.

“You did good, Oakley,” Joanne said, stepping beside me.

“I only made it through thanks to you, Joanne-sama,” I replied.

“Well, of course. At the start, you looked about ready to cry, you know.”

She chuckled softly, teasing.

I was crying—from the pain. There was no “ready” about it.

We were just beginning to relax, exchanging quiet words about the experiment, when the bloodstained goth girl returned to the underground lab, eyes more serious than usual.

“I need to speak with you both,” she said. Her voice was calm.

“We’ve received intel from the nearest town,” she continued, her frosty tone settling on the room. “High-ranking officials from the Orthodoxy have begun mobilizing to retake the Metasim region. Oakley—”

She looked straight at me, those sharp eyes slicing through my already-bruised soul.

“Orders have come down. You are to infiltrate the city and execute the Mobile Fortress Plan.”

Execute the plan.

The plan. The insane, grotesque project born from a nightmare of body-swapping and anatomical horror.

I couldn’t even breathe.

After a moment, she added, “This is not a request.”

I was still reeling from the last round of experiments, but her orders left no room for objection. Before I could even process the pain still radiating through my bones, I was pushed to prepare for deployment.

The trigger for all this had come from intel delivered to the cult’s central headquarters.

A faithful agent embedded in the town nearest to Metasim had noticed suspicious movement among the Orthodoxy. That warning had only just reached the higher-ups minutes ago.

Through Pawk, the information was passed to Stella, who then passed it to us.

In the original game’s script, this clash never took place. After the fall of Metasim, the narrative had leaped forward, screen fading to black over the protagonist’s screams and curses before cutting to a severely traumatized version of him as an adult, years in the future.

It made sense, of course, that the Orthodoxy would attempt to reclaim territory stolen by a heretical force.

Now that their advance had been confirmed, our cult had no choice but to act.

The successful completion of the experiment had naturally and inevitably thrust me into the center role of the operation to repel the Orthodoxy’s reconquest of Metasim.

Pawk wasted no time making that perfectly clear.

“There were already signs of a counteroffensive,” she said through a zombie’s ever-unsettling voice, “but they’ve made their move faster than we anticipated. Oakley, your task is to infiltrate the city disguised as a civilian.”

I exchanged a glance with Joanne, then turned my gaze to my left hand, the one bearing the explosive payload.

We had only one shot: Joanne.

If I deployed her into the heart of the enemy’s formation, it would be devastating. But if too many Orthodox officers were present, it would be suicide, like throwing her into the lion’s den with no hope of backup.

“How many are gathering?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

“At this rate… probably all of them,” Pawk replied with a nonchalant shrug.

All of them? My stomach turned.

“If we’re preparing for the worst-case scenario, one shot won’t be enough. Are we still going through with the assault regardless of their numbers?” Joanne asked.

“You’re right,” Pawk replied calmly. Then, she tilted her head upward toward the sky above Metasim. “That’s why we’re bringing in reinforcements.”

The moment the words left the zombie’s mouth, three figures burst into view, descending like hawks with the sun blazing at their backs. They all landed hard on one knee, the impact sending up a gust of wind and dust that swept over us.

Then, they stood and began walking toward us.

The first to step forward was a tall and elegant woman with long legs and a sharply toned figure. Dressed in tailored male garb, she was strikingly handsome. Her short black hair was tied neatly at the back, framing her sharp grey eyes and easy, confident smile.

“Pawk-sama’s main body has arrived,” she said smoothly.

It was her. Pawk Tedlotus, ranked fifth among the executives.

The second figure approached with a rasping chuckle, “Even Aros-sama is very demanding, huh?”

It was an old man, his skin wrinkled like weathered bark, and a frame so thin, he looked like a brittle twig that might snap at any moment. And yet, he walked with an upright posture, his demeanor that of a man who’d long since mastered himself.

He was tall despite his frailty, a contrast that somehow added to his calmly menacing aura.

This was Shadik Lane, ranked third among the executives.

His only known ability was “Reading the Scattered,” a precognitive skill that let him glimpse ten seconds into the future. And yet, despite lacking other notable combat techniques, his placement above even Stella—who could repel all physical attacks—was a testament to just how dangerous he truly was.

The final executive to appear—

“It’s been a while, Oakley-kun. I’ve heard quite a bit about your recent accomplishments.”

A man dressed head to toe in black stepped forward, his face obscured beneath a featureless white mask and brimmed hat. It was Aros Hawkeye, the top-ranked executive and charismatic tyrant who commanded the Aros Temple Cult with an iron grip.

That he could so effortlessly command a rogues’ gallery of violent eccentrics and zealots was already deeply abnormal. But it wasn’t just his leadership. Aros himself possessed combat prowess so overwhelming that even the other executives feared him.

Now this man—this devil—wanted to embed his flesh inside me? Wasn’t this all a little too sudden?

Terror clawed its way up my spine. My head dropped, involuntarily bowed under the sheer pressure of being in the same space as not one, but three of the most dangerous beings in the cult. Only the Second Seat of the Aros Temple Cult and the non-combatant Seventh Seat, Fuankilo, were absent.

With the primary war power of the cult gathered right here, the stress of being under their collective scrutiny was enough to crush me. Not because I was betraying them, but because I wasn’t.

That alone was terrifying.

“You’ve heard the plan, yes? This is a preemptive strike. We must seize initiative, read their thoughts before they form, and never cede momentum. That’s the golden rule in full-scale warfare.”

Aros’s tone was bright, even cheerful, but every word crackled with lethal precision. I could only nod, numb and slack-jawed. One by one, the executives turned toward me and, with practiced ease, began severing their own fingers.

Pawk used her thorns to slice off her left pinky. Stella bit through her right one with a wet crack. Shadik calmly drew out the old blade at his waist and lopped off his left index finger with surgical precision.

Aros… he simply grasped his right index and ripped it off, like plucking out a stem from a piece of fruit. His blood didn’t even spray—it seemed to obey him, as if it knew better.

Each offered their severed finger to me as though handing over commemorative gifts.

“I didn’t want to approve such a barbaric strategy, but… well, when it comes to victory, there’s nothing we won’t do,” Pawk said, holding out her finger with a sardonic smile.

“Permission granted to eat Stella’s finger as emergency rations,” Stella informed me flatly.

“This is a parting gift from me, lad.” Shadik’s tone was oddly grandfatherly—if your grandpa also happened to be a mind-reading war prophet. “Take it with pride.”

“Be proud, Oakley-kun. Not just anyone gets an honor like this, you know?” Aros added.

Their voices were light, but the grotesqueness of it all churned my gut. It felt like a yearbook send-off… If the yearbook was bound in skin and inked in blood.

Still, carried by the momentum, or perhaps just swept along by the gravity of the moment, I clenched my teeth and cut off the necessary fingers of my own hands, one by one. Never could I have imagined I’d end up collecting a complete set like some unholy Pokémon.

Despite already being tethered by the bond to Joanne, who alone could sense the precise location of my “marker,” I now bore four additional bindings. Just like that, I’d plunged headlong into full-blown Hell Mode.

“Urgh… ngh…”

The amount of blood I’d lost today was borderline lethal. Frankly, it was a miracle I was still conscious. Maybe my body had already begun adapting to the abnormal strain. One by one, the severed fingers were grafted onto my hands, each joined and sealed with healing magic.

It was done.

Left ring finger: Joanne.

Left pinky: Pawk.

Left index: Shadik.

Right pinky: Stella.

Right index: Aros.

That was me now—a walking summoning array.

Not that they could all be called in on a whim. Aside from Joanne, the others had a ‘transfer’ range of roughly ten kilometers. As long as the other executives were scattered throughout the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid, the transfer ability wouldn’t trigger. After the operation, the fingers would presumably be returned to their owners.

Even after the fusions were complete, no signs of rejection occurred.

To be honest, I hadn’t expected my body to be so compatible with other executives as well. Whether that was good news or a horrifying omen… That remained to be seen.

“Doesn’t it just… warm your heart?”

“Huh?”

Pawk’s amused voice broke the moment, reacting to Aros’s quiet, sentimental murmur. He was looking up toward the sun, nodding slowly, as if reflecting on something profound.

“I mean, seeing how far Oakley-kun has come. Back when he failed to apprehend Celestia, he looked so crushed… nearly crumbling under the weight of that guilt. And now, look at him, preparing to soar higher than ever before. It feels like watching my own child grow up. Truly, I’m moved.”

The reason I looked so crushed? Ninety percent of that was your fault, Aros. He’d caused half the catastrophes that had turned my life upside down, and yet the man seemed genuinely unaware.

Still, for someone with conditional teleportation magic like his, offering me a finger wasn’t just some symbolic gesture. He’d willingly carved away a part of himself. That meant something. That meant he was acknowledging me—not as a pawn, but as one of them.

“Now then. Our time is short. Let’s begin the operation.”

Before I could even brace myself, Joanne scooped me up in a bridal carry, and we launched into the air. The wind screamed past us as she vaulted across the landscape with terrifying speed.

In the blink of an eye, we arrived near the outskirts of the closest town, Daskel.

I was dropped off at a high ridge overlooking the distant outer walls of Daskel, where Pawk began briefing me on the city’s layout.

The key to the Mobile Fortress Project was simple—they needed to catch the other side off guard. If the enemy discovered that heretics had infiltrated the town, the entire plan would lose half its bite. In other words, they needed to achieve perfect stealth in a town on maximum alert.

The problem was, I didn’t have a single damn clue how to do that.

Sure, I’d received military training as a soldier of the Aros Temple Cult, but not once had I been tasked with infiltration. My training was more “organ harvesting and death cult logistics” than “undercover operative.”

As I stood there agonizing over the impossible, Aros clapped me on the shoulder with theatrical timing.

“Let me give my troubled son some fatherly advice.”

“Y-Yes, sir?”

“You possess no healing magic. No special recovery fail-safes. And that—precisely that—is your greatest strength. Consider how to use it.”

“My… strength?”

“Exactly. You must discover the answer for yourself. I’m sure you can. I believe in you.”

With that cryptic nonsense, Aros and the other executives departed, moving to assume positions within transfer range. That left me and Joanne standing alone in the warm light of early evening.

“Oakley…” She turned toward me with a gentle look in her eye. “I believe in you.”

A line like that from her was pretty rich. Deep down, I couldn’t help but hope that this operation would go horribly wrong and take a few cult higher-ups out in the process. One accident, one misstep, and I might finally be free of this lunatic circus.

Unfortunately, I knew the truth. If I played my part in this mission, my standing within the cult would become untouchable. I would be too valuable to discard. If I slipped up, though… I wouldn’t get a second chance—only a short walk to the execution slab.

Hence, with a heavy heart and a thousand questions, I began plotting my next move. The infiltration had begun.

※※※

Sometime earlier, at the heart of the city of Daskel, five of the Orthodoxy’s elites gathered within the main cathedral.

“I’ve called you here for one reason,” declared Saren Deputy, first-ranked among the Orthodoxy’s executives, her tone solemn.

Known as the Phoenix and the Witch of Sacred Flame, her titles alone carried immense weight, so much so that her words drew a quiet gasp from the other four.

“On the night of the new moon, we’ll wait until sunset and then launch our assault. Details on each deployment are listed in the documents before you. Until the operation commences, I want everyone to oversee unit arrangements, secure provisions, and rest up. Any objections?”

Nobody spoke up.

Cress Walker, a hulking figure ranked third, nodded quietly. Pomette Yoster, the fourth-ranked officer, kept her eyes closed in silent agreement. Known Tilti, ranked sixth, exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves.

Not to mention Celestia Hothound, seated at the very end of the table. Her eyes were distant as her mind conjured the face of her bitter nemesis, Joanne.

Though silence reigned, a quiet tension radiated from Cress and Celestia, who had seen the fall of Metasim firsthand. The memory was not a kind one.

Suddenly, Celestia rose, robes swirling around her. “Saren-sama, one moment. There is an issue I must raise.”

“Speak,” Saren replied without delay.

“It’s regarding the cultist executive, Joanne.”

The moment her name passed Celestia’s lips, Saren’s brow furrowed in distaste. The sheer weight of her gaze nearly made Celestia falter, but she pressed on.

“As you are aware, Joanne’s ‘marker’ ability can designate distant locations not only as targets, but as points of resurrection after bodily destruction. It stands to reason—”

“That a cultist carrying a marker might slip through our surveillance and defenses to infiltrate this city,” Saren finished for her.

“Yes. Precisely,” Celestia confirmed. “If they intend to catch us off guard, inserting a ‘marker carrier’ into Daskel ahead of an attack is the most likely tactic.”

It was a chilling thought and one that only Celestia, having clashed with Joanne multiple times, could have anticipated. Her intuition was sharp.

Dead-on, in fact. But not sharp enough.

While she correctly predicted the insertion of a marker carrier, she failed to foresee that the reinforcements wouldn’t stop with Joanne. No. All five of the cult’s top executives, including Aros himself, would be arriving.

“I’ll issue orders to tighten Daskel’s surveillance grid,” Saren said coolly. “We must assume the possibility that the cult is aware of our troop movements, despite our precautions.”

“There’s also the chance they’ve already slipped someone in and we’ve missed it,” Cress muttered grimly.

Saren turned to the others with renewed command in her voice.

“Known, alert the city guards. Put Daskel on high alert. Any suspicious activity is to be reported immediately. Remain here afterward and await further orders. Cress and Pomette patrol the streets. Celestia, I want you stationed along the city’s outer perimeter.”

She stood, radiating calm authority.

“I will remain in the cathedral to coordinate. Until the mission is complete, no one enters or leaves this city.”

“Understood.”

With no objections, the group moved as one. Those capable of cloaking themselves did so, vanishing from the chamber as they set off for their respective tasks.

Unbeknownst to them, the cult’s initial spies—the undead puppets planted throughout Daskel—had already been incinerated by Saren’s purification spells.

Unfortunately for them, Pawk had prepared more than just corpses.

Among the living who had walked among the faithful, one of her human informants had escaped the city just moments before this meeting adjourned.

It was because of that lone informant…

That the Orthodoxy’s strict security lockdown would soon become Oakley’s greatest nightmare.

Chapter 3: A Civilian Caught in the Crossfire

I parted ways with Joanne and the other executives and unceremoniously set out on the road that led toward Daskel.

My mission was simple in theory but impossible in practice: infiltrate the city undetected and transfer the cult’s top brass directly into its heart.

If we could sabotage the Orthodoxy’s offensive before it even began, forcing them to retreat after sowing chaos in Daskel, this round would go to the heretics.

The problem was that Daskel wasn’t just a military stronghold; it was a city full of civilians. That meant the Orthodox executives would be hesitant to escalate too quickly. They wouldn’t want to see another inferno like Metasim, so their actions would be heavily restricted during battle.

We, on the other hand, had no such restraints. Once combat began, we’d hold the advantage, able to wreak havoc without concern for collateral damage.

With Pawk’s thorns and an army of expendable corpses masquerading as innocents, we had more than enough tools to sow terror. We could take hostages by the dozen, confuse the enemy, and flood the streets with chaos. The zombies could even be dressed in peasant garb, blending in with the civilians and creating panic from within.

Tactical finesse wasn’t our forte, but when it came to destruction and psychological warfare, our side could be terrifyingly effective. In a straight shootout, the Orthodoxy side might have had the edge, but we didn’t play fair.

Keeping low and ducking behind every boulder and bush I could find, I crept toward Daskel’s outer perimeter. The closer I got, the more eyes I felt pass over me. Watchmen lined the city’s towering walls in force, sharp eyes scanning every approach.

Flattened in a patch of underbrush, I sorted through what intel I had.

The good news was that the fifth-ranked Orthodox executive, the summoner Giather Cormode, was nowhere in sight. Her absence was a blessing. Her familiars were known for their keen eyes and sharper noses. If she’d been here, I wouldn’t have made it this far.

I circled the outskirts, looking for any break in their defenses, and eventually found myself near the city gates.

That was when I noticed something strange. The soldiers near the entrance had suddenly stiffened, straightening as if a saint had arrived.

Huh? Wait, that woman…

Descending gracefully in the distance was a woman cloaked in wind and silver light. Her long, flowing hair shimmered like moonbeams, rippling in the breeze. She was a nun, pure and serene, looking as though she had just stepped from the pages of a sacred painting.

The woman’s presence had a clarity to it—cool, composed, and dignified. The way her beauty radiated from deep within gave her an almost untouchable air. There was no mistaking her. This was Celestia Hothound, one of the Orthodoxy’s top executives.

“Celestia-sama! Thank you for your service!” a soldier said.

“Any signs of abnormality? Even the smallest detail?” she asked.

“No, nothing unusual to report so far!”

“I see. Then please continue as you were. Stay alert.”

Her voice was gentle yet firm, leaving no room for doubt. As she strode off, I quietly slipped away from the city gates and retreated to a more secluded spot, far enough from the outer edge to think clearly. There, I reached into my cloak and pulled out the object that Aros had handed me before we parted.

A strength only I can make use of… because I have neither healing magic nor second chances…

I turned the words over in my head again and again.

That statement hadn’t been idle talk. Aros wasn’t the type to drop cryptic hints for the sake of sounding clever. If he said something, it had a purpose—usually a deeply manipulative one. He fully expected me to reach the answer on my own, and he’d even handed me the key himself: a small, unassuming lighter.

So that’s what he meant.

My face was already known. That made things simple—too simple. His plan was for me to change it. Burn it. Cut it. Disfigure it just enough to fool a guard post and slip through the cracks.

That was Aros’ style—dress up a cruel trick in pretty words, push people into a corner, and convince them to act. All while making them think it was their idea.

Still, the fact that he’d trusted me with a mission this critical… meant something. He saw me as valuable. And for someone like me—who planned to one day turn against this twisted cult and bring it crashing down from the inside—this was a golden opportunity.

As if the winds of fortune were shifting in my favor, I’d realized something else: the government had recently locked down all travel to and from Daskel. Supposedly a temporary restriction, but one that meant the city was currently closed to outsiders.

That was going to backfire spectacularly.

Pilgrims, traders, travelers—they wouldn’t take kindly to being stranded at the gates. As I’d observed earlier, tensions inside the city were already flaring. Civilians were grumbling loudly at the guards, threatening unrest.

If there were dissatisfaction on the inside, there would definitely be backlash from the outside.

It was only a matter of time before someone snapped. If I could time it just right, ride the chaos, slip through while the soldiers were distracted, I might just make it into the city unnoticed.

I pulled the knife and lighter from inside my cloak, then retrieved the bandages I would need for my face. Clenching a rag between my teeth, I dug the blade into my own skin.

“Fire’s… hot as hell, huh…”

Carefully avoiding my eyelids, nasal cavity, and mouth, I slashed my face open, then cauterized the wounds with flame to stop the bleeding. With my flesh half-seared and nerves raw, I wrapped the bandages tightly around my head. The result was a convincing picture of a man one breath away from death.

They’ll fix my face once I summon Joanne and the others anyway. As long as it’s unrecognizable, it’ll do—just a little bit of self-sacrificial flair to sell the part.

The only real concern was if some soft-hearted Orthodox officer happened to spot me and, out of pity, healed my wounds on the spot. That would ruin everything.

I checked my reflection in a stagnant puddle. The look was just right—ghastly and piteous. The tattered robe I’d dragged against branches helped complete the disguise. The gloves on both hands also helped conceal the fingers—fingers now hosting the living markers of our deranged little death cult.

I looked like a proper vagrant now.

The timing of the summoning was left to me. Dropping one of the marked fingers—Joanne’s, specifically—onto the ground would serve as the signal.

Ideally, the summoning would take place in a back alley or some other secluded area. If I did it on a main street, I risked drawing attention and worse, possibly being seen by a passing Orthodox officer. I couldn’t afford that kind of early detection.

Circling the city wall, I looked for a spot where civilians were backed up at a gate. Sure enough, I found a scene exactly as predicted: a crowd of civilians pressed against a checkpoint, tempers flaring.

“What is the meaning of this?! You dare say I can’t enter the city?!”

“S-Sorry, sir! It’s an order from above…”

The speaker was a high-ranking merchant, as evidenced by the retinue of wagons and attendants behind him. He was practically foaming at the mouth with rage, and I couldn’t blame him. After all, what sane man wouldn’t be furious after a long, dangerous journey, only to be told the gates were shut?

In this world overrun with monsters and cultists, traveling from one city to another was life-threatening, doubly so for merchants. Behind the merchant, a crowd of pilgrims and commoners pressed in, eager to slip through the gates on his coattails. There were fifty of them at least, all desperate to get inside.

Slipping silently into the mob from behind, I kept my head down and my breathing shallow.

The merchant looked like someone of real standing, maybe even part of the trading guild that sold all those handy items in the original story.

Among the civilians, I spotted a few others wrapped in bandages like me. Judging from the fresh wounds, cuts no more than a few hours old, they probably had their own reasons for being here. Attacked by monsters, maybe. Now clinging to the hope that an Orthodox officer capable of miracles might show them mercy, they’d come all the way to Daskel.

While the argument between the merchant and the guards dragged on unresolved, it seemed the soldiers had finally caved. One of them broke off and started sprinting toward the city.

Off to beg permission from an officer, huh?

Most likely, the upper echelon would shut it down. They knew better than anyone that half-measures only made things worse.

The commoners, blissfully unaware of the situation, kept shouting whatever came to mind, begging for salvation, demanding to know why they were the ones left outside the walls.

“Ugh…”

A wave of dizziness hit me. I dropped to one knee as blood trickled down to the ground, soaking into the dry soil. It wasn’t planned, but it couldn’t have made for a better performance.

I swear, it’s like I’m dancing on Aros’s palm without even realizing it.

The real mission here wasn’t just to sabotage Daskel but to drive a wedge between the people and their government. That smug bastard of a high priest wanted civil unrest, and I was the pawn he picked to stir the pot.

The merchant noticed my hunched-over and bloodied form and pointed at me with a furious shout. Another man—not quite as wounded but certainly loud—grabbed a guard by the collar and yelled at him about ignoring the injured. That was the tipping point.

The tension snapped.

Sensing that the guards wouldn’t dare escalate, the merchants and commoners surged forward together, forcing the gate open under the sheer weight of numbers.

Now it was chaos.

Those trying to get in and those trying to keep them out collided in a mass of limbs and voices. In all that commotion, I managed to slip through.

I was in.

The Kenneth Orthodoxy was a fearsome organization, no question, but they couldn’t completely control the people's will. Not yet, anyway.

Now I just have to summon the executives into the city center. But who knows how many Orthodox officers are patrolling inside? Gotta tread carefully.

I reminded myself of the stakes, braced for the weight of the guilt that came with betraying all these desperate people, and shoved it down like poison. Keeping my head low, I crept deeper toward the heart of the city.

That was when I saw her. A woman sitting cross-legged on a rooftop, like some stoic sentinel. A knight.

That’s… her.

Judging by her armor and that commanding presence, the figure perched on the rooftop had to be Pomette Yoster, Orthodox executive, fourth in rank.

Golden hair, glacial blue eyes, a knight clad in a full suit of alloy-forged armor. She sat high above the city, her long ponytail swaying in the wind as she surveyed the streets below like a sentry made of silver and steel.

There was a kind of purity to her beauty, like freshly fallen snow. No makeup. No jewelry. Just raw, unvarnished grace wrapped in austere metal plating. It was the kind of beauty that didn’t need to be adorned—untamed, honest, and startling in its clarity.

She’s like the goddess of battle herself. A living portrait straight from the canvas. Half wild, half divine.

So, she’s here too. That makes two of them—Celestia and Pomette.

Pomette had always been a fan-favorite in the original game. In certain “unofficial doujin” circles, she and Celestia were constantly jockeying for top billing. Something about the blonde-haired, blue-eyed knight archetype somehow clicked with people.

Of course, in most fan comics, she’d fall in love within two pages. But let’s not forget, she’s Rank 4 for a reason. She’s a monster, and I’m not stupid enough to try anything—time to vanish.

I kept walking toward the city square, home to the central cathedral plaza, doing my best to skirt her field of vision. Just as I rounded a corner, I felt it—that unmistakable prickle of someone staring daggers into my back.

No, that’s not just a feeling. I’m pretty damn sure she saw me.

I ducked into the nearest alley the moment I turned the corner, pressed myself into the shadows, and held my breath.

Seconds later, Pomette landed right where I’d been standing. She moved with terrifying fluidity, her armor barely making a sound as she scanned the area.

“Must’ve been my imagination,” she muttered, her voice low and level.

Once she confirmed the area was clear, she bent her knees and leaped again, disappearing into the rooftops with effortless grace.

Did she… sense something? Did she pick up on the fact that I wasn't just another injured civilian?

I needed to be more careful. From here on, alleyways were my only safe route.

As I picked my way through the backstreets, I caught glimpses of other Orthodox executives patrolling the city. Cress Walker, the third-ranked mountain of a man. Known Tilti, number six. And from the chatter among the guards, I confirmed what I feared most—Saren Deputy, the Orthodoxy’s top-ranking executive and so-called “Final Weapon,” was in the city as well.

Saren’s magic was brutally effective against heretical enemies. With her on-site, this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park—not even for the cult’s freakshow lineup.

If I played this right, I could earn Aros’s trust and minimize casualties for the Orthodoxy. That would be the best possible outcome.

All I need to do now is avoid the patrols—if I can make it past the executives, the mission’s as good as done.

I was closing in on the city center when a chill ran down my spine.

Someone was following me.

Pomette?

I glanced up at the rooftops—nothing. No shadows flitting across tiles. No flash of armor in the moonlight. I scanned the alleys. Still nothing. Not that you’d expect many people to linger in a filthy backstreet like this.

I almost dismissed it as nerves, ready to initiate the final phase of the plan… but then I noticed it.

Silence.

Not just quiet. Dead silence. Everything had gone too still. The street noise from the main thoroughfare had vanished completely.

“—!”

I knew instantly.

Celestia Hothound. The wind-bending mage. She was close.

What I was feeling wasn’t just silence—it was suffocation. The ambient sound had been warped, sealed off. She was manipulating the air, locking it in place to trap me. It was already happening. Dust dislodged from a rooftop drifted down… then stopped, eerily suspended midair.

She’s fixing the air around me—binding space itself.

I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I kicked off the ground with everything I had.

Tearing through the gloom of the alley, I sprinted, desperate to break free before the magic took hold. My lungs burned. My legs felt like they were running through syrup. Every step was a fight.

It felt like someone had wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my entire body and started tightening. My heart screamed. My ribs groaned. Every breath took everything I had.

Just as the crushing weight reached its unbearable peak—

Relief.

Like surfacing from deep water, my body suddenly moved again. I stumbled forward and rolled, instinctively breaking my fall with a shoulder.

That was too close. One second later, and I’d have been frozen in place like a statue.

I couldn’t rest. If she tried it again, I might not be so lucky.

I called out into the shadows, “Celestia. I know you’re there. I’m not your enemy. I want to talk!”

The darkness didn’t answer.

A few seconds passed.

Then, as if melted from the stagnant air, Celestia stepped into view.

Looks like my gamble paid off.

Her pristine clerical robes shimmered faintly in the slanted sunlight breaking through the shadows. Her pale silver hair caught the light just so, giving her an ethereal, almost untouchable radiance. But her expression? Anything but angelic.

Those steel-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. A dagger gleamed in her hand, held in a reverse grip, and her whole body was tensed like a coiled spring.

“Tell me how you knew I was there,” she said coldly.

I had nothing but a knife, a lighter, and a trace amount of poison. Compared to her—armed with wind magic, trained reflexes, and likely the ability to heal herself—I was hopelessly outmatched.

I held the advantage in one area: uncertainty.

She couldn’t read me. Couldn’t tell whose side I was on. That doubt kept her just far enough away, the air around her pulsing with tension as she held her distance.

“What are you?” she demanded.

“I’m… an ally of the Orthodoxy. Or at least, I’d like to be.”

Her eyes hardened. That was all it took. She didn’t say another word, just hurled the dagger straight at me.

I leaped backward, twisting away from the deadly arc. The blade missed, but just barely.

That wasn’t the real attack.

I knew something invisible would be coming next—a follow-up strike hidden in the wake of the feint. No wind. No sound. But my instincts screamed.

Just before I hit the ground, I kicked off a wall mid-air, adjusting my landing by a fraction.

Celestia’s cheek twitched.

“Can you see it?” she asked, a sliver of surprise breaking through.

I couldn’t. Not really. But I had guessed right. A wind blade had been aimed at where I would’ve landed if I hadn’t adjusted just in time. I hadn’t heard a thing. The alley was dead silent. No cues to go on. Just a hunch and a prayer.

It wasn’t over.

The dagger she’d thrown would be coming back now, riding the wind like a boomerang.

I spun around instinctively.

There—

I caught a glint of steel arcing through the gloom. The blade spun like a saw, howling as it closed in.

Too fast.

My hand moved on its own. I drew my own knife and slammed it into the incoming weapon’s path.

“Hraah!!”

Steel clashed in a burst of sparks. My blade vibrated violently under the force. Even gripping it with both hands, I felt myself sliding back, her strength and momentum pressing me hard.

The word “Shit” had barely left my lips before the balance shattered completely. Her spinning blade slammed my knife aside and drove deep into my left thigh with a sickening, wet crunch.

“Ghhaa—!!”

My leg buckled. I collapsed backward, blood gushing from the wound and painting the alley crimson.

The dagger twisted once in the muscle, then wrenched itself free and spun back toward Celestia’s outstretched hand, slick with my blood. She stepped forward in silence, her face a mask of righteous, unreadable calm.

“W-Wait, no! I wasn’t trying to fight. I just wanted to talk, damn it!” I shouted.

She kept walking closer. Unrelenting.

Fine. If she were going to see through my disguise anyway, I’d use this moment to confirm something—something far more important.

I clutched my bleeding thigh and met her gaze through the haze of pain.

“That day… when Metasim fell. There was a survivor. A boy, Alfie. Is he safe?”

She stopped. The deadly focus in her narrow eyes sharpened. I had her attention.

“He’s humanity’s last hope. He’ll be the key to defeating Aros one day. Please… whatever it takes, protect him.”

This infiltration had never just been about earning favor with the cult. I’d gambled that Alfie, the boy who’d fled Metasim, might have made it to Daskel—and I wanted to know whether he was still alive.

Initially, it was only a secondary objective. I hadn’t intended to get involved, but now that Celestia had found me… I might as well meddle a little harder. I didn’t really expect her to listen. But if even a sliver of this reached her heart—if she remembered this plea later—it might make a difference.

Bleeding, breath ragged, I bowed my head in the alley’s gloom.

She’d probably think I was lying. I’d look like a madman or a fanatic or both. But maybe, just maybe, she’d place him under watch. Enough to keep him safe once the real chaos began.

Even so, her answer was absolute.

“Your words… disgust me,” Celestia said coldly. “I don’t want to hear another syllable.”

With a flick of her hand, her magic surged. I didn’t even try to dodge.

A sickle of wind tore clean through my left leg. I felt it before I saw it—searing pain followed by sudden emptiness. My calf detached at the knee and flopped unceremoniously across the alley stones like a discarded rag.

“Ggh!! C-Celest— Please… stop…” I begged.

The silver-haired sister, now streaked with crimson, stepped toward me, her blood-soaked robes fluttering as she moved with calm, deliberate grace. I writhed on the ground, pain clouding my vision, but her gaze never wavered.

She stood over my broken form, straddling my limp body as she reached down and began unwrapping the bandages on my face.

“W-Wait… please…” I rasped, voice trembling.

“I need to confirm your identity,” she said quietly. “Please don’t resist.”

She peeled away the scorched, blood-crusted cloth, revealing a mask of burns, cuts, and bruises. As the layers came off, a glow of healing magic traced across my skin. The pain dulled, the sting faded, and her expression changed.

Her violet eyes widened, the icy calm of a saint shattered by recognition.

“You’re… Joanne’s—”

There it is.

A moment of shock. A rare, raw vulnerability. Her face froze in disbelief, and that hesitation was all I needed.

Now or never.

I yanked the pendant hidden beneath my shirt and raised it high, letting the chain catch the light before tearing it from my neck with dramatic force.

“Why wouldn’t you just listen, Celestia?! I only wanted to warn you, damn it!”

I screamed like a man betrayed, my voice cracking with emotion. Her body stiffened. Her eyes snapped to the pendant clutched in my shaking hand, all other thoughts banished.

Perfect. She bought it.

This fury. It was a bluff—an act.

People under pressure cling to simple, immediate solutions. The pendant was a decoy, carefully prepared to exploit her worst memory. She’d lost to Joanne before because she had underestimated where the marker had been hidden. That failure would haunt her.

So, when I hurled the pendant far behind her, I knew exactly what she’d do.

“Tch!”

She spun, unleashing a powerful burst of wind magic at the flying pendant, eyes locked on it with utter focus.

She believed it held Joanne’s flesh, a resurrection trigger. But it was empty.

No one with a shred of morality could have imagined I’d sewn five cultist markers into my own body. The pendant ploy was already an advanced tactic. What I’d actually done? Unthinkable. Inhuman.

Which was why she looked away.

She was too focused on destroying the pendant to notice me slipping away. I cauterized the wounds as fast as I could, biting down hard as fire met flesh. Then, with all the strength I could muster with one leg, I ran.

Was this really the right thing to do? Sacrificing an entire city just to save a nation…

My thoughts twisted like smoke, thick with guilt, but there was no turning back. The plan was already in motion. If I wanted to betray the cult at the perfect moment, I had to earn their trust completely. That meant going all the way.

No matter how much it hurt.

Bounding between walls, using my good leg and every ounce of my strength, I managed a desperate but swift escape. Somehow, I’d left Celestia behind.

I collapsed into the alley’s shadows, chest heaving, blood dripping from my left leg. Still clenched in one trembling hand was my severed limb.

Guess I brought this along in the chaos. Whatever… it’ll be useful.

It meant I could still walk away from this with all my limbs, assuming everything else went as planned.

It’s over… It’s really over…

With that thought, I used the last of my strength to complete the final act.

I sliced through my right hand’s index finger. Then I bit down on the hilt of my knife and hacked through the remaining ones, feeling my bones and nerves scream. When Joanne’s ring finger touched the ground—

—five monsters answered.

From the silence of the alley, the summoning began. A scent like old blood bloomed in the air, followed by a terrible stillness. Bone twisted into shape, sinew stretched over it, and skin slicked across their forming bodies with unnatural speed.

Now, five figures stood before me.

One voice broke the silence. “Outstanding work, Oakley. We’ll handle things from here.”

From the shadows emerged the masked figure of Aros, cloaked in black, a white ‘X’ across the front of his featureless mask. His charisma radiated like a blade unsheathed in a quiet room. I didn’t get to see his face. My consciousness was already slipping.

Too much blood loss… Too much happened today.

My body shook. My vision spun.

“E-Enemies… Five… Celestia, Known, Cress, Pomette, and… Saren…”

“Understood. That information will serve us well.” Aros knelt beside me and gave a solemn nod.

Without missing a beat, he pulled Joanne forward. She was still nude from the summoning, cloaked in shadows and the faintest light.

“S-Sorry, Joanne-sama… I couldn’t… find a robe…”

I clutched my tattered cloak in trembling hands and stretched it toward her. The act was pathetic, desperate, yet sincere.

She understood.

With a soft murmur, Joanne leaned in and pulled me gently into her arms, embracing me like a mother would a dying child.

“Thank you, Oakley. I feel everything you’re trying to say…”

She drew me close, her bare skin warm against my fading senses.

“Now rest.”

Those words were the last thing I heard before the darkness took me.

※※※

The five cult executives stood in silence, gazing down at Oakley’s bloodied and broken form.

While Joanne cradled his battered body, Aros reached into a dimensional pocket stitched into his cloak and produced clothing—one outfit for each of them. None of them was particularly shy about nudity, but they hadn’t yet completely abandoned decorum. For now, they dressed.

Each of the five had been summoned straight into the dark alleys of Daskel, and they were all quietly astonished by what Oakley had accomplished. Most of all, Aros. He was so overwhelmed by the young man’s performance that his body practically trembled with delight.

Oakley had not only devised a brilliant plan to convert the city into a mobile fortress, but he had also executed a perilous infiltration and managed to teleport the entire executive squad into a high-security city without raising the alarm. Even as he drifted into unconsciousness, he’d relayed the names of every enemy operative present.

No other follower had ever done so much. No other believer had ever come close.

“You really hung in there even after losing a leg,” Pawk said, clapping her hands slowly. “That’s great.”

“This little runt’s got backbone,” Shadik added with a smirk. “Can’t argue with that.”

Praise flowed freely from the group. There was no question. Oakley had become something more than a disposable pawn. He was a confidant, a cornerstone in their operations, or maybe even something greater.

As mutual agreement settled among the five, an unusual calm came over Pawk. She’d been anxious about the mission, but Oakley’s results had eased her concerns like balm over a wound. Aros stepped toward the wounded operative and addressed the girl holding him.

“Joanne. Do not let him go.”

She blinked, confused. “Huh? Of course not. I have no intention of letting him go.”

Tilting her head like a curious bird, Joanne pulled Oakley tighter into her arms. His face was pale, blood still dripping from his severed leg, but there was a flicker of relief in his expression.

Aros had meant it figuratively, but if the bond between them grew stronger, so much the better. However twisted their love or violent their natures, he would support their little romance. The cult could use a love story, or at least the leverage of one.

“Stella,” he added lightly, “please refrain from eating him.”

“Not even a nibble?” she asked, tilting her head in disappointment.

“No. Only enemies and traitors are edible.”

After a pause, she sighed. “Not eating Oakley feels like torture.”

No one could quite tell if she was joking. Joanne, however, growled low, and as protective as a cornered cat. Pawk and Shadik chuckled, amused by the bizarre dynamic forming between them.

With the teleportation completed, it was time for the next phase: the destruction of Daskel.

Pawk urged Joanne to hurry with Oakley’s recovery. She nodded and then did something entirely unexpected.

“Suuuuuuu…”

“What is she doing?”

“Haaaaaaa…”

“… Uh-oh.”

What Joanne did next stunned them all. Pretending to cast a healing spell, she instead leaned over Oakley’s bleeding stump… and inhaled. Deeply. She took in the full, raw scent of the severed flesh, filling her lungs as if it were fine incense.

Pawk, after a stunned silence, finally connected the dots before recoiling in visible disgust. Stella, who had earlier expressed a desire to eat Oakley, widened her eyes in what could only be described as primal fascination. Shadik tried, rather meekly, to scold the girl.

“Joanne, stop that. Don’t go picking up bad habits from Stella.”

“I had to,” she replied flatly, still crouched. “If I didn’t breathe him in, I was going to lose it.”

“That’s disgusting,” Pawk muttered.

Chided, Joanne reluctantly lifted her face from the wound, her nose slick with blood.

“Let Stella do it next time,” Stella said coolly.

“Next time,” Joanne agreed.

The two of them vying for the taste of Oakley’s flesh earned another exasperated sigh from Pawk. With an air of “fine, I’ll do it myself,” she moved past Joanne and cast a proper healing spell, sealing the wound. The boy, unconscious and dangerously pale, was then wrapped in a cloak of shadowy black and gently hidden in the alley’s gloom.

They couldn’t afford to lose a contributor like him. But with the plan unfolding smoothly and the opportunity for a first strike within reach, leaving Oakley behind was a necessary compromise.

With five enemy executives present, they could fight one-on-one or, better yet, coordinate overwhelming numbers against isolated targets. Either way, protecting Oakley in the middle of a battle was out of the question.

“Joanne,” Aros said quietly.

“Yeah. I know, Prophet-sama.”

No further explanation needed. With a resigned look, Joanne leaned down and pressed her lips softly to Oakley’s forehead.

“Sorry, Oakley. We’ve got to handle this. Just rest easy, all right?”

She hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and ran to rejoin the others.

“There are five enemies present in the city: Celestia, Known, Pomette, Cress, and Saren. If luck is on our side, I’ll take Saren myself,” Aros declared calmly. “The rest of you, match your opponents based on compatibility.”

“If we’re doing that, I’ll take Known,” Pawk chimed in. “It’s been a while. I kinda miss him.”

“I’ll go for Celestia,” Joanne added, cracking her knuckles.

“Stella wants to eat Kress. Or Celestia,” Stella murmured.

“That’s two targets. Pick one, you glutton,” Joanne said with a sigh.

“Hohoho… Then I suppose I’ll be the one to face Pomette,” said Shadik.

As the five of them assigned their respective targets, Aros gave a cheerful clap of his hands, a signal to depart. His tone was so breezy it might have been mistaken for a family picnic rather than the prelude to mass slaughter.

“Now then, everyone, feel free to go wild. But no overextending yourself. If you die, all of this becomes meaningless. Wreak as much havoc as you can and make them lose all hope of retaking Metasim. Then return safely. All of you.”

With that, grins bloomed across the faces of the other four executives.

We have permission to raise hell!

Let’s go rip those bastards apart!

With orders clear and bloodlust gleaming in their eyes, the cult’s enforcers launched into action, each vanishing toward their chosen battlefield like bullets from a gun.

Mere seconds later, shrill, haunting screams echoed across the streets of Daskel.

Joanne had torn the tiles from rooftops and was hurling them in all directions, turning the homes into siege weapons. Shattered timber and brick rained down like a storm. Pawk’s venomous thorns, glinting green and grotesque, lashed out at panicked crowds, injecting fast-acting toxins that turned screaming citizens into corpses within seconds. She didn’t need to aim—mass death followed wherever her projectiles landed.

Stella’s searing thermal beam scythed through the heart of the city. The heat was so intense that cobblestones bubbled and metal storefront signs drooped like wax. Everything within several hundred meters ahead of her evaporated. Humans, animals, even trees were wiped from existence in a flash of blistering light.

Lacking any grand area-of-effect spells himself, Shadik climbed to a nearby rooftop, perched with legs crossed, and calmly observed the chaos from above.

“The younger ones sure go at it with flair,” he chuckled.

“They’ve got the right idea. If there’s no spectacle, there’s no message,” Aros replied with amusement.

“Well said.”

Pleased with his subordinates’ enthusiasm, Aros spread his arms wide. Shadows began to twist at his fingertips like living tendrils, and in the next moment, his own contribution to the slaughter surged forth.

His magic governed “shadows”—versatile and insidious—and came paired with a cruel bonus: any physical contact with his sorcery drained the victim’s lifespan.

One second touched, one year lost.

Even another high-ranking executive would find themselves crippled or dead if caught in his magic for long. Against civilians and ordinary soldiers? It was nothing short of apocalyptic.

Aros unleashed his spell with regal calm.

The shadows burst forth from his hands in radial streams, black and sticky like oil mist. Each trail rapidly ballooned into a three-meter orb, globular and pulsing. These formless things drifted out, seeking heat and movement—prey. When they found a target, they clung like tar, then melted through flesh, dissolving their victims alive in slurping spasms.

Daskel’s defensive systems were built for sieges, not internal obliteration. And that, too, had been part of the cult’s plan all along.

“Aros-sama, looks like the other side’s top brass has finally stepped onto the stage,” Shadik said.

Daskel was already a scene of unmitigated devastation. In just a few minutes, the death toll had surged into the thousands. The populace, caught between the cult’s “zombie bombs,” Stella’s vaporizing heat rays, and Aros’s raining shadows, was gripped in a panic that flipped the world upside down.

Ironically, the chaos was only exacerbated by the Orthodoxy itself. Their tight restrictions on entry and exit had turned the gates into pressure cookers. Violent clashes had erupted between those trying to get in and those desperate to escape.

The Orthodoxy’s leadership, caught completely off guard by the cult’s sudden incursion, fractured into three response groups.

First, three top-ranking executives—Saren Deputy, Pomette Yoster, and Celestia Hothound—hurried to the city’s central district, seeking the source of the destruction.

Second, Known Tilti, having sensed the attack early, rushed to the gates to disperse the dangerously overcrowded masses before a crowd crush could occur.

Third, Cress Walker charged headlong into the fray, diving into the heart of the undead outbreak to protect the civilians and initiate a brutal extermination of the zombies, his every blow ringing like thunder through the chaos.

Now, amidst this blooming hell reminiscent of Metasim’s fall, the Orthodoxy’s first line of defense arrived.

Saren, Pomette, and Celestia stood in the wreckage of what was once a bustling city, momentarily struck speechless at the sight of the cult’s five rampaging executives.

“Aros. If you were planning a visit, you could’ve said so. I would’ve prepared tea and a proper welcome.”

Pomette’s sharp voice was laced with venom. A vein pulsed visibly at her temple, her armored fingers flexing in fury. At her side, Saren—ranked first among the Orthodoxy’s hierarchy and dressed in a crisp, high-collared ceremonial gown—let out a breath of stunned resignation.

She clicked her heels once, as if intending to approach the church, but halted when she saw it half-melted and blazing. She shook her head with a grim twist of the lips.

“You’ve done it now.”

Her cream-colored hair, tied in a half-up style, billowed as an aura of heat surged from her body. The crimson blaze of divine wrath erupted into being. The phoenix that dwelled within her stirred, lending its power to her fury. Saren’s entire form trembled as the sacred flames intensified around her, swirling hotter, brighter, wilder.

“Pomette, Celestia,” she said, her voice razor-sharp. “Lend me your strength.”

“At your command.”

“Of course.”

Without another word, Saren stepped forward, each stride charged with divine authority. To buy time for the civilians still fleeing the city, she flared her aura wide, releasing jets of celestial fire in every direction. Her intent was clear: draw the cult’s attention.

Shadik and Joanne darted back from the inferno in exaggerated sweeps, taking cover behind the sturdier defenses of Aros and Stella. Their movements weren’t born of cowardice but calculation. One misstep in this onslaught could mean instant death.

The phoenix fire unleashed by Saren clashed head-on with the shadow magic swirling from Aros’s hands. Darkness and flame wrestled in the air, coiling and repelling each other like rival gods. Then, with a hiss of annihilation, both forces vanished.

Another stream of searing flame surged toward Stella, but instead of panicking, she raised one hand. The fire vanished without impact, swallowed into a veil-thin barrier, invisible yet absolute.

They had blocked the assault flawlessly, yet not a single smile could be found on the faces of the cult’s enforcers.

Saren’s magic was no ordinary elemental trick but a divine scourge, forged to incinerate the impure. Her flames, born of the phoenix bound to her soul, targeted the very essence of those deemed heretics by the Orthodoxy. They bypassed resistance, suppressed healing, and invaded the body from within by searing every cell in a cleansing purge.

Worse still, the danger didn’t end when the flames vanished. Even the embers, even the ash left behind by that divine conflagration, retained their poisonous sanctity. It wasn’t just magic; it was judgment.

Yet Stella didn’t falter. Drawing upon the fire she had just absorbed, she countered. Her return strike was a sweeping beam of incandescent energy, more potent than anything she had released thus far. The air bent, screaming around the path of the heat ray as it surged forward like a divine pillar of wrath, aimed straight for the trio of holy knights.

It should have consumed them.

Instead, a gleam of steel cleaved through the attack.

Pomette stepped forward, unwavering. With a single, disciplined swing of her holy blade, she shattered the incoming beam like glass. They were outnumbered. That was undeniable.

But outmatched? Never.

As molten debris hissed in the streets and buildings crumbled in the distance, the heart of Daskel boiled under their feet.

Amber eyes gleamed through waves of fire, calm and resolute.

A blank white mask stared from the shadows, unreadable, unknowable.

In a city brought to its knees, light and darkness collided once again, ready to decide which side would inherit the ashes.

Chapter 4: The Protagonist Is…

In the depths of unconsciousness, my thoughts spun at full throttle.

My ultimate goal is the annihilation of the Aros Temple Cult and all of its high-ranking officers. Ideally, I’d like nothing more than to wipe them out right now, but that fantasy is laughably impossible given what I’m dealing with. The problem lies in their very nature. These people aren’t just hard to kill; their whole organization is structured to replace them.

If I don’t eliminate all elite members within a very short window, the cult will simply replenish its numbers. During the lunar eclipse, they perform a special ritual to promote new officers to vacant seats. There are only seven positions available at a time, but if I don’t stop the ceremony, new monsters will just take their place.

Which means if I want even a chance at stopping this nightmare, I have to become one of them.

I need to take a seat at the table. Block one of the seven from their position at the top and sabotage their hierarchy from the inside. The only way to beat them is to carry the weight of the world on my back and walk the path of a monster.

Let Alfie… and the others… live in peace. That’s all I want—just that one thing. I already damned myself the moment I summoned the cult to Daskel. If a world of peace can come from it, I’ll pay any price.

Right now, though, that price is survival.

I have to make it back to Metasim alive. I’ve worked too hard—earned too much trust from Aros and the others—to throw it away now. If I die here, all of it’s for nothing.

I’m waking up. Get ready, Oakley…

My body was still unconscious from blood loss. If I bled again, even just a little, there was no guarantee I’d make it back.

A rumble like a living earthquake shook the city. Explosions cracked across Daskel in every direction. It was in that chaos that my eyes finally snapped open.

A pitch-black cloak had been draped over me. One of the cult’s executives must have left it behind. I couldn’t tell if I was grateful for the act of kindness or just vaguely disturbed.

When I glanced down at my hands, the price of the summoning was written across my fingers. My hands were mangled. On the right, the index and pinky fingers were missing. It was the same on the left, with the ring finger—Joanne’s ring finger—being the only intact one.

Not exactly ideal.

Shadik used a sword, so taking my finger likely helped with their own summon strength. Pawk, too, as she needed fine control for her poison thorns. Strategically, I couldn’t blame them.

What made it worse was that Joanne was the only one among them who could actually wield healing magic. The rest of the cult officers, though powerful in their own right, weren’t particularly good at patching people up. Their spells had a mechanical brutality. Once a healing process started, it wouldn’t stop until every last cell had been perfectly rebuilt… or mangled in the attempt.

There was one thing still nagging me, though. Where had they taken the fingers I’d cut off during the summoning? I’d need to find them later. I couldn’t just leave parts of myself lying around, especially not with enemies like ours.

As I pushed myself up, bracing with my hands on my knees, a sharp pain lanced through my lower left leg. I glanced down instinctively.

Through the torn folds of my trousers, I could see the damage. A sickly violet scar peeked out beneath the fabric, a raw, ugly, silent proof of what Celestia’s wind magic had done to me.

I couldn’t feel any numbness, and the limb hadn’t gone cold, which meant the nerve endings weren’t completely fried. Still, the cauterized seam where my leg had been severed throbbed like a living thing. The pain was undeniable.

I staggered forward, the world spinning around me. The dizziness clawed at my balance like a drunken beast. My skin had gone so pale it was almost translucent, and my vision was starting to blur at the edges. Apparently, I was far more worn down than I realized, because the next thing I knew, I was on my knees, vomiting onto the cracked stone beneath me.

The roar from the main street had intensified. The battle between the cult executives and the Orthodoxy was escalating. You could feel it in the ground, like the city was holding its breath, waiting for the final blow.

Then, without warning, the roof above me disappeared—no collapse, no warning creak, just gone, vaporized in an instant.

The narrow alley I’d taken refuge in opened up like a stage, and I was granted a front-row view of the end of the world.

A beam of searing light lanced just meters away from where I stood. The street convulsed, as if it had come alive, boiling, buckling, bulging with heat, before it exploded outward in a chain reaction of molten debris.

In seconds, the alley was transformed into a warzone of scalding rock and volcanic air, a storm of flaming rubble pelting down in hellish sheets.

Stella’s magic! Shit, I have to get out of here—now!

Keeping my head low, I broke into a limping run, sticking close to the crumbling walls. My destination: the city’s outer perimeter. Or… what used to be the city’s perimeter.

As I ran, it became increasingly clear that Daskel’s outer wall was no longer a wall.

It had been reduced to a slagheap. Whatever had once given the city its shape had collapsed into glowing ruins. The surface was melting into bubbling red steel, massive holes torn through its structure, twisted with vines of violet poison thorns.

I stared at it in disbelief as entire segments peeled away and crumbled into dust. While I tried to orient myself and find any direction that might lead to an exit, a new blast of searing light split the sky overhead.

A high-pitched screech followed, and the moment I felt the pressure drop, I threw myself flat, instinctively shielding my head with my arms.

Despair howled through the air like a living storm. The battlefield had long since ceased to resemble a city. Just trying to keep my bearings was a challenge in itself, but I forced myself to focus, to dig up every scrap of mental clarity I had left.

I remembered the route out of Daskel. If I kept moving, if I trusted my memory, I could make it beyond the city limits. I had to.

Driven by that sliver of hope, I sprinted away from the burning center of town. Then, something soft began to drift down from above.

Snow? It didn’t feel cold enough.

I instinctively raised my palm to catch a flake, then yanked it back just in time.

Ash and embers.

The air was thick with cinders—splinters of divine flame, fragments of the phoenix’s wrath summoned by Saren Deputy. Each flake wasn’t just hot; it carried divine judgment. Even brushing against one could be fatal.

“Shit!”

I threw myself sideways, ducking into a desperate roll. At that very moment, an immense burst of flame erupted behind me. The phoenix fire surged skyward, climbing dozens of meters before exploding in a suffocating wave of heat that curled through the air and seared the inside of my lungs.

I twisted toward the source of the magical pressure and froze instantly.

There they were.

Wreathed in black shadows, Aros was locked in a titanic clash with Saren, a blazing goddess of war clad in ivory vestments. Their attacks weren’t just destructive; they reshaped the battlefield with every exchange.

Aros’s fist, grotesquely swollen with shadows, punched through Saren’s wall of holy fire and plunged into her chest, only for her body to detonate in a blinding flare. But from those same embers, she reformed instantly, rising again as if reborn from the ashes.

In retaliation, Saren slipped behind Aros and unleashed a spiraling inferno that carved through half the block. However, Aros vanished into mist, escaping with the ease of smoke in the wind.

Their fight was on another level.

Saren’s presence alone was enough to pin down the entire cult force. Even with the numbers on our side—five officers against three—the scale tilted in her favor. Every time her phoenix flame surged, the others faltered. The tide belonged to her.

She’s holding back, I realized. She’s trying not to harm civilians. Even amid chaos, she fought with restraint.

I took a moment to catch my breath and surveyed the rest of the battlefield.

Pomette was locked in combat with both Shadik and Pawk, while Celestia faced off against Joanne and Stella. Flames swept across the city at regular intervals, the aftershocks rippling through the ruins and prickling across my skin. Every wave of holy fire slowed the cult's executives. Even I felt it, like my bones were going slack and my muscles turning to lead.

Ash, embers, shockwaves… It’s a triple combo of death…

Saren was holding back—restraining her power to buy time for civilians to evacuate. If she unleashed her full strength, she could reduce the entire city of Daskel to cinders without breaking a sweat.

Even restrained, her magic was more than enough to be a nightmare.

Even a flickering ember—no bigger than the ash from a campfire—was a lethal threat to someone like me. The robe I wore, already scorched and shredded, began to smolder and peel away, the heat clawing its way across my skin—every inch of exposed flesh burned under the residue of divine flame. I staggered back, breath shallow, each step a desperate retreat from death itself.

Just when I thought I had enough space to catch my breath—

A blade of wind ripped through the air and nicked my neck.

I hadn’t even moved. It was pure luck I hadn’t been decapitated.

Cold sweat trickled down my back as I realized what I’d failed to see since my vision had tunneled again from the blood loss. Just ahead, in the middle of the chaos, Celestia, Joanne, and Stella had drawn closer to me while locked in a full-scale battle.

They’re moving as they fight?!

There was nowhere left to run.

I threw myself into a pile of rubble as a wave of heat scorched the space where I’d just stood. The ground hissed and bubbled, blistering into red-black pits that gurgled like boiling oil.

“Celestia,” Stella cooed, her voice hungry and breathy, “you always look so delicious. Stella wants to taste you… roasted.”

“Hah… hah… Regrettably, I’m not nearly as appetizing as you imagine,” Celestia replied, voice fraying at the edges.

I crouched low, heart racing, trying to make a decision. That was when it happened.

My left ring finger gave a sudden shudder.

Joanne’s finger.

Of course. She could sense where I was.

Peeking out from beneath the rubble, I caught her eye for just a brief moment. She’d found me, just as I’d thought.

Celestia was entirely focused on Stella, struggling against a nightmarish combination of physical attacks, magic absorption, and searing heat beams. Her whole attention was locked on the torrent of magical pressure she was trying to counter. My existence didn’t even register.

Joanne was carving out space for me, exploiting the smallest openings to harass Celestia while keeping her distracted. I wasn’t even a blip on the radar.

Thanks, I thought, in one of the rare moments I felt genuine gratitude toward her. Taking the chance she’d bought me, I sprinted toward a less hellish stretch of city.

Thanks to Joanne’s subtle guidance, I managed to escape roughly two kilometers from the center of the city. But even at this distance, I was still deep in hell.

The battlefield stretched far and wide, earth and blood and magic flying in every direction. Stray spells streaked overhead like artillery shells, and with every blink, civilians were torn apart and scattered like garbage in the streets. The air was a chorus of screams, roars, and deafening detonations that left my ears numb.

Shoving aside falling debris, dirt, and embers from above, I pushed toward the outer gate. It was the one path that might lead out of this fiery nightmare.

Near the outer perimeter, where the main street narrowed into the exit corridor, Pawk’s horde of zombies clashed violently with the soldiers of the Orthodoxy.

“Hold them here! Don’t let a single one get past us!”

“Cress-sama is holding the other sector on his own! We have to stand with him!”

The undead were sluggish, moving with the eerie shuffle of things no longer alive. However, they didn’t feel pain. They didn’t fear death. They just kept advancing, spreading poison and rot with every step—a plague in human form. The Orthodox soldiers were putting up a desperate fight, but unless the head of a zombie were crushed, they wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t.

Worse, for every soldier who fell, a new zombie rose in his place. The tide wasn’t just turning. It was swallowing them whole.

Celestia had tried using the wind to scatter Saren’s embers over the field, but she didn’t have the leeway anymore.

If even the smallest fragment of Saren Deputy’s fire touched this place, the entire undead swarm would go up in smoke, which was exactly why the cult’s executives were working so hard to keep her contained.

I ran like a man possessed, lungs burning, vision swimming. By the time I finally reached the outer gate, my body was so spent I could barely tell how injured I actually was.

Before the crumbling outer wall, people were packed shoulder to shoulder, squeezed into lines like commuters on a rush-hour train. Desperately, hopelessly, they were waiting for their turn to escape.

Just when I let myself believe I’d made it out alive—

A golden-haired knight in full armor came crashing from the sky.

Pomette—blonde hair whipping, blue eyes blazing—tumbled through the air, her left shoulder and head regenerating mid-spin. She hit the ground and rolled as if it were routine.

Right behind her in pursuit were Shadik and Pawk. I dove into a nearby house, slipping into the shadows to hide.

Unfortunately, hiding inside a house was meaningless in a fight between officers. Against this scale of violence, a building’s wall might as well be a wafer cookie. There was no such thing as “safe.”

Pomette’s magic transformed her willpower into energy, which then extended from her sword as a semi-transparent blade. This phantasmal edge didn’t dull. It didn’t chip. It cut through everything from massive boulders to Stella’s hellfire beam. It was the ultimate spear of the Kenneth Orthodoxy.

Even so, that very weapon had just been launched through the air, its wielder blasted away, missing her left arm and most of her head.

Only one person could’ve cornered her like that: Shadik. His ability to perceive ten seconds into the future made him a nightmare matchup for a swordswoman like Pomette.

“You okay, Grandpa?” Pawk asked with unsettling cheer.

“Lately? Not so much, girlie,” Shadik muttered.

The two of them advanced on Pomette, who was already on one knee. The knight swung her sword in a sweeping arc, fierce and wild, but they dodged with effortless calm.

I wasn’t so lucky.

The arc of her blade sliced directly through the building I’d ducked into. Walls, roof, and everything in between were sheared away in a clean horizontal line, collapsing like a house of cards.

You get crushed by rubble, you die—no room for debate. I bolted, scrambling out from the wreckage before the rest gave way, and ducked into cover again to observe the fight.

“You two aren’t getting past me! I will protect this city and everyone in it!” Pomette roared.

With a desperate gleam in her eyes, she sliced through Pawk’s deadly thorns in a single strike and parried Shadik’s psychic swordplay. Behind her, dozens of civilians held their breath, eyes wide with fear and hope.

Perhaps it was that desperation that gave her strength. For a moment, her blade danced with incredible speed, deflecting the twin assault of the cult’s officers. Her swordplay was awe-inspiring.

Alas, the two-on-one was wearing her down.

The thorn-laced tendrils—like living, poisonous whips—slithered across her armor, injecting venom into her bloodstream, steadily dulling her movements. Shadik, the relentless old swordsman, forced her to defend with every limb she had. When she couldn’t—limbs exploded off her body, torn away by precision strikes.

Even with the strongest blade in the Orthodoxy, she could only swing one sword at a time.

Regardless of her regenerating instantly, it wasn’t enough. Pawk and Shadik had begun to find their rhythm, and their grins twisted with confident cruelty.

This is bad!

Pomette’s going to die at this rate. And that, I couldn’t allow.

My eyes darted frantically across the battlefield, searching for anything I could use. Then I saw it: a crumbling tower, already leaning dangerously. If I didn’t put this body to work here and now, what was the point of ever training it?

I could see no zombies from Pawk’s horde nearby. There were no cultist eyes on me. I was squarely in everyone’s blind spot. If I was going to help the Orthodox knight, this was the only chance I’d get.

Even though I’ve lost most of my fingers… I can still do this!

I rushed toward a pile of rubble and yanked a heavy timber beam loose, hugging it like a battering ram. Then, I drove it deep into a weak spot in the tower’s damaged base, wedging it with everything I had.

With a guttural roar, I heaved.

“RAAAHHHHHH!!”

Something groaned and splintered—either my body or the stone above.

Every nerve screamed. My vision flickered. But I felt the shift, like a lever snapping into place. The tower’s slope deepened, and with a grinding, thunderous rumble, the half-ruined structure collapsed in an avalanche of rubble.

A barrage of stone and debris rained down.

Shadik, ever the precog, reacted first and leaped clear, but the angle of collapse had shifted—unexpectedly, even for him. Pawk, on the other hand, was caught off guard and instantly enveloped by the fall.

She managed to halt the rubble just in time, her thorn-laced tendrils concentrating into a makeshift shield above her. But that meant she’d diverted all her magic from offense to defense.

Pomette saw her chance.

Her translucent blade surged with light, swelling in length and density. A standard longsword transformed into a ten-meter juggernaut of holy wrath.

She swung.

A downward diagonal slash, full-body, full-soul.

The sacred strike cleaved through Pawk’s improvised defense and subsequently, her body. The air itself cracked from the force. The slash didn’t stop there. It tore straight through the ground and the buildings behind, cutting across the battlefield like divine judgment.

In the blink of an eye, the dashing, androgynous beauty who’d once been Pawk vanished beneath the hail of rubble.

“I missed the kill,” Pomette muttered in a low voice.

I blinked, stunned, then followed her line of sight and spotted something lying where Pawk had been.

A single shoe. Familiar. Hers.

Judging by the… volume inside it, she’d left more than just a shoe behind.

She’d probably be back on her feet in seconds. Still, with Pawk knocked out, the thorny vines spread across the city had begun to wither, their magic leaking away.

“We’re just not cut out for teamwork, are we?” Shadik muttered, voice dry with resignation.

At least they’d crushed their early resistance. In that sense, the objective had already been met. But clearly, Shadik feared for Pawk’s life. Without waiting for confirmation, he scooped up her gore-filled shoe and retreated into the chaos.

At that exact moment, a tide of civilians surged toward the outer gates like a dam had burst. The sudden clearing of the battlefield had opened a narrow path to safety, and everyone still breathing lunged for it.

That was when Pomette spotted me.

I was lying next to the wreckage of the collapsed tower, my body a trembling mess of pain and exertion. She rushed over and bowed her head, deep and solemn.

She probably didn’t suspect me. Only Celestia had gotten a clear look at my face earlier.

“You saved me, didn’t you? I owe you my thanks.”

I froze, caught off guard by her sincerity. What was I supposed to say? The words caught in my throat. Between the blood loss and bone-deep exhaustion, my whole body was shaking. My head wasn’t working right. Not enough oxygen.

Say something. Do something. This might be the only chance I ever get to speak to an Orthodox commander under normal conditions.

After struggling for breath, I managed to get out, “I’m looking for someone. A boy named Alfie. Do you know him?”

“Alfie?” she echoed, frowning. “I’m sorry… I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“I see… No worries. Thanks anyway. Good luck, Pomette.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if puzzled by my tone, but didn’t press. With one last nod, she turned and leaped into the air, chasing after Shadik and Pawk. She didn’t seem fazed at all by how close to death she’d come. That fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed.

So Celestia might know him, but Pomette doesn’t. Makes sense. Alfie’s just a kid. He’s not exactly famous yet.

After the fall of Metasim, he should’ve evacuated here, to Daskel. Judging by how Celestia had reacted earlier, I was probably right. Which means… if I still haven’t found any trace of him in this hellhole, something’s wrong.

If he’s already gotten out, that’s great.

But if he’s still inside this city… If he couldn’t escape in time…

If he’s already been caught in this battle between monsters…

No. Alfie made it out. He has to have made it out.

He’d survived the fall of Metasim. That miserable luck and sheer stubbornness of his had dragged him through hell once already. He could survive this mess, too.

I shoved down the nagging dread clawing at the back of my mind.

I staggered forward and blended into the crowd gathering near the outer gates. My tattered, bloodstained robes made me look just like any other survivor, probably even like one of the Orthodoxy’s own, if anyone squinted hard enough. With the immediate threat of zombies and stray magic fading, I managed to slip out of the city alongside those wearing weary, tear-streaked relief on their faces.

I followed the current of fleeing refugees, every step driven by nothing but instinct. That was when it happened.

A small body collided with mine, almost too soft to notice, until it bounced back and landed hard on the ground.

“Ack! I’m so sorry…!”

Her hood fell back as she hit the dirt, and my breath caught in my throat.

No… it can’t be…

Soft brown hair, crimson eyes. The delicate features of a young girl, but with a quiet maturity beneath her gaze. That face—I’d seen it before. I knew it.

It was her. She looked exactly like Marietta Vallières, Alfie’s childhood friend. A heroine. A corpse.

She’s dead.

She should be dead.

So why… Why is she here?!

The world dulled around me. All I could hear was my own ragged heartbeat pounding in my skull. My mouth opened and closed, trying to form the words that refused to come. I could barely breathe. Eventually, one name slipped out, hoarse and uncertain.

“Alfie?”

“Eh?” She blinked, startled. “Do you know him?”

Of course, she knows the name. She’s Marietta. His childhood friend. It only makes sense.

“Are you… friends with him?” I asked, more breath than voice.

“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes uncertain. “We’re… friends.”

“Where is he?”

That question came from somewhere deep, somewhere that had begun to tremble.

Her lips pressed together in a silent line. Her face crumpled. She didn’t even need to speak the words. I already knew.

Nevertheless, I had to hear it. I had to.

“Well… Alfie… He was… in Metasim, and…”

The sentence never finished.

A hot wind roared through the air, carrying the rumble of some distant explosion. It swallowed her words whole.

Tell me it’s not true.

Tell me I’m wrong.

My whole body shivered. My legs nearly gave out from under me. I was going to collapse. I could feel it. If I did, I wouldn’t get up again. Not now.

So I stood. Somehow, I stood.

Then who was the corpse I saw?

That moment… back then… when I was on the edge of breaking apart, desperately clinging to the one thread of hope that was the protagonist. I remembered it clearly. The scorched alley. The turn leading to Marietta’s home. The charred corpse curled into itself, arms hugging its knees, burnt beyond recognition but unmistakable in posture and clothing.

I’d thought it was her.

The game showed the exact same image: a single-frame depiction of a blackened corpse, unmistakably Marietta’s. It was supposed to be her.

But she’s standing right here. Alive.

So then… was it Alfie?

Did I mistake the body?

No, no, I didn’t. I saw it. That was Marietta. It had to be.

My thoughts ground to a halt.

This world looks like the game… but it doesn’t follow the script perfectly. If I had to guess—

Did Alfie… die protecting Marietta?

No. No, no, no—

Don’t tell me that burned corpse wasn’t her.

Don’t tell me it was you, Alfie.

An icy, crawling nausea slithered through me. My stomach turned, bile threatening to rise.

It made sense. Before adolescence, boys and girls didn’t look that different. A child—burning, writhing, folding into themselves in agony, limbs curled in a final reflex of self-protection… It wasn’t hard to mistake them. But to think that corpse—the one I saw charred black, knees to chest in that silent alley—wasn’t Marietta, but the boy meant to save the world…

Alfie Judgment… Dead.

The moment I understood it, a suffocating weight wrapped itself around me like a sodden cloak. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hold up my head. It lolled forward, loose and lifeless, as if my neck had forgotten how to function.

If I could just die here, right now, it would be so much easier.

The thought had barely crossed my mind when a crack echoed overhead. Something massive came loose above me. A deep, instinctive sense of fear flared in Marietta’s voice.

“Ah—!”

I glanced up sluggishly.

A massive chunk of the outer wall—more than enough to flatten a handful of people like paper dolls—was crashing toward us. I didn’t even try to run.

I closed my eyes.

I was ready to let it end.

Regardless, my body—traitor that it was—moved.

Before I could think, my legs had launched me forward. I grabbed Marietta and dove, our bodies skidding across the dust-caked ground as the rubble exploded behind us.

Dammit… How many times is this now? How many times do I have to survive when all I want is to be done?!

As I gently set Marietta down, the only thing I could do was laugh. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t triumph. It was something cracked and broken, a full circle of pain that twisted into something vaguely resembling clarity.

Yeah… yeah, that’s right. This is where it starts, isn’t it?

This was always the point. When everything’s shattered and you’re still too damn stubborn to die… That’s when the real fight begins.

Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I was too numb to panic anymore. But for the first time since this nightmare began, I looked forward.

I turned to Marietta, now huddled in the shadow of the rubble I’d saved her from. Our eyes met.

“Th-Thank you for saving me, mister…” she said.

“You’re welcome,” I said quietly. “And… what’s your name?”

“Marietta.”

“Marietta, huh? My name’s Oakley.”

“Oakley-san…”

She tilted her head slightly as she repeated my name, mouthing it a few times like she was testing the shape of it on her tongue. Then, with a sudden surge of resolve, she reached out and grasped my hand.

“Let’s run away together.”

I gently pulled free and placed a hand on her back instead.

“I can’t. I have something I need to do. You have to get out of here.”

“But—”

“Go,” I urged, pressing her forward again. “Hurry, before you get caught in the crossfire.”

She stumbled a step, caught herself, then nodded, understanding what I wasn’t saying. Without another word, she turned and sprinted into the woods.

“I’ll never forget you!” she called back. “We’ll meet again somewhere!”

Her voice lingered in the air long after her footsteps had faded into the trees. She was probably heading for the nearest town. That path would be flooded with survivors fleeing Daskel. If she stuck with them, she’d be okay.

“Yeah. Somewhere,” I murmured to myself.

Once she disappeared from sight, I slumped against a tree trunk and let my shoulders sag, the weight of everything finally pressing down.

“Alfie’s… gone.”

The words left a hollow ring in my chest. The loneliness tightened its grip, sharp and stifling, until it felt like I was the only one left fighting on a battlefield that no longer cared.

What now?

The question spiraled in circles. No answer came. Nothing solid. Nothing comforting.

From the start, I’d believed that either Alfie or I—or both of us—would have to break the deadlock between these two monstrous factions. But now, with one of us missing from the equation…

It’s all on me.

“Oakley. We’re pulling out.” A voice snapped me from my daze.

Joanne’s face popped down from a tree branch above, her silhouette framed against the pitch-black canopy. Her tracking magic must’ve led her right to me.

Her clothes were torn in several places—her stomach, her thighs—thin cuts revealing pale skin beneath. It wasn’t much, but compared to her usual combat state, it was practically modest. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Still, it told me enough. She’d fought but hadn’t pushed herself to the brink.

To someone as utterly drained as I was, Joanne’s arrival felt like salvation. She hoisted me onto her back without hesitation and soared into the night sky, her long strides cutting through the darkness with impossible grace.

“Joanne-sama, what happened to the Orthodoxy’s leadership?” I asked, my voice hoarse with fatigue.

“Beat ’em up good!”

Her chipper tone made it sound like she’d just won a street brawl. Whether that meant they were dead or merely driven off, I could guess the answer. Still, I had to ask.

As expected, she hadn’t killed anyone. Pomette and Celestia—who’d both been forced into two-on-one fights—had managed to survive.

From what Joanne shared, it was Pawk’s near-fatal blow that signaled the turning point. With one of their own grievously wounded, the cult’s inner circle shifted from offense to retreat. On the other side, the Orthodoxy’s leaders had wisely chosen not to pursue, redirecting their efforts to evacuating civilians and regaining control of the chaos.

The surprise assault, in tandem with the Mobile Fortress Plan, had succeeded beyond expectations, with no casualties on our side. Daskel was in ruins, the loss of life severe. The Orthodoxy’s credibility would plummet, and the nation would be left reeling.

For the cult, it was a resounding victory.

For me? I had earned more trust and favor than I ever wanted. I’d proved my value too well. That alone weighed heavier than it should have.

At least none of the Orthodoxy’s key figures had died. That was the only relief I could cling to.

As Joanne carried me through the wind, fatigue crashed into me like a wave. The warmth of her body seeped into mine, lulling my defenses, and with it came a drowsiness so overpowering I could hardly keep my eyes open.

“I’m sorry, Joanne-sama… I think I’m going to fall asleep…”

“Hm? Ah, makes sense. Today’s been hell. Go ahead and rest until we get back.”

I’d never known true peace since waking up in this world. From the moment I’d become self-aware, I was already inside a cult facility—watched, weighed, and measured, always wondering when this nightmare would end.

Pressed against Joanne’s back, bathed in her body heat, and swayed by the rhythm of her movement, the jagged edges of reality faded just a little.

She’s warm… Her faint sweat, the metallic tang of dried blood… Joanne’s scent…

Why did her presence feel so safe?

The lingering reek of death that clung to her—the iron-heavy stench that wouldn’t wash off—should’ve disturbed me. But it didn’t. Her small body, those delicate hands, the quiet warmth they carried… They all pulled me in, soothed me, and anchored me.

Just as my consciousness was about to slip away, I saw it—five silhouettes returning to Metasim through the dark.

Wait… Five?

Aros, Shadik, Stella, and Pawk. That’s four. Joanne was carrying me.

Then who… was the fifth?

My mind didn’t get the chance to answer. That thought was severed mid-stride.

I blacked out.

A feathery tickle brushed across my forehead, like fingers combing through my bangs. I stirred, eyelids fluttering open.

Only to find myself staring into a fresh, new hell.

“Good morning, Oakley.” The voice came sweet and casual, like a lover’s whisper.

My bleary gaze first focused downward—thick-soled boots. Then upward—the dazzling exposure of bare thighs beneath a pleated miniskirt, framed perfectly in the space between her stockings and hem. A tight white shirt clung above that, straining slightly over an overly generous chest that made the buttons look ready to surrender.

Still fogged with sleep and fatigue, I blinked slowly.

That was when I felt it—her fingertip, cool and deliberate, lifting my chin.

Her spiral pupils slid into view, boring into mine like drills. A flick of her split tongue wet her lips in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Then she kissed me.

Just a light, playful brush of her mouth against mine. An “I own you” kind of greeting, not affection. Her entranced expression hovered close as she pulled back, sinking slightly, breath tickling my lips.

“Good morning. How long have I been out?” I asked.

“Three days, give or take,” Joanne replied.

“Three days…”

“You didn’t wake up. Not even once. I was getting worried, you know. It’d be a real problem if you went and died without permission.”

Her hair swayed as she leaned in closer, soft strands with colored streaks brushing my cheeks. The scent she always carried—that peculiar cocktail of sweet perspiration, metal, and something animal—hit stronger than before. Sharper. Fresher.

More awake than I am, apparently.

“Also, may I ask—what exactly are you doing right now?” I asked.

“Still in the middle of it. Just wait a second,” she replied with a smile.

“In the middle of—?”

I tried to sit up.

I couldn’t.

A quick tilt of my head confirmed the worst. My wrists and ankles were bound tightly. Ropes bit into my skin, taut and uncompromising.

Just off to the side on a small wooden table sat a pair of pruning shears.

Thick. Heavy. Still glinting faintly with oil, waiting to fulfill their role.

Her earlier comment clicked into place with a horrifying finality. I knew exactly what she was “in the middle” of.

Ah, I see. So this is it. The infamous bad end route from the original game. The one that triggers when you raise Joanne’s affection too high…

It all made sense now. The sudden shift in tone, the escalating obsession—it all tracked. And honestly, if I failed hard enough to bring about the end of the world, spending the rest of my life under Joanne’s “care” didn’t sound entirely awful.

In its own warped way, it was a future full of warmth. The game’s depiction of this route suggested that all three basic needs—food, shelter, and touch—were met to an overwhelming degree. She’d probably talk to me every day too, so boredom wouldn’t be an issue.

However, that future wasn’t an option.

With Alfie gone, I was the only one left who could shoulder the role of protagonist. If I lost my ability to act, there’d be no stopping the Temple of Aros and their absurd “Mobile Fortress Project”—an event that never even existed in the original storyline.

I could still move. I wasn’t done yet.

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait anymore.”

Joanne’s voice quivered with excitement as she grabbed the pruning shears. She brought them close to my right arm, blades yawning wide open at the elbow. And then, without hesitation or remorse, she started snipping.

“Uwaaaaaah?! Joanne-sama! STOP! TIME OUT!”

I screamed like a banshee, trying to wave the white flag with nothing but vocal cords. Joanne paused, head tilting with a sunshine smile as if I’d asked her to pass the butter.

This girl’s a straight-up monster. I had no idea how I ever let myself start trusting her.

“No cutting without mutual consent. That’s like… basic decency, okay?!” I shouted.

“So you gave me your fingers, but not your arms? That’s not fair…”

She blinked up at me, doe-eyed and glistening, like I’d just broken her heart.

Dammit… when she puts it that way, it almost sounds logical. In some twisted, horror-movie version of consent, I was starting to seem like the unreasonable one.

“I just can’t stand it,” she muttered, her voice trembling with restraint. “That Stella and Pawk’s fingers were inside you. It’s revolting. Let me overwrite that. Please. With my own hands.”

What kind of overwriting involves a giant pair of scissors, exactly?!

Sweat clung to my brow as she resumed her cutting with manic precision. I grimaced, trying to reason with her like a man bargaining for his limbs.

“I really, really don’t want to be turned into a caterpillar, okay?”

“I won’t go that far,” she huffed. “I’ll just replace both your arms.”

Even just swapping both arms is already a hell of a concession.

“You looked like you really didn’t want to be turned into a stump,” Joanne said sweetly. “So I figured I shouldn’t push too far, y’know? I’ve been getting it out of my system by swapping out parts instead. Better than before, right?”

Maybe I had her all wrong. I’d convinced myself she was only ever interested in dismemberment, in turning me into a limbless pet. But now, seeing how she’d adjusted her behavior—not because she’d lost her appetite for violence, but because she cared about my feelings—it stirred something dangerously close to admiration.

People change through experience. And just as tastes evolve, so do fetishes. There are times when you’re into breasts. Other times, you’re a leg man. Joanne had moved on from full-body dismantling to a more artisanal focus: limb replacement.

“Thank you, Joanne-sama. I’ll follow your will.”

I managed a small sigh of relief as she lopped off my left arm. And then, right as blood pulsed out onto the floor and the shock started to set in, a strange clarity washed over me.

Wait. Am I getting scammed here?

She dangled the extreme first—full Daruma treatment, complete limb removal—like an overpriced threat. Then she “compromised” by offering something less extreme but still insane. It was like being upsold on a less-shady cult package. The longer I sat in this bloodstained nest of manipulation, the more it felt like a hellishly clever sales pitch.

Joanne… you’ve got a gift. Let’s open a business together someday.

Once the limb was off, she held out the shears again—this time with the handles reversed. One grip went into her hand—the other, between my teeth.

“Oakley, it’s a joint effort, okay?”

“I see. Very team-building.”

Her voice was syrupy, her eyes clouded with anticipation, her smile drunk on the moment. The room was a mosaic of fresh gore.

“Mmm… Oakley? Can you… come with me?”

“Ah, yes. Slowly, then.”

“Aaahh… ahhh, ahhh! Sooooo good… This is… This is addictive…”

“It’s warm.”

Her healing magic surged between us, stitching together flesh, nerve, and bone—my arms, now hers and hers now mine. The overwrite was complete, and Joanne radiated contentment. She climbed into my lap like a satisfied cat, giggling as she showed off the seam lines where our bodies now blurred into each other.

Then she grabbed my hand—her old hand, now mine—and pressed it gently to her cheek.

“Let’s touch each other.”

My palm squished into her soft face, fingers cradling her small jaw. Her cheeks flushed red as she wiggled with giddy delight, a child playing house with a corpse.

Then she laughed. Bright, musical, sincere.

“That tickles, Oakley,” she exclaimed.

“Haha.”

“Hey! You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Completely involuntary.”

“Liar.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Nope. You’re a perv.”

“That’s slander.”

“No, I remember the bath. You couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself. Just admit it, you little creep.”

She mashed her bare foot into my face, grinding it softly in slow circles. It was warm. Pliable.

Technically, we were both just touching our own arms. I was squeezing mine. She was caressing hers—nothing lewd about that… probably.

She looked so content, I didn’t even have the energy to call her out on it. Let her have this, I thought. Hell, I’ll lend her a hand—literally. I was surrendering myself to that absurd line of reasoning when—

The door slammed open.

“Hey! What the hell are those indecent noises I’ve been hearing?!”

Storming into the room was someone I hadn’t seen in a while, one of the other cult executives, Fuankilo—a dark-skinned beauty with stark white bobbed hair and piercing gold eyes. I blinked at her in confusion.

“Oh… whew. Okay. Not sex stuff. Just body-part shenanigans.”

Is that supposed to be better?

She gave our swapped limbs a long, flat look, eyes flicking down and up before she sighed, murmuring something under her breath with a tangled mix of relief and exasperation. I guess she figured out she’d walked in on something halfway intimate, but she didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

Instead, Fuankilo crossed her arms and waved us off like scolded kids caught goofing around.

“All right, break time’s over. You two, get dressed. Put yourselves back together and move. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Joanne immediately pouted, whining, “But we’re not done yet…”

“You’re done. Get up. He’s saying weird stuff again, and I need help to make sense of it.”

He? My eyes narrowed as I sat up. “Wait, who exactly are we talking about?”

“Oh, right. I guess I didn’t tell you yet. Aros caught Celestia.”

What?!

I was lucky I didn’t say that out loud. My stomach dropped.

Aros… captured Celestia?

My vision flared with fragmented memories—images flickering against the backs of my eyes like burned film stock—the retreat from Daskel. Five silhouettes escaping the wreckage.

That fifth, unknown figure… Was it her?

No. No, no, no. Why would Celestia do something so reckless? So stupid?

There was no time to waste on speculation. I needed only answers, and those waited at the scene. Wordlessly, I followed Fuankilo out of the room.

We headed for the cult’s torture wing.

Chapter 5: Fallen Characters Tend to Lose the Light in Their Eyes

After Fuankilo scolded us into undoing the arm-swap, I slowly flexed my restored hands, testing the movement of each finger with deliberate care. Everything was back in place—intact and responsive.

The fingers I’d lost—ripped off, burned away, or hacked apart—had apparently been stored for safekeeping. When Fuankilo tossed me a burlap sack full of my original digits, my eyes instantly welled up with tears. Despite my best attempts, they came tumbling out like macabre marbles, still faintly warm.

Joanne looked absolutely devastated, her bottom lip trembling with sorrow. I’d let her keep my ring finger, which she clung to like a beloved souvenir, but it clearly wasn’t enough for her.

You’ll survive, I thought. This is me being generous.

“Both of you, put on gloves. If anyone sees the transplant scars, they might trace it back to the ‘Mobile Fortress Plan.’”

That was Fuankilo, ever the pragmatist.

Joanne and I obediently pulled on black gloves. She grumbled at first, but the moment she realized we matched, she lit up with a delighted, “Oooh, we’re twinsies!”

I, on the other hand, was in no mood for smiling.

All right, think, Oakley. Get your head in order before you face her. You need to know precisely what Celestia knows.

We’d crossed paths three times.

First time: when I hunted her down in the forest while she was on the run.

Second: when she lured Joanne and me into a trap outside a village.

Third: when she nearly killed me in the backstreets of Daskel.

From her perspective, I’m probably Joanne’s right-hand lackey. She also knows I was obsessed with Alfie. It’s possible—likely, even—that she suspects I was the one who triggered the summoning of all five cult executives during the Daskel incident.

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Alfie back then. Especially if he’s really dead now…

I’d used Alfie’s name to deflect suspicion during a tense interrogation from Fuankilo and Pawk. It had worked. However, that meant the cult bigwigs now knew his name.

Celestia had reacted to Alfie’s name with visible disgust. That alone was enough to confirm she knew or at least knew of him. Had she spoken with Marietta after escaping from Metasim? Possibly. I’d have to play it by ear and adjust my story based on what she said.

Too late for regrets now. I’d already declared myself an ally of the Orthodoxy. If she decided to pull that thread, things could unravel fast and messily.

Following Fuankilo and Joanne, I stepped into the heart of Metasim, now the cult’s stronghold. The site where the Kenneth Orthodoxy Cathedral once stood had been leveled, replaced by a towering monument emblazoned with the sigil of the Aros Temple Cult. Devotees milled about outside, laughing, chatting, basking in their “liberation.”

We passed the square and descended into the shadows, down to the newly constructed torture chamber.

“Fuankilo, Joanne, Oakley. Three present,” Fuankilo announced crisply.

“Ah, good. Thank you for coming.”

The thick iron door creaked open.

The room inside was dim, the air sharp with sweat, blood, and iron. At its center sat Celestia, shackled to a chair, her wrists bound to the armrests, ankles lashed to the floor. Four cult executives surrounded her—Aros, Shadik, Stella, and Pawk. With the addition of Fuankilo, Joanne, and me, there were now seven high-ranking executives crowded into a single chamber.

One of them was me, a grunt among wolves. The atmosphere was suffocating.

“You survived Daskel. I commend you, Oakley,” Aros said.

“Only thanks to your guidance, Aros-sama… and Joanne-sama’s protection,” I replied.

“Haha, modesty is admirable, but don’t sell yourself short.”

Aros smiled through his mask, then subtly tilted his chin toward Celestia.

My gaze followed, and my breath caught.

Celestia glared at us, her eyes seething with unfiltered hatred. Silver hair clung to her cheeks like wet silk. Her once-pristine robes were in tatters, barely clinging to her form. Her shoulders and legs were exposed, her chest heaving with each shallow breath.

Bruises blossomed across her face. Her mouth was tight, but a trickle of blood had escaped her lips and dried along her jawline. Her wrists were raw, her legs trembling.

Beneath her…

A viscous smear of blood stained the floor under her seat.

I felt my stomach turn.

No need to ask what they did to her. It’s all there. Every twisted method I can imagine… they used them. And more.

The memory of her—Celestia, the steadfast ally I once knew—rose in my mind like a ghost from a half-forgotten dream. It was back when this world was just a game, nothing more than pixels and lines of dialogue. In that version of reality, she had been a beacon of hope, elegant, composed, radiating quiet strength in a world devoured by despair. She was, quite simply, someone I cherished.

Now she sat in chains, her body marked by abuse, her spirit fraying but not yet broken. And the look she shot me… burned with fury.

“Joanne… Oakley…!” she hissed through bloodied lips.

The cursed chains Fuankilo had fastened around her throat clanked with her motion. Her whole frame was smothered in Aros’s “shadow”—the black, viscous magic that clung to her limbs like oil, the same darkness that stripped her will to fight. She must have resisted like hell.

It’s all my fault.

I stood paralyzed. The full weight of my betrayal—of throwing my lot in with the Aros Temple Cult—came crashing down like a slab of stone in my gut.

A twisting sickness churned in my stomach. Guilt. Shame. Despair. I had to focus to keep from throwing up.

“After Joanne departed, we made our exit from Daskel. Neither Saren nor Pomette pursued us… but Celestia did. She was brave enough to follow me alone, hoping to strike me down.”

Aros’s calm, dry recounting made the impossible sound trivial. And yet… the puzzle pieces locked into place. If Saren had still been nearby, the weakening effect of her phoenix flame would’ve rendered a capture like this impossible.

Alone? Celestia was vulnerable, especially to his magic.

Aros’s shadow magic could suppress spellcasting when it enveloped a person entirely. More than that, it preyed on doubt. Weakness of will. It could break someone from the inside. Once it took hold, it paralyzed aggression toward the cult.

I didn’t know what had made Celestia vulnerable, but the fact that she’d isolated herself and charged blindly into an ambush? That wasn’t like her. It was reckless. Desperate.

Why? What could’ve pushed you into such a stupid move, Celestia? You should have stayed with Saren and Pomette. You would’ve been safe…

Her swollen eyes met mine.

I couldn’t hold her gaze.

I wanted to rush forward, to kneel beside her and free her from those filthy shackles. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t afford to look human. So, I masked my expression, lowered my gaze, and played the part of the quiet bystander.

If this went on, Celestia would die. Not just die. She’d be erased. Her body, her soul, her memory—all wiped from the world without even a trace left behind. She wouldn’t get to see her friends again. Cress. Pomette. Saren. They’d mourn.

No matter how I try to think my way out of this, it’s the worst-case scenario. Damn it. Aros and the others are too sharp…

As I silently racked my brain for a way—any way—to get Celestia out of here, she suddenly coughed and raised her bloodshot violet eyes.

“Oakley Mercury. It was you, wasn’t it?” she rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. “You’re Joanne’s marker… You used the healing magic’s secondary effect to transfer the other five executives into the city. If only I had… If only I had killed you first, then Daskel wouldn’t have—”

A harsh thud cut her off. Fuankilo’s boot buried itself deep into Celestia’s solar plexus, her smug grin framed in satisfaction. Celestia gagged, folding forward with blood spewing from her lips.

“I’m technically a non-combatant, you know,” Fuankilo said, voice honey-slick with glee. “It’s always been a dream of mine to sink a heel into an executive of the Orthodoxy.”

“You’ve already had your fun— Guh!”

“You’ll stay quiet, unless you’d like to lose a few more teeth.”

She smiled brightly as if this were a tea party. A disturbing glimmer danced behind her eyes. And yet, this wasn’t what struck me most.

It was the realization that Celestia… had figured it out.

She’d unraveled the truth behind the Mobile Fortress Plan. Aros and the others would never let her leave here alive.

Of course, she figured it out. She always did. Damn it, Celestia…

“It seems, Oakley, she’s quite fixated on you, isn’t she?” Aros mused, his head turning slowly to face me. “I suspect her obsession and desperation made her more susceptible to my magic. That’s why it worked so well.”

Three times now, she had let me escape. Each time, I had slipped through her fingers, and because of that, Daskel had fallen, its streets littered with the dead. The guilt of that must’ve been eating her alive.

She wasn’t just physically cornered. She was mentally shattered.

“Would you care to try it yourself, Oakley? When else will you have a chance to kick an Orthodox executive?”

He wasn’t testing my loyalty—at least not overtly. It sounded more like a casual offer, as though he genuinely thought I might enjoy it. And worse… the others were watching.

Some of their stares were curious, eager to see if a mere initiate would lay a blow on a once-great sister. Others were blank with that glassy-eyed fanaticism unique to the cult. Refuse Aros’s goodwill, and you invite death.

I hesitated only briefly, then gave a short nod. Just enough to keep appearances.

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward. “I owe her a debt, after all.”

Celestia’s battered body came into full view—bruises, blood, and torn dignity painted across her once-proud form. Yet it was the look on her face that gave me pause. A glimmer of desperate sorrow flickered in her eyes. It wasn’t a plea for mercy… but for reason. For humanity.

My fingers twitched.

Fuankilo, standing beside me with an eager sparkle in her eye, stepped aside like a game show host inviting the next contestant. But I exhaled, let my shoulders relax, and lowered my stance.

“I’ll pass,” I said quietly. “I won’t lay hands on someone who’s about to become an ally.”

“Oh? I see… That’s one way to look at it.” Aros’s voice was amused but nonchalant.

No judgment. Just curiosity. I turned away and stepped back, distancing myself from the cluster of zealots. I didn’t want to breathe the same air.

As Fuankilo passed by, her expression soured, the smile falling from her lips like rotten fruit.

“Well, I don’t share his restraint,” she said sweetly. “I don’t care how many times I kick her. It’ll never be enough. May I?”

“Go ahead. She’ll heal.”

“You know, she really does have the perfect face for this. Almost too pretty to ruin.”

With a delighted hum, Fuankilo backed up across the narrow room. Her heels tapped rhythmically against the stone, like a child preparing for hopscotch.

Then she launched.

A blur of motion. A crack like thunder.

Her boot arced through the air, and the blow landed clean, snapping Celestia’s head sideways with a sickening crunch. Several teeth went flying.

“Delicious!” Fuankilo gasped, her voice trembling in sadistic bliss.

I clenched my fist.

God damn it… This woman. This thing—

Something boiled inside me. Not rage. Not grief. Something deeper. More dangerous.

She has to die.

I don’t care how or when, but one day, I will drown her in molten iron and watch her bones melt to slag.

I nearly choked on the fury surging up my throat. My mutilated hand trembled at my side, every phantom nerve screaming for justice. I locked the emotion down like a secret, sealing it into my chest so tightly it felt like it might crack open.

“Youth these days! Such vigor!” Shadik cackled.

“That was a strong one! Well aimed!” Aros added.

They clapped and laughed like they were at a party, not inside a torture chamber.

Celestia’s head hung, but her eyes… God, those eyes.

They burned.

No tears. No surrender. Only fire. Her teeth clenched so hard I heard one shatter between her jaws, and her gaze promised vengeance fierce enough to level this entire damned cult.

I felt it.

Because I felt the same.

We’re the same right now, Celestia. The same helpless rage. The same hopeless fury.

But how?

How do we kill these demons?

“Kill me already,” Celestia muttered, teeth clenched and voice low. There was no defiance in her words, only grief. Exhaustion. A hollow plea from someone who had already been broken.

It didn’t suit her. Not the woman who once glowed like a beacon of resolve, standing proudly against impossible odds. But surrounded by six cult executives, even someone like her had no chance.

Fuankilo chuckled, brushing a few pale strands from Celestia’s bruised cheek.

“Come on now. You know we’re not gonna kill you.”

The cursed chains wrapped around Celestia’s neck pulsed dimly, as though awaiting their master’s next command. Their glow wasn’t just for show. It meant they were ready.

They wouldn’t kill her because Aros had other plans. His power wasn’t just destructive. It rewrote minds, bent memories, crushed identities. The longer a person remained bound in his shadow, the more pliable they became. First came the suppression of hostility. Then, the subtle erosion of will. And finally, compliance.

It was a dark alchemy of influence. Risky, yes. Most people’s minds shattered under the pressure. But Celestia’s will was uncommonly strong. She wouldn’t break easily, which made her the perfect candidate.

Better than letting her die a martyr, right? Let her live. Let her serve as their eighth executive.

“By the way, Fuankilo-sama,” I said, forcing a calm tone. “You mentioned she said something strange?”

“Oh, not much. Just that you were a loyal little lapdog of the Orthodoxy,” she said, voice casual and cruel. “Also brought up someone named Alfie. Again.”

That name.

My spine snapped to attention like a struck chord, sweat crawling down my back in cold, sharp rivulets.

Celestia’s gaze sharpened.

She caught it.

Even through her bruises and blood, her suspicion was like a dagger sliding between my ribs.

“Being the Orthodoxy’s ally was a necessary lie,” I said with a controlled shrug. “It’s how I escaped her in the first place. That lie allowed the operation to succeed.”

My voice didn’t waver. My face was calm. But under the surface, I was drowning in panic.

The cursed chains hadn’t moved. Fuankilo hadn’t lashed out. Maybe—just maybe—she didn’t find my answer worth punishing.

She tilted her head ever so slightly and smiled like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s neck.

“Still, who is Alfie? Celestia, could you say again what you know?”

Celestia’s breath hitched. Then, with forced calm, she replied.

“Alfie was a civilian who died in the battle of Metasim. That’s all. Though… come to think of it, Oakley was unusually fixated on him. Where did you hear that name, Oakley?”

Celestia had to open her mouth and say something dangerous again.

Damn it, Celestia. Don’t go saying stuff like that—it just makes things worse!

A rush of raw panic clawed through me, like someone was scraping a wire brush across my insides. That one throwaway line—“Alfie might be the key to defeating Aros”—was coming back to bite me. And hard.

Fuankilo tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with malicious delight, “My, my… Sounds like your crazy talk and reality are starting to blur a bit. Oakley, why don’t you explain that for us?”

Her voice rang a little too clearly in the tight space.

Six executives.

Six pairs of eyes bored into me, cold and curious and full of teeth.

This is bad. This is so, so bad.

It was supposed to be dismissed as the ramblings of a lunatic. Just background noise from a half-broken zealot. But now… Now it sounded plausible.

“I already told you,” I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m fixated on Alfie because I’ve got memories of living as him. That’s all. He’s real to me. That’s it.”

Celestia’s brows furrowed, not in disbelief but in quiet suspicion. She could hear the strain in my voice. So could everyone else.

Before I could come up with another lifeline, Fuankilo’s expression sharpened. I didn’t even have time to react. The cursed chains lashed out like snakes, wrapping around me, locking me in place.

“We know that not everything you said about Alfie was delusional now,” she said, a little too sweetly. “Which means we need to go back and re-evaluate all of it. Don’t you think?”

“Fuankilo,” Pawk interjected with an exaggerated sigh, “we already settled this. Can we please not?”

“Oh, come on, Pawk,” Fuankilo snapped. “What if we were wrong? What if Oakley-kun isn’t crazy at all? What if he’s been playing us this whole time?”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Don’t say it. Don’t say what I think you’re about to—

“What if he’s completely sane?” she added.

There it was.

My stomach dropped. If they didn’t think I was insane, then I had no more excuses. No more wiggle room. No more safety.

Pawk gave an exasperated sigh, throwing her arms up, “Seriously? You’re doing this again? You’ve been picking on Oakley from day one. People’s minds break sometimes. So what? He still pulls his weight. Right, Joanne?”

The name-drop hit like a jolt. Joanne froze for a second, like she hadn’t been paying attention, then suddenly nodded so hard I thought her neck might snap.

“Y-Yeah! My Oakley’s awesome!”

The girl who practically defined “unhinged” was vouching for me… and somehow, it helped.

In this cult, madness wasn’t a flaw—it was a credential.

Joanne. Stella. Hell, half the people in this room weren’t right in the head. And the cult still worked like a well-oiled nightmare machine.

Then I realized what Pawk had really meant. If I’m still pulling my weight—even if I’m crazy—then what’s the point in condemning my madness?

“You’ve had your own slip-ups when your faith got the better of you,” Pawk added, her voice smooth but unmistakably pointed.

“That was…” Fuankilo faltered, for once unable to clap back.

“The whole mystery around Alfie is a little suspicious,” Pawk continued, calmly brushing her bangs behind her ear, “but honestly, it’s not that important to us right now. I don’t think digging deeper will get us anything new beyond what we already know.”

Fuankilo went quiet, clearly out of retorts. Her silence was all the confirmation I needed.

Alfie was my second self. My past. Maybe even more than that. But no matter how deep they dig, they’re not going to find anything else because Alfie’s already dead.

If he were alive, maybe things would be different. But the truth is simple: an ordinary boy died, and that’s all there is to it.

“It’s not like you have foresight or clairvoyance or anything,” Fuankilo muttered, folding her arms.

“I don’t,” I replied flatly. “I’ve never had any kind of special abilities.”

That much had already been tested and confirmed. Her chains flinched slightly at my words, testing them, but didn’t move to restrain me—a silent verdict of truth.

They reached this same conclusion back when they first interrogated me. My memories, my knowledge of the original story—none of it points to a tangible truth they can access. And as long as that veil stays up, they’ll never reach it.

Fuankilo clicked her tongue and retracted the chains, stomping over to a chair in the corner of the room and collapsing into it with a heavy thud. She was clearly stewing in her doubts. I could see it in her eyes. Deep down, she was convinced I wasn’t insane at all—that I was just pretending.

If that was what she believed, then it didn’t matter how many results I delivered or how many battles I survived. Fuankilo would never trust me. Not truly.

This time, I had Pawk and the others to thank. Their support had gotten me through. But what about next time? If she keeps calling me out like this, she could end up blowing everything I’ve planned.

“Don’t sweat it, Oakley,” Joanne said cheerfully, slapping me on the back like we were in some kind of sports club. “She’s just jealous you’re rising through the ranks so fast.”

“Shut up, Joanne,” Fuankilo grumbled without looking up.

Fuankilo’s high heels struck the floor with a sharp crack, slicing through the tension like a whip. While I was still wondering if that outburst was rooted in something more profound, my gaze caught something else entirely.

Wait… what’s she doing?

In the center of the room, still bound to the chair, Celestia’s eyes were darting left and right, frantic and scanning.

What the hell, Celestia? Don’t tell me… No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare open your mouth!

My body twitched instinctively. I almost moved to shut her up by force. But then I realized. Her eyes weren’t on me. In fact, they hadn’t even flicked my way once.

She’s not thinking about me… She’s watching something else.

Outside. Beyond the walls. Her entire focus was fixed somewhere out there. The conversation around us lulled into a brief silence. That was when Celestia spoke, her voice strained but chillingly clear.

“Fuankilo Legacy. I’ve completed my analysis of your magic.”

“What’s with the sudden formality?” Fuankilo sneered.

“Retribution will come for you. Soon.”

It should’ve sounded like a hollow threat, a desperate bluff from someone utterly cornered. And yet… there was something behind her words. A weight. A force that pulled at the nerves in the back of my skull.

“Aha. Oh, I see. So, this is your victory speech?” Fuankilo chuckled, arms crossed, unimpressed. “You do realize that’s supposed to come after you actually win, right?”

Celestia didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t even look at her. Something else had her focus, and now it had mine too.

My gaze dropped to my left hand. Specifically, my ring finger. And like a floodgate opening, the thoughts came all at once. That flicker of confidence behind Celestia’s desperation. Her behavior—carefully controlled, pulling information, buying time.

She knew about the Mobile Fortress Plan.

That meant…

She’s got a marker.

It hit me like lightning. No matter how far-fetched it seemed, I couldn’t shake the conclusion. A tether, just like mine. A one-time escape clause. The kind that turned suicide into strategy.

That’s why she chased after Aros and the others on her own. It was a suicide mission—unless she had an out. Unless she was following our playbook.

My hand rose to cover my mouth, not to hide a gasp, but to stifle a laugh. A laugh of recognition. That madwoman… She was playing the same game as I was.

Where’s the mark, Celestia? Where’s your lifeline?

Ears, eyes, fingers, feet, skin, limbs. All accounted for. No visible damage. But that meant nothing. I couldn’t let appearances fool me. Just because nothing seemed missing on the outside didn’t mean she hadn’t removed something internal and hidden it. Removed it. Transferred it.

I clenched my jaw.

Remember the rules.

Aros’s magic had one clear limitation: it only suppressed hostile acts against members of the Aros Temple Order. Self-harm? Suicide? Those weren’t restricted. A person could kill themselves right under his nose, and his magic wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it.

She was watching us, not out of fear, but with cold calculation.

Trying to position herself where none of us could intercept her if she suddenly made a break for it—or worse.

So that’s it… That’s why she let herself be seen, why she didn’t sneak into Metasim in secret.

Celestia wasn’t the distraction.

The marker was.

She’d quietly brought someone else in. Probably positioned at just the right distance to pull her out with a single, pinpoint teleport. All she had to do was survive long enough. Stall us.

The others wouldn’t suspect a thing. They didn’t understand how that kind of setup worked, but I did.

She’s got this figured out down to the second.

The unhealed wounds made sense too. They weren’t signs of incomplete torture but of incomplete recovery. Her healing magic couldn’t function if the missing pieces of her flesh had been intentionally removed and stored elsewhere.

God, it was brilliant.

Yes! That’s it, Celestia! Do it. Disappear. Escape!

If anyone could pull this off, it was her. No one was better at slipping away. If she made it out—just her, just one person—it would still change everything. She’d take vital intel with her: the current state of Metasim, its layout, the number of active cultists, even Fuankilo’s formerly secret abilities.

That alone would tip the balance.

Hope surged in my chest like a held breath finally released.

The Aros Temple Cult may be cunning, but the Kenneth Orthodoxy isn’t finished yet.

The cult had conquered Metasim. They’d burned Daskel to the ground. But this escape would be a win—a real one. It would ripple outward. Strengthen the resistance. Reignite everything we’d lost.

I looked up, a spark of light beginning to reach my eyes—

And then the door creaked open behind us.

A heavy voice rang out through the chamber.

“Aros-sama. We’ve captured the infiltrator.”

The world collapsed around me. A dull, wet weight slammed into my chest.

My eyes snapped to the source of the voice, and with them, all my hopes came crashing down.

The doorway was crowded with cult soldiers, their armor blackened with grime and ash. Clutched between two of them, dragged like a discarded rag doll, was the figure of a captured Kenneth intelligence agent.

Stella’s delicate lips curled in an eerie bow.

Then, like a switch had been thrown, she burst into a mad, shrill peal of laughter that echoed off the dungeon walls like cracking glass.

Aros stepped forward, moving with exaggerated grace, arms spread in feigned astonishment as if miming a question in a child’s puppet show. Celestia, bound and broken in the center of the room, went pale. Her entire body began to tremble.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my… And who might this be, Celestia-san? A spy, is it? A spy? Oh no, no, no… That’s quite unacceptable…”

Her lips parted in a strangled gasp, “H-How… How did you—?”

The flickering flame of hope she’d carried all this time was snuffed out in an instant. Horror spilled across her features as Aros’s shadow magic deepened and began to seep into her skin, swallowing her whole.

“Did you really think we hadn’t accounted for this?” Aros asked.

Stella’s sweet, sing-song voice followed. There was a soft innocence to her words, made all the more horrifying by what they described.

“Just like Aros-sama said… Stella remembers smells. Stella memorizes them. Blood. Meat. Fat. Bone. Spinal fluid. Celestia’s scent? Stella learned it days ago.”

She’d laid a net. And Celestia—poor, brilliant Celestia—had walked straight into it.

“N-No… Stop!”

She didn’t stand a chance.

With the cruel glee of a child playing with a doll, Stella folded the captured spy’s limbs backward—elbows, knees, shoulders—snapping them in grotesque directions like someone twisting pipe cleaners. The sound of breaking bone echoed like thunder, masking his scream entirely. Flesh tore. Sinew popped. There was a wet, grinding crunch, like the sound you hear when turning a millstone with too much pulp in the mortar.

Then it rained gore.

Blood sprayed across the floor in long streaks as the spy’s dismembered remains scattered like shattered porcelain.

Stella dropped to her knees and began to gather. She cupped torn flesh in her tiny hands like a child collecting seashells, scooping the mangled man into her arms—

—and began to drink.

Gulp… Gulp… Gulp…

The sound was wet and slow, like soup being slurped from a ladle. Her throat moved with each swallow, pale lips slick with blood.

She fed like a spider in her web.

Somewhere between the splashes of red and the stink of hot iron, a small chunk of something soft fell from her blouse. It landed with a moist slap.

I recognized it instantly.

Pink. Quivering.

It was Celestia’s—a piece of her. One of the internal organs she must have carved from herself and passed to the spy, a last-ditch failsafe for a transfer spell—a final hope.

And now… it was gone.

Stella bent low, picked it up with careful fingers, and cradled it like treasure.

Then, smiling faintly, she whispered, “Bon appétit.”

She pressed her palms together in mock reverence.

Then, with theatrical flourish, she rolled the pink flesh across her tongue—slowly, as if savoring fine wine. She chewed in deliberate, exaggerated motions, making sure Celestia could see every twist of her jaw, every obscene flex of her throat.

Then she swallowed.

Swallowed her escape.

Celestia’s transfer marker, her final chance at salvation, was now digested and sealed in a monster’s stomach.

“Ahhh… The taste of Celestia’s despair… A once-in-a-lifetime delicacy,” Stella purred, trembling with bliss.

A single droplet slipped from beneath Celestia’s jawline. Whether it was a teardrop or sweat, I couldn’t tell. I stood frozen in the corner, utterly mute. Even breathing felt sacrilegious.

They’d anticipated everything.

The escape plan, the transfer, the marker—all of it. Celestia wasn’t the one who had fallen into despair. I had too.

I was the one with nothing left to cling to.

Aros stepped forward with a preacher’s poise, shadows already writhing at his cuffs like eager snakes.

“Worry not, Celestia. Your despair shall soon be reborn as the fullness of hope itself.”

“No,” she cried, but her voice was a mere whisper.

It was gone in the next instant.

The living ooze of Aros’s magic surged forward, engulfing her like an onrushing tide. Black, viscous, sentient, it wrapped her like a cocoon, pulsing and expanding until it formed a trembling sphere of shadow in the center of the room.

For several tense seconds, the mass quivered, then solidified with a crackling noise, hardening like stone. Cracks ran down its surface before bursting outward like an egg shattering at the seams.

From the split shell, she emerged.

Celestia. Dressed now in an inverted version of her clerical robes—black where there had been white, crimson trim where there had been gold. Her eyes had lost all their light, becoming twin voids of bottomless night. The chains that had once held her were gone. She stood unbound, her presence unnervingly silent.

And then Aros declared, “Our eighth and newest executive, Celestia Hothound. Welcome… to the Aros Temple Cult!”

The room erupted.

Cheers, applause, joyous howls from the cult’s twisted congregation thundered around us. In the middle of it all, as the darkness celebrated its latest conquest… I stood utterly alone, drowning in quiet, suffocating despair.

Chapter 6: And It All Starts in the Pit Again…

Several days passed in holy Metasim, now desecrated by corruption, with Celestia—once a proud warrior of the Orthodoxy—utterly brainwashed and twisted into a puppet of the cult.

Just as I’d feared, no one came. Not Saren. Not Cress. Not a single one of them.

Celestia was gone. Not dead, maybe, but erased all the same.

Even I, ever the schemer, ever the survivor, began to feel the weight of what had happened in my soul. A hundred times, I thought about ending my life. Wouldn’t dying be easier than this? Every move I made turned against me like a blade. Maybe I was cursed from birth, born under a star that delighted in suffering. I couldn’t even stand the sight of myself anymore.

It’s all falling apart. Maybe… Maybe everything really is my fault.

Alfie’s death. The collapse of Daskel. Celestia’s fall. All of it.

“Nnngh… Hey, Oakley. You’ve been out of it lately.”

“Yeah. I guess I have,” I said softly, without looking up.

We were in the newly built executive quarters reserved for the higher-ups. Specifically, we were in Joanne’s room.

On her bed.

I was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, and Joanne had wedged herself right between my thighs, pressing her back against my chest like I was an armchair. Her body was light and delicate compared to mine, and she had all but melted into me, forcing me to support her weight while she toyed with my hands. Her fingers kneaded my palm lazily, pressing into the flesh like dough.

I let her.

“What’s going on with you, huh?” she asked, glancing up at me with an almost pouty concern. “We wrecked Daskel, turned Celestia into a doll, and now the Aros Temple Cult is totally on top. We’re winning so hard it’s stupid. What’s up with you? Did something bad happen or what?”

That’s the problem.

Metasim’s fall followed the canonical timeline—fine. That was expected. But Daskel’s destruction? Alfie’s death? Celestia’s damnation?

That wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

Emotionally, strategically, morally, everything was tightening around me, slow and suffocating, like being strangled with silk.

I hadn’t done any of this out of malice.

Every choice had been for a peaceful future. For the victory of the Kenneth Orthodoxy. For a better world. I’d been willing to step back—just once—to take a few steps forward.

Yet it had all backfired.

The only halfway decent thing to happen in the past few days was that I’d finally been granted a private room near the executive quarters. It was a reward, apparently—recognition for my “outstanding contribution” to the Daskel raid.

I wasn’t the only one. Other cultists who’d pulled off major wins in their respective branches had been given rooms of their own, too.

Having a space to myself where I could actually rest and plan without looking over my shoulder was a pretty significant win—at least on paper. Realistically, though, it just meant my living conditions had gone from subhuman to barely tolerable, a jump from negative to zero.

As I sat in our small sanctuary, sighing over my ever-worsening situation, Joanne pressed the crown of her head into the underside of my jaw. Hard.

“Hey, Oakley. You know, they say cuddling with your lover’s supposed to cheer you up when you’re feeling down,” she said.

“Is that so?”

We were already doing that. Well, at least she was.

Once again, I was little more than Joanne’s living plushie. She’d nestled herself into my lap and was now forcing me to hold her from behind in some pseudo-hug while she played with my limp arms like they were accessories. The contact was constant, smothering.

To be fair, when she was in this sort of mood, Joanne was utterly harmless. Still strange and bloodthirsty, of course, but harmless. Right now, I could keep her in check with a few noncommittal nods and by patting her head every so often.

However, it appeared I’d been a little too half-hearted. Her tone shifted, and her pout deepened.

“You’ve been giving me lukewarm answers this whole time… Do you hate me or something?” she asked.

“No. It’s not that,” I replied quickly.

“Well, yeah. I know that much, but…”

She sounded frustrated—more so than usual, probably because my mood was dragging down the atmosphere. And honestly? I didn’t blame her. Still, expecting me to be all smiles after everything that had happened lately? That was asking too much.

While I remained quietly pensive, Joanne let out a murmur and then suddenly clapped her hands together, “Ah! I’ve got it! You’re scared of Celestia, right? That’s what this is!”

After a moment of confusion, I asked, “Huh?”

“She was a pain in my ass too, you know. No surprise you’d be scared. I mean, you don’t even have healing magic. She did try to kill you three times, didn’t she? And now she’s supposedly one of us. That’s gotta mess with your head.”

“Maybe I do feel that way,” I conceded. “Deep down, without realizing it.”

Joanne’s guess wasn’t exactly wrong. It was not quite right either, but it was close enough. I was glad Celestia was alive and one of us. But that was a thought I could only celebrate back when I was aligned with the Orthodoxy. Over here, on the cult’s side, her presence only made everything feel worse.

“Well, forget about that woman. You’ve got me, Joanne Sagamix, the ultra-gorgeous girl of your dreams, remember?”

Any time Joanne tried to cheer me up, it always involved praising her own looks. That bizarrely inflated self-esteem of hers… It never failed to get a laugh out of me. This time was no exception. A small flicker of amusement touched my face, just enough to tug at the corners of my lips.

The moment she noticed, she beamed—an unfiltered, sweet little smile, like a puppy proud of itself for cheering up its owner.

Then, still smiling, she used her absurd strength to pin my wrist in place.

“Touch me.”

Before I could react, she dragged my hand to her throat. That forceful act didn’t feel threatening. It felt more like an odd gesture of encouragement, like she was saying, “Stop flinching. You’re stronger than this.”

Giving in to the moment, I brushed my fingers across her neck, tracing just beneath her chin with gentle circles. Her skin was soft and warm. Like a cat getting scratches under the jaw, Joanne purred with satisfaction.

“I was hoping you’d choke me a little, though…”

Her lashes dipped as she whispered it, her voice silkier than usual, laced with something deeper. Seduction? Madness? Both. Her narrowed eyes gleamed with a dangerously alluring light.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she guided my hand lower, placing my palm right over her throat. The pulse in her neck was strong and steady beneath my fingers.

She didn’t say a word. Just stared, as if daring me to tighten my grip, testing me. Those swirling jade eyes of hers gleamed like whirlpools of madness, ready to pull me under.

I almost let them.

Instead, I gently pushed her hand away, keeping my tone even.

“I can’t do something like that,” I chided gently.

“Worth a try,” she replied, a teasing note in her voice.

I could tell she’d hoped I would—just a little.

Maybe it started back when we kissed, when everything went to hell, and she caught me in that moment of desperation. Since then, her behavior had changed in subtle, eerie ways. She was still a limb-obsessed yandere cultist, yes… But now there were traits she shouldn’t have had. It felt as if she was evolving into someone beyond the original script.

And that, too, might be my fault.

I’m the one who’s been raising Joanne’s affection all this time, kissing her, bathing with her, indulging her weird kinks. Hell, I’m probably the one who started the whole body-swapping fetish in the first place.

Is this what they mean by a girlfriend picking up her boyfriend’s hobbies?

In any case, Joanne was just a collection of text once, a character trapped in lines of code. But then I’d shown up and gotten involved. And now she’d developed into something far more complicated and unstable than the original script ever intended. Her mind, her madness, her twisted affection… They all felt like my fault.

It was just a hunch, but I had the sense that if I let things progress any further, something inside her might explode. Not metaphorically either, but literally. I could feel it, coiled and waiting, somewhere deep in that manic heart of hers.

“Thank you, Joanne-sama. Thanks to you, I feel a little better now. That said, I just remembered something I need to take care of, so I’ll be—”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

Her tone snapped like a trap springing shut.

Before I could shift, she twisted her body on my lap and spun around to face me, straddling me in one fluid motion. Her eyes locked onto mine with a predatory gleam, the sort you’d see in a wolf that had just sniffed out prey.

I glanced around the room out of habit—no blades or hedge shears in sight. That alone was a minor miracle.

Still… this is bad. I need to see Celestia soon. By now, they’ve probably wrung whatever intel they wanted out of her. If I don’t get to her quickly…

I had planned to visit Celestia as soon as possible to assess how much the brainwashing had affected her. Based on what I remembered from the original story, brainwashed characters retained most of their memories and personality.

The only real changes were in their faith and alignment. Their reverence for the Orthodoxy flipped into devotion to the cult. Love became hatred. Loyalty inverted itself. Everything they once stood for was reversed.

I needed to confirm exactly what had changed. Not just how she saw the Orthodoxy, but how she saw me. That part mattered more than anything. It would decide how I would play things in the future.

As far as I knew, there was only one way to reverse Aros’s brainwashing.

One.

A technique called Brainwash Reversal, wielded by none other than Orthodox executive Cress Walker, the lightning mage. It only ever appeared in the corrupted “Dark Alfie” storyline. The method? Rewiring a victim’s brain by manipulating the electrical signals in their nervous system. Pure insanity. Dangerous, painful, and likely to kill the subject outright if done wrong.

In the original story, Brainwash Reversal almost failed. But if there’s even a sliver of a chance to bring Celestia back to her senses, I’ll need Cress’s help. I’ll try what I can on my own, of course, but let’s be honest. Right now, things look grim.

“You’re really hung up on her, huh?”

Joanne’s exasperated laugh snapped me back to reality.

The delicate curve of her collarbone caught my eye, just beneath the narrow column of her pale neck where my hand had been a moment ago. Her shirt, loosened from how tightly she was clinging to me, sagged at the neckline, giving me an unintended, dangerously enticing view of her chest.

That was when it hit me.

A strange sensation. Not just the usual awkwardness or guilt, but something different. My heart ached. Literally ached. Each beat throbbed with an intensity that bordered on painful. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Had I gotten sick? Was I… feverish?

Panic gripped me. My mind started spiraling, thoughts speeding up like a runaway engine, and the only thing I could focus on was Joanne. Sitting in my lap. Pressed against me.

“This spot’s really got your attention, huh? You’re always sneaking glances. Just admit it already,” she teased, flashing that bewitching smile of hers.

“No— I mean, I’m not always looking—”

“Mm?”

Darkness swallowed my vision.

A humid warmth enveloped my face, soft and pliant but strangely firm. It took me a second to register what had just happened.

My face… was buried in Joanne’s cleavage.

Like a face mask. A warm, living, slightly sweaty face mask. Not that I’d ever used one.

“See? Feels good, doesn’t it?” she said, clearly enjoying herself. “I wanted to do a swap instead, but that’s for another time. Figured we should learn the normal ways, too. Y’know… for us.”

She ran her fingers gently through my hair as she spoke, trailing softly down to the back of my head. That distinct scent—part blood, part sweat, part sugar—hung thick in the air, as intimate as a whisper.

Beneath the pale glow of the twin mounds just in front of me, I could make out faint capillaries beneath her translucent skin. I wasn’t just seeing Joanne—I was experiencing her. Every nerve in my body was drinking her in.

It was overwhelming. Bewildering. And, somehow… comforting.

“Amazing,” I muttered.

“Yeah?” she replied, her voice as smooth as silk.

“You’re amazing, Joanne-sama.”

“Damn right I am,” she said with a satisfied grin.

The hollow in my chest filled just a little. A hundred percent pure madness—undiluted love—poured into me. My brain began to melt. Each pump of my heart sent blood coursing through my body, thick with euphoria and relief. My limbs slackened. Every muscle loosened under the weight of something warm and sickly sweet, overwriting the despair.

Joanne seeped into me. Bit by bit, her presence saturated my skin, flowing into my veins like heat through frostbitten hands. We were… blending. Fusing.

No. This is poison. A slow, incurable venom. I knew it even as it drenched me. Knew what lay ahead was hell.

Still, I couldn’t resist.

Her voice, caressing my ear like a lullaby, dulled the edges of my thoughts, which were already worn thin from failure after crushing failure. Her gestures, overbearingly tender, smothered what remained of my resistance.

“If you want… we can stay like this forever,” she murmured.

She said it like I had a choice, but I knew better. The moment I so much as flinched, she locked her arms around my waist like steel cables. I couldn’t move. Wouldn’t have, even if I could.

From somewhere, a flood of something dangerously pleasant spread through me. It felt like the kind of happiness you were never meant to survive. Like narcotic euphoria injected into my veins by a devil made flesh.

I’m losing myself.

Have I always been this weak? If I could be swayed by something like this, how can I claim to be prepared for what’s ahead?

I have to kill her. Sooner or later, she’ll need to die, dissolved into slag at the bottom of that smelter.

When it was finally over, when she was satisfied, she let me go. Her smile was pure, like she’d just given me the world and asked nothing in return.

It worked. I was feeling better. Or rather, she’d wrung something out of me forcefully, like blood from a stone.

She wasn’t just some girl with feelings. She was a tool. A piece on the board. I needed her to achieve my dream. But the dream couldn’t survive if I let myself get attached. If things went too far… If I hesitated even once, it could all fall apart.

She’s a pawn. Use her. Ignore the warmth. Ignore the glint in her eyes. Crush her if you must.

Even thinking that made something in my chest sting, a dull prick, subtle but insistent, undeniable.

Why does it still hurt? Why won’t it stop?

Before I could wrestle with it any longer, I jumped up and bolted from Joanne’s room like a man fleeing a fire.

I had somewhere to be, someone I needed to see.

Celestia.

I waited at the entrance to the underground torture chamber. Eventually, Celestia emerged, ascending the stairs at a measured pace. She must’ve just had every last scrap of information wrung out of her.

Not that it had to be wrung. No, the current Celestia had probably offered it all up with a smile. A smile programmed into her by hands that had twisted her mind like soft clay.

When our eyes met, she came to a halt. Her silver hair swayed gently with the motion.

There had been changes. Small, perhaps, but unmistakable. The long, silken strands of hair remained, but her eyes… Her amethyst eyes had dulled. Once shimmering with resolve, they now looked hollow. Murky. Stripped of humanity. Her smile, too, had lost its warmth; no longer tender and bright but cold and practiced. Like a porcelain mask stretched over a dead thing.

Her robes, once a blend of pristine white and navy—the signature garb of the Kenneth Orthodoxy—were now a twisted mockery. Saturated in black and crimson, the very colors felt like a warning. She looked less like a priestess and more like some venomous tropical spider.

The style of her clothes, too, had changed. What had once modestly covered her now revealed far more, with a plunging neckline and slitted sides that sliced high up her legs. It was an outfit that screamed, “Look at me, I’ve fallen.”

All of it made me hesitate.

How the hell was I supposed to talk to her now?

Back when we were enemies, I’d call her by name without a second thought. But now? She was technically a fellow executive, ranked above me—even the puppet of a mad god. Yet she had a past. A name soaked in blood. She’d slaughtered hundreds of cultists and had driven even some of the top brass, like Joanne, to their limits.

Aros didn’t seem to care about that sort of history. He’d taken her in as easily as a man buying a new coat. But the regular cultists? They didn’t know what to do with her. You could see it in their sideways glances, the awkward tension in the halls.

And me? I was no different.

I could keep calling her “Celestia” like before and keep it casual. But… she outranks me now. Wouldn’t hurt to play it safe.

I didn’t want to admit it—not even to myself—but a part of me still couldn’t fully accept her fall. Not yet. Not like this. I wanted to turn away. Run, maybe.

Instead, I drew in a breath and addressed her.

“Do you remember me, Celestia-sama?”

My voice came out too polite. Too cautious.

Celestia scratched at her cheek awkwardly, as if even she wasn’t sure how to respond.

It was clear she retained her memories from before the brainwashing. The way her eyes flickered, pained and uneasy, told me she still remembered everything—every clash, every word exchanged in battle.

“Of course, I remember you, Oakley. I caused you a great deal of trouble… but from now on, let’s work together as allies of the Aros Temple Cult.”

Allies. That word hit like a blade through my chest, and for a moment, the world tilted.

I fought the overwhelming urge to shake her by the shoulders and scream, “Wake up! This isn’t you!” Instead, I forced my face into a neutral mask and nodded.

“Of course. I look forward to working with you, Celestia-sama.”

“Oh, no need to be so formal,” she replied gently. “You used to call me by just my name, didn’t you? I imagine that would be easier for you.”

Her smile was soft—warm, even—but the light was gone from her eyes. When she narrowed them in that familiar way, the expression mirrored the one she wore in the days before all this madness. Yet it felt more haunting than comforting.

It hit me like a landslide. All the peaceful moments I’d spent with her during the Celestia route of the game, her route, the first I ever played, not out of strategy or completionism, but because I genuinely liked her. She’d been my favorite.

She had been the first heroine I’d chosen of my own volition, not for stats or CG completion, but because I wanted her. I still liked all the Orthodoxy’s heroines, but Celestia held a special place in my heart. You never forget your first.

My hand twitched toward her cheek, almost on instinct.

I stopped myself, fingers clenched so tightly into fists that my nails dug painfully into my palms. I couldn’t allow myself even that much. Not now.

Maybe she misread my expression—perhaps she saw fear instead of heartbreak—because she offered me an out with a faint smile.

“Would you walk with me for a bit?”

She stepped into the streets of Metasim, and I followed.

“This town’s come a long way. There was a time I feared it wouldn’t recover.”

“Well, it is supposed to become the holy capital of the Aros Temple Cult,” I replied, tone flat. “Aros-sama has been quite committed to its restoration and growth.”

We passed by the site where the old Kenneth Orthodoxy once stood. She didn’t even glance at it.

Not long ago, she would’ve stopped to pray. She had lived by the teachings of that church, day after day spent in prayer, volunteering her time, spreading the gospel, working to uplift the poor.

She must’ve spent countless hours within those walls.

Now she walked past them like they meant nothing.

She loved her life with the Orthodoxy. She really, truly loved it.

And yet she didn’t look back.

She didn’t even look sad.

She’s really gone, isn’t she?

“Oakley? Are you feeling unwell? Your face is pale.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I wasn’t fine. My chest felt tight, like my lungs had forgotten how to breathe. Like every breath I could take wasn’t enough.

Celestia, oblivious to the storm raging inside me, kept smiling.

I asked her why the mission had failed, why she’d been captured.

What she told me chilled me more than I’d expected.

The pseudo-marker operation had been Celestia’s decision alone—a desperate, reckless plan born not of strategy, but of guilt. After failing to kill me and allowing my escape, the resulting collapse of Daskel had struck her harder than anyone realized.

That single failure had torn into her sense of judgment, and without that clarity, she’d tried to patch the hole with an unplanned emergency transfer operation.

A gamble.

Aros, as always, had been several moves ahead. The plan had failed completely.

The worst part? Celestia had been too shaken to even take her own life. She couldn’t bring herself to self-terminate, couldn’t use her internal marker to escape by transferring her vital organs before Stella devoured them. That final step of survival required resolve, and she’d lost it in the fog of her own collapse.

She’d accepted the worst ending. Let it happen. Because in that moment, she had truly believed she deserved it.

I knew the feeling all too well when despair grips your heart so tightly that it strangles all thought. When you look into the void and see only your failures looking back. It’s not cowardice, you’re drowning.

All those moments, one after another, had built toward that catastrophic outcome in Daskel. The worst-case scenario in every sense. That was how it all went down.

Now, under her guidance, we climbed the tallest structure in Metasim: the old clock tower.

Somehow, it had survived the city’s destruction. The symbol of the town’s past still loomed above the ruins, cracked and hollowed in places but intact enough to stand. From its uppermost platform, you could see everything—the twisted new bones of the city Aros had claimed for his own.

The tower’s high perch was fractured with deep fissures and wind-scoured holes. You wouldn’t want to stand too close to the edge unless you had a death wish… or wings.

I sat safely near the center, far from the ledge. Celestia, of course, did the opposite.

She stood at the edge of the balcony, where the structure jutted out dangerously into the air, letting the wind sweep past her. There was no fear in her posture. Why would there be? She could fly, after all. Even if she fell, the sky itself would catch her.

“It’s a strange feeling.” Her voice was soft.

She gazed down at Metasim, at the broken city below, crumbling and reawakening as something new and unholy. Her back was to me. All I could see was her silhouette against the gray sky and the wind.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Celestia didn’t look at me. Her eyes remained fixed on the scarred city below as she answered, voice tinged with something indescribable.

“When I look at this place, it stirs everything. Nostalgia, sorrow, despair, and beneath it all, this overwhelming sense of joy that I can’t explain.”

The wind caught her silver hair again, lifting it like silken ribbons in the twilight air.

Something twisted in my chest.

She wasn’t gone. Not entirely. The Celestia I knew—the one full of kindness, faith, and unwavering love—still flickered somewhere inside her, flickering through that broken vessel like the last embers of a dying flame—just enough hope to make it hurt. Gods, don’t show me that sliver of light. It’s worse than the dark.

It was like watching a dove in chains sing for its captors.

I forced my voice into a flat, detached tone. I had to. I couldn’t let her see the war waging behind my eyes.

“You’re confusing it with your memories from the Orthodoxy. It’ll pass in time.”

“I know that. At least, I believe I do. I tell myself the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid means nothing to me now, that those attachments have all faded, but what I felt in that moment of change—that, I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

She leaned further out over the balcony, gazing down on the remnants of the world she once loved.

“That’s the garrison, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything left of it now.”

The former outpost of the Orthodoxy’s soldiers where Joanne had launched her devastating first strike was still crushed under a large boulder. The remnants of the assault hadn’t even been cleared away.

“Looks like only the refinery and a few shops are still usable,” Celestia murmured.

“Yeah,” I said distantly. “They’ll be useful…”

The smelter. I’d almost forgotten.

I have to kill Fuankilo there.

She was too dangerous to be left alive. That cursed magic of hers—subtle, inescapable, and precise—was worse than any fireball or blade. Moreover, she refused to stop meddling in my life. I knew I wouldn’t get another chance once her suspicion grew again.

I couldn’t afford to waste any more time sulking.

The furnace would be operational soon. What I needed now was a weapon.

Something long enough to bypass the two-meter range of her curse-magic. Something strong enough to threaten even her regenerative capabilities. A crossbow wouldn’t cut it.

Fuankilo… Just thinking her name dredged up an old memory of when we were back in the cavern, during the bomb experiments. I’d come within an inch of death thanks to her “curse.” That had been dangerously close.

Bombs. And spears—the only long-reach weapon I knew how to handle with some reliability. Spears had their uses, but they lacked killing power unless perfectly aimed.

But bombs… Bombs were perfect.

With the right setup, I could vaporize her completely—no cells, no curses, no second chances. Even if it didn’t kill her outright, it might give me the opening I needed to knock her into the smelter.

Bombs and a spear, then. I’ll rethink the details once I get back to my room.

As I collected my thoughts, Celestia’s voice stirred the air beside me.

“Oakley, do you know a girl named Marietta?”

I stiffened. “I do. Sort of. Why are you bringing her up?”

“Marietta Vallières. The red-eyed, chestnut-haired girl. The only survivor from the city of Metasim. If you see her, I want you to kill her. Without hesitation.”

I was momentarily struck dumb. “What?”

Her words felt like ice water down my spine. Kill Marietta? The same quiet, gentle girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly? The one who, by some miracle, had escaped the hell of Metasim with her life?

What possible threat could she pose now? Why not just let her go? Let her live?

Celestia pressed on, calm and clinical as a surgeon carving into flesh.

“After the fall of Metasim, she was the only one left alive. That night, I found her whispering, ‘I’ll kill them,’ over and over. It wasn’t a one-time thing. She eventually calmed down, or so it seemed… until one night, I caught her standing before a mirror, murmuring those same words to her own reflection.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s… disturbing.”

“She endured the flames of hell. Her psyche is operating at the brink. Later, when we spoke more candidly, I came to understand the depth of her hatred. It’s profound, unwavering. Given time, she will rise and ascend within the Kenneth Orthodoxy. One day, she will come for us.”

Marietta. The girl who had survived in Alfie’s place.

She might have once been the soft, kind soul I remembered. But after Metasim? Clearly, something inside her had snapped. Maybe she, like Alfie, had inherited the kind of resolve that turned into something terrible.

Still, when I met her back in Daskel, she’d seemed so normal. So harmless.

Was that all just a mask?

She’s just a kid. Middle school age at most. There’s no way anyone would witness that kind of hell and come out the other side unscathed.

Even imagining what must be churning inside Marietta’s heart was terrifying. When I saved her back then, maybe she’d already been pushed past her breaking point—so far gone that she’d achieved a twisted sort of serenity. The kind born only after your soul had been ripped apart.

“Do we really need to kill her?” I asked reluctantly. “She’s just a child.”

“Children can be just as dangerous as adults. Sometimes more so.”

“I get that, I do. But… that dangerous?”

“I believe so,” Celestia answered, her voice even and sure. “I pride myself on my ability to read people.”

She was referring, of course, to her belief that Marietta could rise all the way to the upper ranks of the Kenneth Orthodoxy. And frankly, I could feel it too—that same uncanny chill of possibility.

Because Marietta’s story was starting to mirror Alfie’s.

Is that it? I wondered. In a world where Alfie dies, Marietta takes his place? Inheriting his path, his role, maybe even his fate?

I didn’t want to believe in fate. But seeing their lives play out like this—two fragile souls thrown into the meat grinder of destiny—made my chest ache.

A world where Marietta died and Alfie became the hero.

A world where Alfie died and Marietta took up the mantle.

Either way, it was the same hellish burden. People loved calling it “savior of the world,” but the reality was blood and fire. It was a title that shaved years off your life and forced you to kill over and over again. There was nothing noble about it—just tragedy given a prettier name.

They shouldn’t have to carry that.

They never should’ve been chosen.

That’s why… I’ll do it instead. I’m the one gifted with external knowledge. I’m the one who knows what’s coming. It’s on me to shoulder as much of this as I can.

“Marietta… Got it. I’ll remember.” I feigned casual indifference, pretending I didn’t already know who she was.

“Please do,” Celestia said with quiet gravity. “The most terrifying thing in this world is a person who’s made up their mind to fight to the end.”

Yeah… don’t I know it.

With that grim warning still lingering in my ears, I headed toward the spiral stairs of the clock tower, mentally sifting through everything I’d just learned. More intel. More emotional wreckage. More reasons to act.

“I’ll be off, then,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Just one last thing,” Celestia called after me.

Her tone was different. Subtler. Sharper.

I froze mid-step.

Wind danced through the tower, stirring her hair. She pressed one hand to her head to keep the silver strands from tangling in the breeze, the other still at her side. Her eyes locked onto mine, glimmering with something I couldn’t quite name.

“You once told me, didn’t you? That you were on the side of the Kenneth Orthodoxy. That was a lie to deceive me, wasn’t it?”

A chill rippled down my spine.

What…?

My heart began to pound. There was something off about her gaze. Something that saw too much.

Before I could speak—or even think—she vanished.

One blink. That was all it took.

The only thing left was the faint breeze she’d stirred in her wake.

※※※

Under the full moon, Stella Belmont sat by the window, gnawing on her fingernail.

Click, click, click.

The sound echoed through the room like a rodent cracking open seeds.

Outside, in the garden bathed in pale moonlight, two figures sat together on a bench—Oakley Mercury and Joanne Sagamix, shoulder to shoulder, too close to be casual.

“Joanne-sama, you’re too close. It’s hard to move like this,” he said.

“Hm?” she murmured.

“That’s not an answer.”

Click, click, click.

Every time Joanne so much as touched him, Oakley clutched his chest, right in the center, as if it ached. The space between them teetered on the edge of vanishing entirely—and Stella didn’t miss it. Her crimson eyes gleamed with quiet fury as she narrowed her gaze on Oakley’s subtle, unnatural movements.

Snap.

Something inside her frayed.

Joanne, what did you do to his body? Oakley’s acting strange. You did something, didn’t you?

Without hesitation, the gothic girl bit off her pinky finger and swallowed it whole. Blood dribbled between her lips, staining her teeth like berries crushed against snow. Then, flaring her small nose, she inhaled.

Deep. Focused. Precise.

Her olfactory senses surpassed human limits. She could detect microscopic scent variations that no one else could. And now, those tiny chemical whispers curled into her awareness like smoke through a keyhole.

There it was.

That faint, elusive difference.

The smell of flesh, of Oakley and Joanne, was ever so slightly altered. Beneath the familiar bouquet of muscle, blood, and sweat was a subtle shift in aroma. A difference no one else could sense, but to her, it was blinding.

That was what had triggered her unease.

Recently, the air around the holy city of Metasim had been thick with the scent of flesh. Rich. Overripe. Cloying. The source? Celestia. Or rather, what Stella had done to Celestia.

In order to verify whether the nun harbored any hidden traps within her body, even ones she herself might not be aware of, Stella had disassembled her. Carefully. Thoroughly. Then reassembled her. Almost perfectly.

The lingering fragrance had clung to the city like perfume on silk, making it nearly impossible to detect anything new or distinct.

That was why she hadn’t noticed until now.

How careless of me, she seethed.

After the Daskel incident, Oakley was unconscious for several days. During that time, he was kept in the torture chamber. That would’ve been the perfect opportunity for a swap.

The scent of Oakley inside Joanne.

The scent of Joanne inside Oakley.

They had done it.

Joanne had tampered with his body. Of that, Stella was sure. Oakley himself might not realize it, but to her, with her supernatural senses, it was glaringly obvious.

So… the ring finger wasn’t enough. She swapped out his organs. Unbelievable, that woman…

Jealousy clawed at her throat like a choking vine.

Oakley Mercury isn’t ripe yet. He’s still green, unready. Just a little longer and he’ll be crimson, dripping sweet, and bursting with flavor. She had planned to wait. To watch. To savor every stage of his growth before the moment of harvest.

Joanne—that filth—had defiled him early. She had left her taint on unripe flesh, and the fury that surged in Stella’s chest nearly made her scream.

“Fffuuuuh…”

Her sky-blue eyes flared with a wrathful blaze, locked on the two entangled figures below the window. They were far too close. Practically one being now. But it wasn’t their affection that angered her.

It was the desecration.

Oakley should only be “harvested” once he was ready, once he had mastered healing magic. Only then could she harvest him again and again, breaking and mending, tearing and stitching, without ever losing the prize.

That was her aesthetic.

That was perfection.

Tampering with him before he rose to the rank of Aros Temple Cult executive, before he reached his peak, before she learned how to put him back together properly—that was unforgivable.

Joanne… you walking garbage heap. Deranged freak. Psycho. What could Oakley possibly see in you?

The fruit named Oakley had now been pushed to the edge of rot. Just as she’d feared, by accepting a part of Joanne into himself, Oakley’s body had begun to break down. His constitution was changing. Damaged.

It was a tragedy.

The taste in her mouth turned sour, like vinegar, overripe with envy.

Obviously, Stella is the better woman.

Chaste, refined, and a rare gourmet within this cult, her standards of beauty and nutrition eclipsed everyone else’s. She was immaculate—an artist of flesh and feeling.

Maybe, just maybe, all men really care about is breast size.

Stella looked down at herself, at the black-and-white frills of her dress.

Her chest was modest. Extremely so. Even if the heavens flipped over and divine miracles rained from the stars, she would never match the apocalyptic curves Joanne flaunted.

For the first time in her life, Stella found herself resenting the size of her own chest.

That realization alone filled her with an indescribable mix of humiliation and rage. Being distracted by such pointless vanity—that, more than anything, stoked her rising irritation to a boil.

If Joanne keeps clinging to him like that, Oakley’s going to break. And if he breaks, my enjoyment—no, my rightful reward—will be stolen from me. I have to pull them apart. Now.

The truth was, Stella’s interest in Oakley Mercury went far beyond his flavor.

She had expectations. Grand ones.

After the Mobile Fortress Plan, what unspeakable idea would he dream up next? What new brand of horror would he unleash upon the righteous that would twist their faces into masks of despair? Only a genuine monster in human skin could walk such a wicked path. And that was exactly what made him magnificent.

Climb higher, Oakley. Reach the summit. And when you’re ready, Stella will grant you the honor of becoming an all-you-can-eat buffet, an endless harvest.

To consume him at his peak, as both a mature food source and a fully formed disciple of Aros—that was her dream. Anything less would be vulgar. Undignified.

Swooping in now, when he was emotionally weakened, would be nothing but predatory cowardice.

Stella was a lady.

A lady harvested perfection.

Below, Oakley pressed his chest, visibly perturbed. Then he turned, slipping free from Joanne’s animalistic coaxing, and distanced himself across the square. That was her moment.

Stella rose and descended the stairs. And when she reached Joanne, she didn’t waste a breath.

“Joanne. We need to talk.”

“What, now? I’m in a lovely mood after being ditched, in case you couldn’t tell,” she said with a sneer, full of theatrical sarcasm.

Her tone said one thing, but her body another. One hand was pressed against her chest—stroking it with a slow, reverent touch, like she was cradling something precious inside. Like a mother cherishing the life within her womb.

Stella sat down quietly in Oakley’s now-empty seat and met Joanne’s eyes with icy clarity.

“Return the organs you exchanged with him.”

She dropped the demand like a guillotine.

Joanne blinked, then offered a crooked grin. “So you noticed, huh?”

No attempt to deny it. No shame. Just that smug, snake-toothed smile that oozed defiance.

Worse, she clearly had no intention of listening.

“That reckless transplant is putting strain on both his body and mind,” Stella continued, her voice low and taut. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the signs.”

“Hmmm…”

Joanne’s lips curled into a beastlike grin. She wore the smile of someone who found a certain poetry in another’s suffering—detached and thoroughly vile.

“The short-term experiment may have succeeded,” Stella said coldly. “But prolonged bodily integration is still entirely untested. Reverse it. Now.”

Her words were delivered with an air of composed reason—convincing, even moral. But of course, Stella’s true motives were no less deranged. She simply wore her madness with more civility.

And Joanne knew it.

The wild girl’s eyes glittered with mocking delight as she pushed back with the cold, hard truth.

“Oh, come on. You want it done for your sake, don’t you? You’ve had your eye on his body for a while now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Stella is asking you not to put unnecessary strain on him.”

“You trying to act all noble?” Joanne laughed, a sneer stretching across her face. “You’re the one who wants to eat him. Spare me the righteous act, little miss cannibal. If you’re that bothered, go hunt down a new man. Want me to introduce you to one?”

Every word was a jab. Fast, agile, venom-tipped. Stella didn’t bother to hide the irritation that pulsed behind her calm expression. She realized now this line of reasoning was useless.

“The reason organ exchange hasn’t advanced is because there’s still a compatibility issue between human hosts,” she began again, hoping a different angle might work. “Long-term success depends on—”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Joanne all but yawned. Nothing was sinking in. Not logic. Not science. Not reason.

When it came to sexual obsession, no one was rational.

What neither of them could have known, however, was that Oakley’s body had already begun to change.

Not just physically.

Joanne’s organ transfer had triggered a phenomenon known as Memory Migration, a rare and poorly understood effect in which a donor’s memories, instincts, and even personality traits could be imprinted onto the recipient through the transplanted tissue.

Tiny fragments of Joanne—her taste in food, her compulsions, her twisted desires, her blind devotion to the Aros Temple Cult—had begun taking root in his unconscious mind.

His shifting feelings toward Joanne, the softening of his once-iron conviction to annihilate the cult, even his unease when trying to separate mission from emotion…

All of it could be traced back to that heart beating in his chest.

The one that no longer belonged entirely to him.

Joanne herself hadn’t foreseen this outcome, but it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Her essence had begun blooming inside Oakley’s mind. And with it came fractures.

Unaware of the psychological infection already taking root in Oakley’s mind, Stella laid out her final words with cool precision, wrapping up the conversation in a tone that was both commanding and civil.

“Our mission is to serve Aros-sama. Don’t tamper with valuable disciples more than necessary, Joanne.”

To Stella, Oakley’s body was a bonus, a delectable reward she would earn once their mission was fulfilled. A bonus she perhaps obsessed over too much. But even so, she never let that hunger outweigh her purpose.

Joanne, on the other hand, had grown dangerously attached, and now, that was a problem.

Grumbling under her breath and waving a hand with exaggerated irritation, Joanne finally relented.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. I went a little overboard. I’ll return the organ eventually, okay?”

“Set a deadline,” Stella insisted flatly. “By when?”

“Ugh, I dunno. How about…”

She trailed off.

And then—

Something changed.

As soon as Joanne opened her mouth to respond, her expression stiffened. At first, it was subtle, a flicker behind her eyes, a hiccup in her breath. Then came the heat.

What… is this…?

A warmth, inexplicable and overwhelming, began to trickle through her chest.

She’d been stroking the place above her heart—his heart, the one that now beat in her chest—when something inside her broke open.

Suddenly, a surge of raw, human feelings came flooding in.

Oakley’s feelings.

Memories that were not her own. Emotions she didn’t understand. A violent whirlpool of rage, sorrow, guilt, terror, longing—all of it rushing in at once, surging through her bloodstream like fire.

It wasn’t her pain.

It was his.

His confusion. His burden. His desperate, bleeding desire to survive. His hatred. His protectiveness. His love.

The volume was deafening.

What is this? What is this?!

Joanne staggered back, hand clutching her chest. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. It wasn’t just hollow emotion. This wasn’t imitation.

It was a transfer.

Oakley’s heart—the literal, physical organ now nestled inside her—had started pushing its memories into her consciousness.

Unlike Oakley, who instinctively recoiled from the foreign emotions welling up inside him, Joanne did not resist. That raging torrent of sentiment, completely unfamiliar to her, was met not with fear but with a strange, wordless empathy.

This is his, she understood without proof. These feelings belong to Oakley.

So, she embraced it.

What is this? This feeling…?

Despair. Helplessness. A wrathful sorrow so deep it clawed at her soul. Remorse toward Steve. A smoldering, bitter disgust for the Aros Temple Cult. And buried among the wreckage, faint yet unmistakable, a tiny ember of gratitude. Affection, even… directed at Joanne.

She hadn’t known.

She hadn’t realized what it was costing him to help the cult rise, how deeply it pained him, how fractured he truly was inside.

Strangely, she didn’t feel betrayed. No anger rose in her chest.

All she felt… was the desire to understand. To accept him completely.

To let Oakley melt into her just as he was—a raw, bleeding human being.

In that moment, wearing a smile soft as spring sunlight, Joanne—devout servant of the cult, lover of madness, twister of flesh—welcomed a feeling that should have shattered her faith but didn’t. Instead, it made her… gentle.

Oakley’s chaos, now entwined with her own, had begun to shape something new inside her. Something both beautiful and terrifying.

“Hey,” came a distant voice.

“Stella is still waiting on an answer,” Stella muttered, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Joanne said quietly. “I don’t want to give it back anymore. I want to keep it. Just like this.”

After a moment, Stella responded with an incredulous, “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to bed.”

Joanne turned to leave.

“Wha— Wait, wait just a minute!”

The moment Stella caught a glimpse of Joanne’s profile—bathed in moonlight, smiling with a purity that had no place in this world—her voice faltered.

“What the hell was that?”

It wasn’t the woman’s usual savage grin nor her smug, rabid smirk. It was serene, radiant, and… innocent.

“Don’t make that face out of nowhere,” Stella whispered. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Speechless, the gothic girl turned away, shaking her head as if to clear the fog.

Chapter 7: The Angel’s Heart

It had been days of strange, nagging discomfort—pain without a name, a fatigue I couldn’t shake. Amid all that, I started noticing something.

The female prisoners were disappearing.

Scattered throughout holy Metasim, these women had been captured by the cult. After their minds were broken, they were, bluntly put, turned into breeding stock.

This was the main reason women were so rarely seen among those faithful to the cult. With a few special exceptions among the executives, most were funneled into that terrible fate.

The children born to them were sent to educational facilities. Adult men and the elderly? All of them were turned into walking corpses, soulless husks shuffled into servitude. I couldn’t tell you which fate was worse, but that whole “breeding chamber” system was, without question, one of the cult’s most grotesque crimes.

Worse yet, managing that hellish place wasn’t just horrifying; it was grueling labor. So grueling, in fact, that even the most zealous cultists would flinch and mumble, “Please, not my shift…” whenever it came around.

I’d only recently been relieved of that particular duty, finally, officially off the hook.

If there was a single place that could be called the darkest corner of the Aros Temple Cult, it had to be that one. It was practically a dystopian nightmare made real—a human factory that produced only tragedy.

Not that there was much difference in anyone’s lot inside this cult.

After all, the faithful were brainwashed to believe that sweating, bleeding, and dying for Aros was the greatest of honors. They clung to it. Found joy in it.

Our values couldn’t be more different.

Men and women, young and old—it didn’t matter. Ninety percent of them were used until they collapsed. And even then, their corpses were revived and recycled into puppets for the next task.

Aros had once proclaimed that when his ambition was fulfilled, resurrection from death and a life of bliss would be granted to all.

Right. As if some sparkling dream at the end could justify all this cruelty along the way.

I’d almost forgotten what this place really was, having gotten into the good graces of the upper ranks. None of that mattered. The Aros Temple Cult was still a nest of monsters.

Their leader’s ambition? To use the total eclipse as a stage for mass sacrifice, slaughtering the faithful of the Orthodoxy to become a god.

Knowing all that, there was no way I’d ever side with them.

No way in hell…

And yet.

Since Daskel’s fall, a crack had begun to spread across the walls of my heart. A contradiction was growing between my body and my will.

The worst of my symptoms… is Joanne.

I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to push it away, to pretend it wasn’t there. But I can’t ignore it anymore. Not when the feelings have become this overwhelming.

Every time I speak to her, something unnameable rises in my chest—an ache, a pulse, a violent fluttering that rattles my ribs like a caged animal. Just seeing her profile makes it hard to breathe. The sensation grows stronger with each passing day, sharpening like a blade under friction.

I don’t want to believe my resolve is that weak. I made a decision back then, and I meant it.

This strange feeling wasn’t coming from me.

This had to be caused by something outside myself. Something unnatural.

Did Aros use magic on me? I didn’t recall being enchanted. There were no strange symbols, no incantations, nothing that would indicate a spell had been cast.

I sat with that uncertainty for a while, but no answer came—just a hollow churn of anxiety.

The disconnect between what I should feel and what I did feel was unbearable. My thoughts said one thing, while my body said another. It was as if I’d been rewired.

I couldn’t afford to sit around any longer. I needed to do something—anything—to make progress. And so, I decided to begin gathering ingredients for a possible antidote. Something that could reverse the brainwashing done to Celestia.

The forests around Metasim were dense with herbs, insects, and mycelium—a goldmine for alchemy. The original game never featured a cure for mind control, but it did allow for crafting tonics to soothe mental disarray or even aphrodisiacs during slice-of-life interludes. With the right materials, a makeshift remedy might be possible.

Even if there wasn’t a cure for brainwashing… giving up wasn’t an option.

Before heading to the forest, I needed to secure access to the smeltery. For that, I had to talk to Fuankilo.

I found her in the ruins of the old shopping district.

“Sure, go ahead.” She agreed so easily it caught me off guard.

I’d prepared a clever explanation. How, as a frontline soldier, I needed to understand weapon manufacturing. In the end, that excuse wasn’t necessary.

We headed to the smeltery together. She explained how the machines operated. Most of it I already knew from the game, but I listened in silence.

“You melt the metal in this container,” she said, tapping one of the industrial tanks. “Then you pour it into the converter. When I’m not around, you or one of my subordinates will be responsible. Got that?”

“Understood,” I replied with a nod.

The smile I gave her was hollow. I could feel it—a faint, brittle curve of my lips trying to mimic sincerity.

I owed her.

No. That was putting it far too mildly.

Every time something went wrong, Fuankilo was there, twisting the knife with that awful ability of hers. When the bomb test in the cave turned into a fiasco, when I snapped in Metasim, when she dug into Alfie’s past—

She’d tortured Celestia, too. More than necessary. She’d enjoyed it.

I couldn’t even articulate why, but out of all the maniacs in this twisted cult, she was the one I despised the most. They were all monsters, sure, but there was something about her sadism that hit harder than the rest.

“That’s pretty much it,” she said with a shrug. “Anything else?”

“No. I’ll be dropping by again tonight.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The sooner I carry out the plan, the better. Once the facility resumes full operations, cultists will be coming and going constantly. I need to move before that happens.

Ideally, I would make my move tonight. I already had the weapon in mind.

I would fashion a makeshift hybrid of a long spear and a bomb—primitive, but effective. I would tie the explosive to the tip of the spear and drive it into Fuankilo. The blast would hurl her straight into the smelter or, better yet, tear her apart from the inside, obliterating her to the last cell.

I’d use the same bomb that had turned that cave into a crater. That experiment hadn’t been for nothing after all.

“You’re really strait-laced, huh?” she muttered, giving a bucket a half-hearted kick. “I guess I gotta respect that.”

“You flatter me. I’m not nearly on your level, Fuankilo-sama.”

She bristled at that, probably irritated to see someone she’d spent so long distrusting rising through the ranks so smoothly. That was fine. Hatred made things easier. Cleaner.

“I heard the smelter’s getting a test run tonight,” I offered casually.

“A pre-test, technically,” she corrected. “Just making sure the machinery’s intact and can handle continuous operation.”

If it works… that’s my window.

The best-case scenario is that I kill her tonight, and it gets chalked up to a freak accident. One less sadist in the cult, one step closer to cleaning up this hell.

All I could do now was pray the smelter worked precisely as intended.

Back in my room, I threw myself into the development of a new drug but hit a wall almost immediately.

Undoing brainwashing wasn’t something that could be achieved with a few herbs and guesswork. Even with every ounce of synthesis knowledge I remembered from the original game, there wasn’t a glimmer of progress.

I could whip up aphrodisiacs and anti-confusion salves well enough, sure, but even that had its pitfalls. As soon as I mentioned I was making aphrodisiacs, Joanne swooped in and snatched away almost every last vial. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“She really took them by the dozen…”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could already imagine the day I’d get to experience those effects firsthand, and when that thought crept in, I froze.

Then I realized I was smiling.

“Huh?!”

I clamped my hand over my lips and trembled.

Why the hell did that make me happy?

The disgust that welled up at my own carelessness was instant and absolute.

Again. It’s happening again. This isn’t normal—I’m about to kill Fuankilo, and I’m… what? Fantasizing about getting pinned down by Joanne?

The image struck like lightning: Joanne pushing me down, her lips devouring mine, unrestrained and urgent, pleasure crashing over me in waves—

“Stop,” I growled aloud, shaking my head.

There’s no way this is me. No way.

It had to be mind magic. Or a drug. A hallucinogenic, delusion-influencing trick. A classic cognition-altering spell—something designed to warp perspective until truth and illusion became indistinguishable.

It’s like they’re submerging me in some kind of warm bath… something that slowly drowns my resolve, softens everything I am.

What the hell’s happening to my body?

I didn’t know. And not knowing made the frustration unbearable.

I had to free Celestia from her brainwashing. I had to kill Fuankilo, that sadist who kept pressing me for answers. Only then could we tip the scales back in the Orthodoxy’s favor. And yet, right now, my mind was falling apart. I couldn’t even think straight. The panic kept growing and growing and—

I was useless.

Scattered. Weak. Hesitant. My mind was worse than it had been even during that moment of clarity back in Metasim. Whatever remained of my original self was screaming now—screaming for help.

Worst of all, that cry was being filtered through the foreign personality that had been seeded within me. Twisted. Transformed into a distress call to reach out to Joanne or Aros, rather than escape the cult.

No. Nonono. This is bad. I’m alone, and this happens the second I let my guard down. My chest… It’s burning. Hurts like fire…

My fingers twitched violently, and I dropped the vial I’d been holding.

Then, before I could stop myself, my voice betrayed me.

“J-Joanne…”

Seconds, just seconds after I spoke her name aloud, a knock came at the door.

My spine straightened. Of course. Of course, she was already there.

With a trembling hand, I opened the door. There she stood—Joanne, beaming like a child on her birthday.

“You called, didn’t you? I heard you. I’m coming in.”

I couldn’t say no. The thought of refusing never even occurred to me.

Her arrival made me… happy.

Don’t come closer.

That contradictory emotion surged through me in an uncontrollable torrent, paralyzing everything from my feet to my lungs.

Joanne stepped forward, guiding me gently yet firmly by the shoulders. She ushered me inside and down onto the bed. That was when I saw it. Clutched casually in her hand was one of the stolen vials—an aphrodisiac.

“I’m sorry, Joanne-sama… I’m really not feeling well today. I’m not in the mood for that kind of thing…”

“Huh. And here I even came prepared.” She pouted, disappointed, her expectant gaze dimming slightly. Then with a shrug, she tucked the vial back into her robe pocket.

“No matter. I’ll nurse you back to health instead.”

She slid next to me with the ease of routine. It was too natural, too familiar, and I was too dazed to resist.

“Here.” She patted her chest twice, inviting me in with a little grin. Her black-tipped fingers gently rustled the sheets like claws teasing prey.

I followed without thought.

She smiled warmly and slipped an arm around my back. Unlike her usual aggressive embraces, this one was gentle. Intimate.

No… this is bad. When she’s this close, I can’t think.

Her fingers traced the curve of my cheek and slid down my neck before moving to rhythmically pat my back in slow, comforting intervals.

Like rocking a baby.

The sweetness of it was unbearable, a nauseating, all-encompassing tenderness, like sinking into a bath of sugar and sleep. My bones softened. My breath slowed—that gentle warmth—soothing, blissful, wrong—wrapped around me like fog.

I began to drift.

Just as my eyelids fell shut, Joanne’s body tensed beside me. She gasped sharply, clutching at her chest.

“Ugh… nngh, my chest—!”

“Joanne-sama? Wait— Ah—!”

The moment her pain erupted, a sharp bolt of agony shot through my own chest—same place. Same sensation. Like a needle piercing straight through the heart.

Joanne clung to my hand and pressed it against her cheek, her breath labored and smile wavering.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly. “I’m better now… yeah. Fragments of you just started pouring in, and my chest was about to turn into soup…”

It took me a second to process her strange words. “What?”

I didn’t understand what she meant. Not really. But the tight pain in her chest seemed to have subsided. At the same moment, the stabbing throb in my own heart disappeared too.

Joanne pulled me into her embrace again, and this time, she didn’t hold back. Her arms coiled around me like a serpent, and my face sank into the warm, heavy softness of her chest. My thoughts spiraled with a sickening fizz of contradictions. Disgust. Bliss. Revulsion. Need.

I can’t let this keep going. I have to put an end to this confusion before I make my move against Fuankilo.

“So… What exactly did you come here for today?” I asked.

“I was gonna jump you. Plain and simple. But… I changed my mind,” she replied.

“That’s surprising. The Joanne-sama I know wouldn’t have bothered asking what I wanted.”

“Yeah, well… something changed, all right.”

“I… see?”

She chuckled and tightened her hold on me.

“You’ve got some really interesting memories, you know?”

“What?”

“Ah— There it is again. Ahaha! So that’s what it is! I’m starting to really get you now!”

Her eyes blurred—literally. It was like her irises flickered in and out of focus, and her lips started spewing nonsense that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Being able to see into the heart of the person I love… I’m the luckiest girl in the world!”

Then she leaned in and kissed me on the forehead.

The moment her lips made contact— Snap.

A bright white crack of electricity arced through my mind. My spine arched involuntarily, and an unbearable jolt surged from the base of my skull straight down my spine. The pain ignited like a firestorm of nerve endings, detonating across my consciousness and converging into the deepest part of my brain.

What I saw next—what flooded in through that psychic door—wasn’t mine.

It was hers.

Joanne’s memories.

A jagged, searing shard of her past was now being forcibly injected into my mind, hijacking my senses, bypassing my will. There was no resisting it. No shielding myself. I was yanked into the flood and pulled under.

The worst part?

It burned itself into me like it had always been mine.

It began at the threshold between life and death, where I—or rather, Joanne—first encountered the masked man.

I wasn’t watching her. I was her. I could feel the hunger hollowing out my belly, the fevered tremble in my dirt-streaked limbs, the sting of cold air against skin that had forgotten warmth.

He stood before me, clad in obsidian robes with a tailored suit underneath, his face concealed by a ludicrous, grotesque mask. There was only one man in the world who would wear something like that and expect to be taken seriously.

Aros Hawkeye. The prophet of madness. The man the cult called a savior—the one Joanne adored like a god.

“Do not be afraid,” the man said, his voice smooth and reverent, with an almost choral softness. “Come with me, nameless girl.”

He knelt and reached for her—no, my—gaunt body.

His touch was inhumanly cold. His hands felt nothing like skin. They were like the surface of a glacier—silent, ancient, devoid of warmth. It was the embrace of something not quite alive.

Then the scene shifted. Time dissolved, and we were elsewhere. I found myself seated before a table of impossible luxury, gaping at dishes that shimmered in the dim light.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asked gently. “Eat as much as you like.”

My—Joanne’s—tiny hands twitched, unsure. Words wouldn’t come. I was starving. Every muscle ached. Still, I didn’t know how to use the utensils. Instead, I reached out with trembling fingers and began scooping the food directly into my mouth, as if afraid it would vanish.

It was ecstasy. The taste overloaded my senses. The food—real food—was so rich, so overwhelming, I nearly fainted after the first bite. Before I realized it, the plate was licked clean.

That was when the fear returned.

I’d eaten everything without permission. I hadn’t said thank you. I hadn’t even looked him in the eyes. What if this were a test? What if I were about to be punished?

“Are you gonna kill me now, mister?”

The question was asked in a voice so small, it barely echoed through the room.

“No,” he answered calmly. “I’m not going to kill you.”

I didn’t believe him. My hands moved to cover my face. I expected the blow, expected pain.

“Why did you feed me?” I asked. My voice was dry and hoarse. I barely understood the words myself.

“Because I wanted to help you,” he said. “That’s all.”

I wasn’t sure what he could possibly mean.

“Haha… a bit too cryptic, wasn’t it?” His laughter was light, unthreatening. And then, he raised a hand.

No.

He’s going to hit me.

Every nerve in my body screamed. I flinched. Curled into myself and protected my head.

Surprisingly, the blow never came.

Instead, he inhaled softly then lowered himself, bringing his gaze to my level. He didn’t grab me or strike me. He simply opened his arms and drew me in gently, as if I were made of cracked glass.

“I’m not your enemy,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid. I want to build a world without suffering.”

He held me like I mattered.

I didn’t understand what he meant. Not entirely. But his touch wasn’t cruel. His words weren’t threats. Slowly, breath by breath, I began to believe. This person won’t hurt me.

As that fragile hope bloomed, so did the guilt.

“I’m sorry…”

The words came out unbidden. Not once. Not twice. Again and again, like a broken machine stuck on a single phrase.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

I had hit him. Kicked him. I’d screamed, maybe bitten. And yet he’d fed me. Saved me. Now I had nothing to give back except this one pitiful, overused phrase.

Aros said nothing.

He simply smiled. Then, he knelt fully on one knee and took my trembling hands in his.

“Would you lend me your strength? So that together, we might achieve true happiness.”

I—Joanne—nodded without hesitation, reaching out to touch the shifting shadow that swirled in the man’s outstretched palm.

Everything went white.

When the world came back into focus, I was staring into the soft, pale glow of Joanne’s skin, so close it filled my entire vision.

That memory just now… What the hell was that?!

The violent emotional surge still echoed inside my chest, a sickening blend of awe and nausea. A pressure born from forced synchronization—some kind of spiritual resonance—rattled my convictions to their foundation.

There was no mistaking it. That memory was hers—Joanne’s.

I’d never seen that scene in the original game. Maybe it had been tucked away in a short, easily missed line of dialogue. Or perhaps it was the sort of hidden lore that only obsessive players could piece together through vague implications and context clues.

Either way, that vision hadn’t come to me randomly.

Think. What did she say just before it happened? Something about my memories. “You’ve got some really interesting memories, you know?” And then she just… started laughing.

Which meant she knew this would happen.

She knew I would see her past, as she had seen mine.

I felt my body go limp, like the muscles holding me up had all collapsed in a single motion. Panic rose like a black tide in my gut.

She’s seen it. She’s seen everything.

Not just my personal life. Not just Oakley Mercury’s memories. She’d seen my original memories, my real ones. The world I came from. The game. The knowledge of everything this world was supposed to be.

If she grasped even a fraction of that—if she understood the strategic value buried in my memories—the entire balance of power in this world was doomed. Not just the Cult or the Orthodoxy.

The whole world.

Oh God… what have I done?

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My eyes blurred with tears, not from sorrow but from all-encompassing, suffocating dread.

This was the worst possible outcome. The one thing I’d sworn could never, ever happen. And now, it had. The world’s most dangerous girl had peeked behind the curtain.

A hand moved slowly through my hair, petting me in slow, affectionate strokes. I couldn’t move. I was cradled in her arms like a treasured doll, completely enveloped in her warmth.

She’s going to kill me.

I couldn’t even lift a finger to resist.

Strangely, Joanne said something that shattered me in an entirely different way.

“So, you never knew your parents’ love either, huh?”

Her words struck like a stone to the temple—jarring, disorienting, wrong.

What…? What is she talking about?

No matter how I turned the thought over, it didn’t line up. Even as Oakley Mercury, I had grown up in a modest, loving home. I wasn’t pampered, sure, but I had known warmth. Structure. Safety.

My past wasn’t marked by cruelty or neglect. It had been painfully average.

Everything had changed the day my village was attacked by cultists. I was just a child—too young to understand what was happening, much less defend myself. That tragedy had led me here. Ten years old, barely more than a shell, I’d awakened to the memories of my former life inside a hellish cult facility. From that moment on, Oakley and I had been one, sharing knowledge, emotion, awareness.

However, neither version of me had grown up unloved.

What exactly had Joanne seen?

Was she mistaken? No, that didn’t make sense. She had no reason to lie—not about something like this. She wasn’t the type to bluff in matters of the heart. Nor did it seem like some hallucinated memory or delusion.

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” she murmured, breath tickling my ear. “But it feels good somehow. You hear that? That sound… Won’t you listen to it for a bit?”

Before I could respond, she tilted my head and pressed my ear against her chest.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Her heartbeat roared like a piston-driven furnace. Too powerful for a single human to need. Furious and hot and strangely… familiar.

I should have resisted. Should have pulled away. But I didn’t. I just listened, drowning in it.

“You saw my memories, right?” she whispered. “What did you think?”

What does she know?

She spoke as if she was sure—certain—that I had seen something meaningful. Something painful. Something she wanted me to understand. Was it all some sort of calculated trap? A mental assault meant to twist my mind?

I swallowed thickly, trying to steady my voice.

“Was it Joanne-sama? Did you cast some kind of mind magic on me?”

“Magic?” Joanne asked, obviously perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Huh?” Now it was my turn to be confused.

Joanne’s answer was without a hint of pretense. No dodging, no performance. Just simple, earnest confusion in her tone.

I knew that about her. Joanne was, to put it bluntly, a terrible liar. That shameless boldness of hers wasn’t for show. She was the kind of person who couldn’t mask her emotions if she tried. If she were lying, her voice or expression would give her away instantly. Even without using Fuankilo’s magic, I could usually tell.

Right now, she looked genuinely puzzled by what I’d said.

“Magic, huh? Well, maybe it is kinda like that,” she said, tilting her head. “Us meeting like this feels like magic.”

The sudden romantic shift in her tone was so far removed from the gravity of our conversation that it took me a moment to register it. As if trying to feel something inside her chest, she slipped a hand under her robe and began lazily tracing the center of her sternum with the pads of her fingers.

Her touch, strong enough to sting, was probably gentle by her standards.

“I want you to know me better, Oakley. I want your heart to race for me. More and more…”

Her voice curled like smoke around me, heady and suffocating. Still, I couldn’t back down. I had to confront this, had to understand what had just happened.

“I saw it. The moment you met Aros-sama,” I said carefully. “It was… vivid.”

“So that’s what you got. I wonder what you’ll see next?”

“I… I couldn’t say. But please answer me, Joanne-sama. What did you see in my memory?”

The question tore itself from my throat with more force than I’d intended. And at that very instant, something deep within me—something that had always been Oakley—screamed in protest.

My limbs trembled. Not from fear of her, but from the raw, primal revulsion rising in my chest. A grotesque sense of dread.

I needed to hear her answer. And yet, every nerve in my body rebelled against it.

Her lips parted.

The world seemed to slow, the edges of my vision darkening under the weight of what was coming.

And then she said it.

“I saw you being born inside a breeding vat.”

“What?”

The impact was like a blunt weapon driven into my gut.

No. More than that. It was as if she’d gouged a hole through the center of my being and began crushing everything around it.

A breeding vat? She’s saying that in this life, I was born from one of those awful things?

It wasn’t the memories from my past life she’d seen, not the world I came from. But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t lying. Somehow, I knew what she’d said was true, and that terrified me.

Had I really been born in one of the cult’s human production facilities?

Did I come from one of those synthetic wombs—sterile, lifeless, built to mimic a placenta, but devoid of anything human? No warmth. No soul. Just meat in a vat, grown and harvested. And then what? They’d implanted false memories of parents and a hometown? Fabricated a life I’d never lived?

A wave of nausea clawed its way up my throat. Every part of me wanted to reject her words, to cast them out as some twisted joke. But I couldn’t. I knew she was right. I knew it, and it was killing me.

No! No, that’s not true! My memories… My memories are real!

I turned inward, frantically clawing through Oakley’s recollections, forcing myself to relive them.

The village where I was born. My parents. Friends. The neighbors who used to smile and wave. The scent of home. The warmth of it.

They were all real. Weren’t they?

I felt them. Deep in my chest. Etched into my soul.

They weren’t just dreams.

I could name the village.

It was—

Huh…?

No. Wait.

It wasn’t a village; it was a town. That’s right—a small town.

The town of…

Nothing.

My mind went blank like a light switched off mid-thought.

Okay, maybe I was misremembering. I just need to dig deeper.

My parents’ names. I’ll start there.

Nothing.

My childhood friends? Nothing.

Suddenly, it hit me.

I couldn’t picture their faces.

Not even in fragments or some distorted image. It wasn’t like they were blurry; it was like they’d never existed.

My memories tried to reconstruct the scenes: a neighbor waving, my mother smiling, a friend shouting my name. But each time I tried to focus, the image was overtaken by static. Everyone’s face was blank, mannequins with smooth, featureless masks.

The scenery. The sounds. The smells. All of it was sterile.

Artificial.

Why is everything so broken? When did it start falling apart?

Flashes of my childhood drifted to the surface, bits of the education curriculum they pushed on us as kids.

It was absurd. Absolutely warped. The Kenneth Orthodoxy was painted as evil incarnate, while every depraved act committed by Aros was exalted as holy writ. Indoctrination disguised as learning. A joke.

Still, it made sense. They couldn’t afford to waste time enchanting every single child born from those breeding vats. Instead, they handed the job off to the lowest-tier zealots—non-executive cultists—who could implement the program with minimal effort and maximum compliance.

If I’d grown up in this cult, then there was no way I wouldn’t have gone through that curriculum.

Was that when they got inside my head?

Was it drugs? Or something else?

No. No, that’s ridiculous! It’s not possible! My memories are real!

Frighteningly, somewhere in the pit of my gut, the foundation cracked a little more.

Even in the original game, there were scenes that hinted at the indoctrination of children. I could remember that much. They used a compound during those lessons, a drug for emotional manipulation and cognitive control. What was it called again?

Come on. Think. You just need to stay calm and follow the memory’s thread…

The cultists used—

Something.

Something that caused mental interference. That much I’m sure of.

Am I?

No.

I didn’t know anymore. I couldn’t trust myself. One doubt gave birth to another, and soon my entire sense of reality had started to blur. Joanne said I was born from a breeding vat, and despite how hard I tried to deny it, her words felt… believable, more than my own broken recollections.

I had seen her memories. Lived them. Felt them in my bones.

Next to that, what were the vague images I had of my own past worth?

Still, every part of my soul screamed in protest. This is panic. That’s all it is. My memories weren’t fabricated. They couldn’t be.

So, which is it?

What am I? A person? A replica?

I have to remember something, anything. When did it happen? What did they do to me? Go back. Dig deeper. Find the first memory. Think back to the very beginning!

Nothing.

No matter how hard I clawed at the inside of my skull, no matter how much I shook or how close I came to crying, there was nothing solid. Not even a scrap.

And then—

Ah.

A single image surfaced. Dusty and faded, but real.

Ten years old. That was the moment.

The moment the memories of my past life had returned. The moment I’d tried to run. Tried to escape the cult’s facility.

When the guards caught me trying to escape, I was locked away for three days.

That’s when it happened. That was when they’d planted the false memories, built a fabricated hometown to give me something to cling to. Something that would pacify me.

Children born from those breeding sacs, raised under indoctrination, trained from birth to obey—how likely was it that one of them would try to escape?

None. Not a chance.

Which meant I wasn’t just a rogue element. I was a malfunction—a glitch in their design. And when I broke protocol by trying to run, they punished me the only way they knew how. They rewrote my mind.

Within the hazy, heat-warped mess of memories, voices echoed in my skull like ghosts whispering through a broken intercom.

“What about this one?”

“He tried to run.”

“Did he say why?”

“Refuses to speak.”

“Guess the rapid-growth protocol isn’t foolproof.”

“What do we do?”

“He’s too promising to waste. Patch him with fabricated memories. Give him something that’ll stabilize him.”

“Emergency treatment, then?”

“Seems his emotional development lagged behind the physical. This should fix it.”

“I don’t get it, but sure. If this works, it’ll save a lot of effort.”

“Humans are simple. Toss them some fabricated sense of peace, and they’ll cling to it like it’s everything.”

Children produced from those sacs had their natural development accelerated through rapid-growth drugs, reaching the physical equivalent of ten years old within days of their artificial “birth.” But the body and the mind never grew in sync. So, the cult forced their minds to catch up through additional layered drug treatments over months, hammering in obedience and constructing identity through artificial means.

Now it all made sense.

I’d tried to escape when I was ten. That was the original me—the part they couldn’t control. A defect. A bug in the system. They’d rewritten me, reprogrammed me, and told themselves it was just a fix, nothing more.

What they didn’t count on was that, years later, a storm of trauma, emotion, and memory would short-circuit the whole facade and bring it all back.

If I’d fallen under Aros’s shadow possession, I would’ve confessed everything—exposed the entire truth under compulsion. But that hadn’t happened. Which meant the memories of my previous life hadn’t been leaked.

That didn’t mean I was safe.

I clenched my jaw, wrestling down the storm surging within. They’d rewritten my memories for their convenience and played with my life like it was a toy, something disposable. They’d tampered with my soul and forced me to play a role I never chose.

What do they think a human life is worth?

Gods. They think they’re gods.

My sense of self—the part of me that was “Oakley”—fractured under the weight of truth. There was nothing left. No home to return to. No family bound by blood. Born from an artificial womb, a cursed breeding sac, I’d never had a mother or a father.

My identity was crumbling. The tug-of-war inside me intensified: one half merging with the cult, the other screaming to flee into the arms of the Orthodoxy. I finally understood why no cultist ever miraculously turned sane. Why no one ever defected out of remorse.

Because not knowing is easier. Because ignorance feels safer. Because if you simply smile and obey, Aros-sama will lead you to paradise.

What blissful idiocy. It was such a comforting delusion.

No… no, damn it… Don’t mock me like that. Don’t you dare reduce me to that!

The nausea rose like bile in my throat. Every part of this—this system, this cruelty—was foul. There was no dignity, no meaning—only manipulation.

I wrenched myself out of Joanne’s arms, muscles spasming with disgust. My back arched as I rolled off the bed.

“Gah!”

Pain exploded in the back of my skull as it struck the floor. I groaned, clutching it, my vision blurring.

Behind me, I heard her shift—quietly, gently—dropping to her hands and knees and crawling toward me.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Her voice… held no mockery. No aggression. Just honest concern.

She didn’t see me as an enemy. Not now.

I still didn’t know why she hadn’t seen my past life. Maybe the memories we were exchanging were tied only to this current body’s experiences. Maybe that was the rule. Maybe that was the limit of this strange phenomenon we were caught in.

Memory Migration.

That had to be it. I’d heard whispers of such things—how a donor’s memories or impulses could bleed into a new host through organ exchange. In our case, it had to be the ring finger.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t poison. This wasn’t something that could be resisted.

I thought back to that night—the Daskel ambush—after I collapsed in Joanne’s arms…

Why did I wake up bound and gagged?

Once a single thread caught, my thoughts refused to stop unraveling.

The erratic pounding in my chest. The dissonance that rang beneath Joanne’s affection. The chaos wrapped in her smiles. It wasn’t just madness or lust—it was something else. Something deeper.

No… what if I was wrong?

I had assumed the memory transference came from the finger we exchanged. But what if that was only part of it? What if the real trigger was something far more vital?

Like the heart still pulsing behind my ribs, stolen and replaced.

The moment that possibility snapped into place, something in me gave way. Horror surged through every vein, dragging a sick sense of understanding with it.

“Joanne-sama,” I said hoarsely, “you… you switched our hearts, didn’t you?”

Joanne’s eyes lit up. A delighted grin bloomed across her face as she clapped her hands together in manic glee.

“Oh wow! You figured it out? That’s amazing! I hadn’t even told you yet! How’d you guess?!”

Clap, clap, clap. The sound was light, almost childlike, and yet it scratched at my sanity like nails on a chalkboard.

“G-Give it back…” My voice cracked, and my hands trembled. “Give it back to me. Please… I want it back…”

“Huh? But… why?” She tilted her head, genuinely puzzled, like she couldn’t fathom the request. “This is better, isn’t it?”

Better? How the hell could this be better?

My anger surged, uncontrolled. Before I realized what I was doing, I had grabbed her by the front of her robe, dragging her toward me.

“You! Do you even understand what you’ve done?!”

Her expression didn’t shift. She simply nodded serenely, like she was indulging a tantrum from a child.

“I understand,” she said. “The moment we swapped hearts, you and I… We started blending. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“‘You and I?’ I never—!”

“You did. You made me feel this way. You planted something new in me. So now it’s your responsibility.”

The cold certainty in her voice sent a chill down my spine. Her face held no anger, no apology—just pure, terrifying sincerity. Hatred boiled up from my gut, raw and toxic, but it hit a wall. Something inside me recoiled and muffled it.

Her emotions. Her essence. They were soaking into me.

The lines were blurring. My thoughts and desires were being repainted, coated in her colors. Even knowing this was external, even understanding I was being manipulated, I couldn’t stop it.

This was no simple mood swing. This was a complete spiritual rewrite.

Love and hatred, guilt and obsession, twisting into something new.

It’s not just the memories. Her influence is warping my personality, too. If I don’t get my heart back soon, the erosion will keep spreading until nothing of me remains.

Desperation flaring, I grabbed Joanne’s shoulders and shook her, trying to knock some sense into the girl who had already tumbled deep into madness.

“If this goes on, you’ll lose yourself! You’ll stop being who you are! Is that really what you want?!”

“Yep. I’m totally fine with that,” she answered without hesitation, eyes glinting with something disturbingly earnest. “In fact, I love it. I’m becoming more like you, and you’re becoming more like me. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Even my most desperate plea was swatted aside, like a child’s protest brushed off by a smiling parent.

A madwoman. A pure lunatic. But gods, what a sweet-looking girl she is.

She’d violated my body, stolen from it, changed it.

And she loves me for it.

I want to kill-kiss her.

Why can’t she understand? Why can’t you understand, Joanne? I’m scared. I’m terrified of losing myself.

Regardless, a tiny part of me was happy that I was becoming more like her.

Yet I knew no normal person would survive that kind of transformation. Blending into someone like her meant the obliteration of my own will. The very essence of me would be dismantled. Violated in the most intimate, horrifying way.

Why won’t she try to meet me halfway?

I clung to her in trembling silence, my chest convulsing with sobs I couldn’t control, tears sliding down my cheeks in a mix of confusion, grief, and unbearable longing.

“Yes, Joanne-sama,” I whispered, voice thick with pain. “Merging with you… becoming one… That truly sounds beautiful.”

Lies. Words I didn’t mean. Yet my arms tightened around her in a gentle embrace, not a strangling grip. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t harm her. I was already too far gone.

My soul had been tainted.

Everything in me recoiled in contradiction. Part of me still screamed in defiance, but another part leaned closer to her.

This was madness. Letting this continue would be the end of me. If I didn’t act soon, like when I conceived the Mobile Fortress Plan, I’d be consumed. Devoured by her love and fanaticism.

No strategies came to mind. My thoughts were muddled.

Think, damn it. Think. There has to be a way out of this.

She’s in love with me.

And more importantly, she doesn’t fear being hurt nor hurting others.

Then… maybe I can exploit this. Her twisted affection. Her pain tolerance. Her blind spots.

I didn’t have a plan. Not really. But I couldn’t wait any longer.

If I hesitated, if I stayed passive for even a moment more, I’d be no different from the other starry-eyed zealots walking these halls. Just another lost soul praising Aros and smiling at the chains around their neck.

So I moved.

My last sliver of sanity took control. As I held Joanne in that mockery of a lover’s embrace, my hand slid behind her back and gripped the hidden knife beneath my tunic.

Please let this work.

Steel whispered from its sheath as I struck.

With a backward arc of my arm, I drove the knife into her back, carving deeply in a slow, ugly spiral meant to sever flesh and nerves alike. A ring of blood spread across her robe, hot and vivid.

I had to act before I lost myself entirely. Before I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her anymore.

My heart. My heart. I have to take it back. If I can get it, the memory link should stop—

The blade bit through soft skin. I could feel the resistance of muscle, the fatty tissue sliding apart. I was slicing toward the spine, aiming to cripple if not kill.

The girl in my arms—she didn’t even flinch.

She tilted her head, lips still curved into that serene, delighted smile. Like I was drawing little hearts on her back with a feather.

She only squirmed slightly, giggling.

“Heehee… that tickles.”

A chill crawled down my spine. I gritted my teeth, digging the knife in deeper, my hand trembling from the effort.

She just laughed, soft and bright.

A monster. She’s not human.

The knife was ten centimeters long. Heavy in the hand, solid enough to kill, razor-edged. It should have pierced deep into her back and kept going, carving its way to her heart.

It should have hurt her.

But it didn’t. Not even a little.

The futility was overwhelming. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.

No… no, don’t stop. You’ve already attacked her. There’s no going back now.

I raised the knife again and stabbed.

Again. And again.

I hammered it into her with all the force of a carpenter driving nails.

No change. The wounds closed almost instantly. I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the heart I was trying to reach, as though her body rejected the very concept of injury.

All the while, she just… smiled.

Then, sweet as could be, Joanne tilted her head and playfully asked, like I’d tugged on her sleeve to get her attention, “What are you doing, silly?” Her voice was laced with amusement. “Wait… don’t tell me! Do you want to trade more body parts?”

The question was so absurd, I couldn’t find the words to respond.

“What’s wrong? Feeling playful?” Joanne cooed, brushing the back of my neck as if soothing a child.

Her tone was sweet, maternal, mockingly gentle.

It was like some immortal being toying with a frail mortal. A being of unassailable power stroking the head of a creature that couldn’t even fight back.

Is there truly nothing I can do?

I gritted my teeth. My trembling hand hung limp, blood trickling from my fingers as if mocking me. Her back—pale, slender, and unmarred—stood pristine beneath the smear of crimson. Not a single scar. Not a trace of my attack.

I raised the knife again.

And failed pathetically.

The handle slipped from my grasp.

Her flesh had clenched around the blade, seizing it so tightly that it wouldn’t move—couldn’t move. It stuck out like a grotesque ornament, the hilt jutting from her spine, slick with blood. The light caught it just right, making it gleam in the low glow of the room.

Joanne giggled.

“Aw, not working, huh? Here, let me help.”

She gently took my bloodied hand and pressed down, drawing the blade out of her own back without so much as a flinch. My stomach turned at the casual way she did it, like plucking a leaf off her coat.

Now she held the knife. It was her turn.

Without ceremony or warning, she mimicked my earlier motion, lifting the weapon, preparing to plunge it into my back.

A jolt of terror surged through me. I lashed out and kicked the blade from her hand. It clattered to the floor and embedded itself point-first into the ground.

“I-I don’t want to fight,” I gasped. “I just… I just want my heart back…”

For a moment, she blinked at me.

Then, with a tired sigh, Joanne tilted her head and crossed her arms as though she’d heard the most unreasonable request in the world.

“No.” Her voice was simple. Light. But her eyes burned with adamant resolve. “I’m not giving your heart back. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I wanted to scream.

You selfish, unbearable—

My hands twitched. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to grab her by the neck, slam her into the floor, and tear my heart from her chest with my bare hands.

But I didn’t.

“I… I don’t want to go back to the way things were either,” I muttered, swallowing the urge. “But the last exchange… the experimental phase… It’s too soon to trust the long-term stability. What if I die from it? What then?”

Her eyes softened for just a second. Then she smiled again.

“That won’t happen.”

“What?”

“I took samples from both of us during the procedure, remember? Tiny pieces of our organs.”

I froze.

She beamed, proud of herself.

“Afterward, I accelerated the cellular fusion and ran simulations. Everything came back stable. We’re biologically compatible, Oakley. It’s already been proven.”

So, the forced growth through drug acceleration applied to internal organs, too. If it only took a few days to raise a newborn to the physical age of ten, then replicating and merging tissue samples wouldn’t be far-fetched.

She’d planned this. Back when she was spilling organs like a butcher at market, she’d already set her sights on my heart.

Ruthless. Calculated. She was twisted in ways that felt almost… strategic.

She’s disgusting—a revolting woman to the bitter end.

“Ah, there it goes again,” Joanne murmured, placing a hand over her chest with a dreamy smile. “It’s cute how yours always jumps like that. Kinda straightforward. I like it.”

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

That sound inside her ribcage… was my heartbeat. My heart, pulsing away in her body. And whatever was squirming in my own chest—the one she’d given me—was clearly in distress.

I shot her a glare, as if that alone might make her think twice.

It didn’t.

For a fleeting moment, I’d hoped the memory exchange had rattled her too, maybe left a crack in her armor I could wedge my way into. If her mind had been shaken like mine had, maybe she’d falter.

But no.

Of course not.

Like muddy water that would never run clear again, her soul had long since been stained. I was ready to resign myself to that conclusion when suddenly, her spiral-carved pupils flickered.

“—Ghh?!”

Joanne reeled as if struck, clutching her head with a strangled gasp. Her small frame buckled and trembled. It was an immediate, unmistakable rejection. Disruption. Her reaction was eerily similar to the one I’d suffered after being flooded with her chaos.

Our minds were fundamentally incompatible, like oil and water. The deeper the merger, the greater the distortion.

She shoved me away, staggered back, and pressed trembling fingers to her temples. But her face…

She was smiling.

“It’s happening again,” she breathed, giddy with tremors. “I couldn’t tell the first time, but this… This is what you really feel, isn’t it?! Aha, ahaha! Your heart is completely shattered!”

A vein pulsed down the side of her neck, thick and strained. Sweat poured from her like a summer squall. But the joy on her face never faded.

That expression… It’s the same one I wore when I started breaking.

A twisted grin stretched across her lips as her nails raked down her arms, digging in deep. The trembling turned to spasms. And finally, she screamed.

The depth of her suffering was unmistakable.

Joanne’s mind, too, was being torn between two poles—between the man she loved and the prophet she worshipped. Her psyche teetered at the edge of a chasm, pulled in opposite directions between devotion and desire.

I’m not the only one standing at the brink. I never imagined the memory transfer could affect her, too.

Even as my own thoughts slipped through the cracks of contamination, I started to think.

What would happen if the other high-ranking members received transplants of my organs?

If memory transference were tied to shared biology, then theoretically, every executive could be compromised, infected by my way of thinking. The entire Aros Temple Cult could be reprogrammed from within. If I framed it as experimental surgery disguised under the cult’s obsession with pseudo-divine enhancement, they might even accept it willingly.

It would be the ultimate silent invasion—a rebellion written in flesh and memory.

Reality quickly snapped the dream in two.

My organs were finite. A human body, even with all its intricacies, couldn’t supply enough material for seven separate transplants. There were only so many viable organs, and not all were transplantable. The intestines were far too long and unwieldy. Size, function, compatibility—they all varied.

Besides, surgeries of that scale would consume enormous amounts of blood. The strain alone could kill the recipients or leave them too damaged to be useful.

And even then, there’s no guarantee it would work again.

The memory transfer between Joanne and me might have been a fluke—a byproduct of our twisted chemistry.

It was reckless. Impractical.

Another thought struck me—a name, a face, like a light piercing the fog.

Celestia.

What if… What if I transplanted a piece of myself into her?

Her mind was still under Aros’s spell, buried under layers of forced obedience and trauma. But if even a shred of my spirit could reach her, if my memories could overwrite the brainwashing, then maybe… just maybe, she could be freed.

It’s the only way—the only method left to bring her back.

The catch, of course, was that I myself was already being contaminated.

My organs weren’t just mine anymore. Joanne’s madness, her love, her boundless loyalty to Aros had begun to seep into me. Everything I felt, everything I remembered, was being slowly overwritten.

If Celestia received an organ tainted by this corruption, it could ruin her. Maybe permanently.

There’s no guarantee we won’t spiral even further.

Even with all the risks held like knives against my throat, the hope hadn’t vanished completely.

There’s still a chance.

I could come up with any excuse to justify swapping organs with Celestia. Testing the feasibility of the Mobile Fortress Plan on an Orthodox executive? That angle alone would satisfy a hundred questions. The knowledge I’d gained—pushed to the brink of madness before I even realized it—was too important to ignore.

This was a revelation far too enormous for a powerless nobody like me to have discovered. They would never suspect a puppet, spat from a devil’s womb of synthetic flesh and cold machinery, could ever cut its own strings and betray its masters.

I won’t let you do as you please with this world.

I’ll kill them all.

I’ll kill every last one of them.

The rage that burned in me blotted out Joanne’s madness like ink across paper.

I couldn’t forgive it. Not the cult that had trampled my despair beneath the boots of fanaticism. Not the monsters who had rewritten my memories and tried to chain my soul to a fabricated peace. Not the ones who twisted the concept of personhood into obedience, who bent children into tools.

It was only normal to be numb to it because it happened every day. However, that didn’t make it any less wrong.

Remember it. The anger. The fire.

The fury that scorched the skin from the inside out.

The pain that drowned despair beneath molten grief.

“Ugh…”

It came—an unmistakable surge of killing intent.

I would kill them. All of them. For that one truth alone, the fragments of my shattered soul and broken resolve began to knit themselves back together.

Lust meant nothing. Warm bodies, comforting embraces, lazy indulgences—all of it burned away in my wrath.

That day in Metasim. The failure, the humiliation, the helplessness. It all came flooding back, red-hot and righteous. From the depths of hopelessness, I wrenched free, and for a moment, I regained control of my mind.

“Joanne-sama,” I called.

“Y-Yeah? What is it?”

Her tone was strange, like something inside her was unraveling.

My heart was flowing into her. My thoughts were infecting her.

She was the first to receive one of my organs, and just moments ago, her mind had been writhing from the backlash. That nauseating, churning instability that had nearly broken me was now hers to bear. My mind was invading hers the same way hers had corroded mine.

Enduring pain required an entirely different set of brain circuits—those that most people never developed. A normal person would’ve broken long ago. They would’ve crumpled into a shell.

“I have a proposal.”

Joanne wasn’t normal.

She was a chosen disciple of the Aros Temple Cult. Her mental fortitude surpassed any baseline a sane person could imagine. Though her body shook with pain and her face paled, there wasn’t a single crack in her resolve.

She wouldn’t break. She’d bounce back.

Of course she would. Joanne Sagamix—the most tenacious member the cult had to offer.

I let out a breath. Just a little. Somehow, that gave me enough grounding to speak.

“Would you like to exchange more?”

Before I save Celestia, I’ll shut you up first.

Let’s do it, Joanne. Let’s see whose mind snaps first.

Will your madness drown me, or will I infect you?

A game of chicken. A deathmatch of spirits.

This wasn’t some impulse born of desperation. It was the clearest path I had.

Forget Celestia for now. Forget the other executives. The one who could actively warp minds. She was the priority.

You first, Joanne.

Let’s trade. Not just hearts. Take my lungs, my stomach—take it all.

And with every organ passed between us, let this be the wager:

Whoever gets rewritten first loses.

The deeper the infection, the more permanent the corruption. There’s no going back from this. And that’s fine.

That’s perfect.

I’ll turn Joanne-colored? You’ll turn Oakley-colored?

I won’t lose. I can’t lose.

I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I could win.

“Come on. Stand up. You’ll do it, won’t you?” I goaded.

“You sure about this, Oakley?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“To change your mind this fast… I’m touched. More than I can say.”

I took her still trembling hand into mine and slowly pulled her to her feet. Lured by the bait, Joanne’s eyes gleamed with a temporary spark of vitality. She gripped her knife without hesitation.

She must’ve seen right through me.

She wasn’t stupid. She could tell that I, someone who opposed the cult, had started to leak into her. She knew exactly what I was trying to do. And yet, she was still willing to go along with it.

Because she was in love with me.

Her gaze flicked between my face and the blade, and then she smiled. Devoid of affection, her smile gleamed instead with raw, unfiltered battle lust.

If this were a physical fight, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Not in a million years. But if it was a test of will—a war of spirits—then even an ordinary human could win.

That was what conviction was.

“Then let’s begin, Oakley. I bet this’ll feel better than anything else in the world,” she said.

As her blade tore across my stomach, the only thing I focused on was the hatred still burning in my chest.

The hatred I’d sharpened into resolve.

Chapter 8: I Love You

While blood-spattered chaos unfolded in Oakley’s room, Celestia was somewhere else entirely—deep beneath one of the Aros Temple Cult’s new outposts, touring a facility with the assistance of Fuankilo.

“So, this is the relocated ‘facility’ for the Aros Temple Cult?” Celestia asked.

“That’s right! It only just got up and running again. Oh, and uh, don’t touch anything around there, okay?” Fuankilo warned. “You’ll startle the womb-bags, and they might throw a fit! Ahaha!”

Far removed from the sacred city of Metasim, buried beneath an unassuming stronghold, the underground space opened into a vast natural cavern.

Lined up in precise rows were the products of horrific alchemy—womb-bags, crafted from what were once human females. Whatever remnants of personality or awareness they’d possessed had long since dissolved. Drugged into a permanent state of stupefied pleasure, they now floated in quiet, liquefied bliss.

They were treated as less than livestock.

Their grotesquely reshaped bodies—bulbous, bloated, almost spherical—sat submerged to their necks in shallow vats of viscous chemical fluid, each no taller than a child’s knee.

Celestia’s unease didn’t come from fear or revulsion; it came from long-standing curiosity.

Back when she still stood as one of the Orthodoxy’s executives, she’d faced hundreds, if not thousands, of cultists. She’d killed without hesitation. However, no matter how many she cut down, more always came. Like maggots in a corpse, their numbers seemed to endlessly replenish themselves.

She’d always wondered how.

How could the upper echelons of the cult burn through believers with such reckless abandon? They never bothered with conservation or seemed to care about morale. They squandered manpower with impunity.

Now she understood why.

This factory wasn’t a secret to her. She had known about it for years. In fact, she had helped destroy its predecessor not long ago. What caught her off guard now was how quickly they’d rebuilt, how fully stocked the operation had become again.

Months earlier, she and Giather Cormode, another executive of the Orthodoxy, had orchestrated the destruction of the previous “factory” hidden in a different cave network. And yet here was another, already completely operational.

She’d gotten lucky once, tailing a returning cultist through a winding mountain pass and stumbling upon the previous production facility. The revelation that such a grotesque cornerstone of cult infrastructure had gone unnoticed had left her genuinely shocked at the time. And yet here they were again.

This underground site was just the beginning. A much larger facility was already planned for construction beneath Metasim itself. Materials were stockpiled. Womb-bag candidates—raw human material—were being prepped. All that remained was the founder’s final approval.

That was why Celestia had arranged to observe it now, before it became truly operational.

Her sharp gaze swept across the chamber, taking everything in with quiet scrutiny: the stained cavern walls, the makeshift scaffolding of stone and steel, the womb-bags bobbing in drug-laced fluids, the cultists scurrying between control consoles and biometric monitors. Most of those working here appeared to be women and children.

“I have a question,” she said calmly.

Fuankilo, lounging beside one of the control terminals, turned her head with a casual hum. “Mm? Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s just… Back when I was with the Orthodoxy, the assumption was that all women in the Aros Temple Cult eventually became womb-bags.”

“Heh. That’s a fair assumption.”

“And yet, people like you, Joanne, and Pawk are not only free, you’re high-ranking. Why is that? What determines who becomes a womb-bag and who does not?”

Her question was twofold. Why were some women here allowed to work freely while others were reduced to livestock? And, more subtly, how had women like Pawk, Joanne, or Fuankilo risen to power in such a male-dominated structure?

“It’s simple,” Fuankilo replied, brushing her fingers through her bangs. “It all comes down to whether you’re useful or not.”

“A meritocracy, then?”

“To a brutal degree. If you don’t meet a minimum performance threshold, you’re repurposed—no second chances. No excuses. Some even volunteer, you know. If they feel they’re past their prime, they offer up their bodies to serve Aros in another way.”

She recounted one such woman—a former technician—who had chosen to become a womb-bag after realizing her age would limit her future usefulness.

“‘If I’m going to fade away anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d rather do it birthing the next generation of believers.’ She was proud. She thought her children would become pillars of the cult. Maybe she was right.”

Celestia’s expression remained unreadable.

As for the rest of the “material”—spies, captured enemies, women abducted from surrounding towns—their fate was binary. They either became Pawk’s living puppets or womb-bags.

Ordinarily, the cult’s logistics division made that decision. But when numbers allowed for leniency, the woman was sometimes given a choice.

Most of the captured women, it seemed, clung to life with all the desperation of a drowning soul. No matter how grotesque the form, they preferred existence, however twisted, to death. Better to become a docile, euphoric lump of flesh than to die and return as a zombie puppet. In contrast, trained spies and soldiers often chose death over that slow suffocation.

As always, there were exceptions.

Talented individuals were sometimes plucked from the ranks by high-level cultists. In such cases, the woman might be subjected to reeducation—brainwashed and rebranded as a reborn follower of Aros. Celestia, watching all of this with a cool, contemplative gaze, offered a rare, audible murmur of approval.

“A highly efficient use of resources.”

Men, of course, fared no better.

Unless they could prove themselves valuable, their path led only to a shallow grave. Cult doctrine dictated it was easier to use them as obedient corpses than as untrustworthy living tools. Back then, Oakley had survived by clawing tooth and nail to prove his worth because failure meant death.

“So, Fuankilo and Joanne earned their ranks the same way?” Celestia asked.

“Exactly. Hard to believe, but yeah, we’re elites.” Fuankilo grinned, puffing up a little at the thought.

It was all part of the machine: a relentless engine powered by an endless supply of human material and cold-blooded efficiency. Brainwashing from childhood. A pipeline of obedient bodies. No wasted parts. Those deemed useful were refined into tools, while the rest were discarded or recycled. It was a harsh selection process with zero tolerance for failure. It was all terribly… practical.

Celestia understood, now, the cult’s fervent investment in bodily modification, their obsession with performance-enhancing drugs, spiritual rewrites, and perfect utility.

Then she saw it.

Her gaze froze on one of the womb-bags.

“Hmm?”

“What is it, Celestia?”

“Nothing. I… recognized a face from long ago.”

The face belonged to a former Orthodox spy who had been sent deep into cult territory. She had vanished during a failed infiltration.

Now, her grotesquely swollen body was half-submerged in the nutrient pool, pale skin mottled with an artificial flush. Her eyes were shut in what looked like blissful surrender, her lips parted in shallow, even breaths. Moisture glistened at the corners of her eyes, though it was impossible to tell if it was from pain or peace.

At irregular intervals, the mass of flesh would twitch violently, letting out a high-pitched, childlike coo. Dozens more like her lined the chamber, their disfigured silhouettes vanishing into the foggy distance.

Celestia studied them for a long moment before speaking again.

“Managing them must be… labor-intensive.”

Fuankilo sighed with a small laugh. “You’re not wrong. It’s a lot of work keeping them stable.”

The attendants moved with mechanical efficiency, watching the womb-bags for signs of hunger. Upon detecting even the faintest cue, they would scoop a viscous slurry from a nearby bucket with an oversized ladle and pour it directly into the women’s slack mouths.

Without caretakers, these things couldn’t even feed themselves. Celestia found the image oddly reminiscent of helpless hatchlings, mouths gaping skyward for food.

She cast a brief, emotionless glance toward what had once been her comrade. There was no recognition in the woman’s face—only slack-jawed bliss and slow, rhythmic breaths. Then, prompted more by curiosity than sentiment, Celestia posed her next question.

“Fuankilo. What exactly is in that… stew?”

“Oh, you know. Grains, vegetables, meat—basic stuff.”

“What kind of meat?”

“Animal meat.”

“Is it any good?”

There was a pause—a long one.

“I see,” Celestia said softly.

“It’s well-farmed meat, raised under controlled conditions,” Fuankilo muttered. “But the taste is ruined by the preservatives and additives. Honestly, the Aros Temple Cult really needs to start taking flavor more seriously.”

“So you’ve tried it?” Celestia asked.

“Of course, I have. Comes with the job. Want a taste?”

“W-Well, if you’re offering, I suppose one bite couldn’t hurt.”

With a confident click of her heels, Fuankilo strutted toward one of the nearby cultists. The girl—young, perhaps not even fully grown—offered up the bucket of slurry with trembling hands, bowing repeatedly as if she feared reprimand.

Fuankilo took it, tried to lift the full container with a single arm, and gave up almost immediately. Her effort was admirable, but the bucket’s weight clearly exceeded her expectations.

“I-It’s not that I’m weak or anything,” she huffed, trying to save face. “I just haven’t activated my adrenaline burst.”

“I believe you,” Celestia replied smoothly.

With a sigh, Fuankilo beckoned her over. Celestia approached, brushing her hair behind one ear as she watched the cultist stir the ladle through the milky, half-solid mixture.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Back in the Orthodoxy, meals were simple but warm, nourishing both body and soul.

Occasionally, there was stale jerky or bread hard enough to crack a molar, but even then, the food had presence. Stew, especially the kind thick enough to cling to the ladle, was meant to arrive steaming hot. Offering thanks before tasting was almost instinctive.

So when the cold slurry hit her lips, Celestia recoiled. The shock of it jerked her torso upright, as if a taut string had snapped. She couldn’t bring herself to swallow and ended up holding the thick paste in one cheek, her eyes blinking in mild betrayal.

“You reacted just like I did,” Fuankilo chuckled, hiding her grin behind one hand. “This is very promising data!”

Celestia nearly spat the thing out on reflex. Instead, she forced herself to settle and shifted into an analytical mode. Analyze the texture. Evaluate the taste. You’ve faced worse than this.

Unbelievable. This is… This is foul.

Compared to this, the Kenneth Orthodoxy’s food was a divine feast. What even is this meat? It has to be human, right?

Shriveled vegetables. Grain mush that was neither solid nor liquid. And the meat—rubbery, flavorless, vaguely obscene. When she chewed, it crumbled apart like overcooked liver, coating her tongue with a chalky bitterness that defied description. Worse yet, something cold and cartilage-like crunched between her molars. The salt, iron, and chemical bitterness clashed in ways no sane palate would tolerate. Every nerve in her mouth begged her not to taste it.

Her throat seized in a shudder, and tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Still, Celestia forced it down in one reluctant gulp.

“Ahem. That was… very nourishing. Shall we proceed to the next room, Fuankilo?”

“You really don’t have to lie about it, you know…”

Leaving the womb-bag enclosure behind, the two made their way to the adjacent chamber. This next space was dedicated to the offspring—the next generation born from the facility’s dark design.

The room was cavernous, even larger than the last, and packed wall-to-wall with towering biogrowth tanks, standing like monuments to industrialized birth. Clear, reinforced glass held nutrient solutions and shifting shadows inside. These weren’t just tools. They were the culmination of a doctrine refined to its cruelest form.

“Accelerated-growth incubators,” Celestia murmured.

“Exactly,” Fuankilo replied proudly. “No matter how many bodies we lose, we’ll always have numbers on our side. With this facility back up and running, the supply chain’s finally stabilized. Manpower shortages are becoming a thing of the past.”

“I see…”

Celestia reached out and placed her fingers against one of the thick glass panels.

Beneath her gloved palm, the glass was cold. But beyond that barrier, Celestia could see them. Rows of defenseless children steeped in glistening chemical baths.

Their small bodies, fully submerged from crown to heel, twitched faintly in the solution. To the cult, these were not infants. They were raw materials.

Soaked in alchemical growth serums, each child’s body was forced to mature to a ten-year-old’s size in a matter of days. Their minds, however, couldn’t keep up. Neurological and cognitive development lagged far behind, like a puppet with limbs too heavy for its strings.

Once their physical growth was complete, the children were transferred to separate holding vats. There, they underwent months of drug therapy, or more aptly, pharmaceutical brainwashing. They were fed doses tailored to mold docile, obedient minds that would yield without question to the will of the cult’s elders.

When that process concluded, the children were no longer children. They were soldiers ready for deployment.

“If one sets aside all moral considerations,” Celestia remarked flatly, “this is a remarkably efficient system for military production.”

As she studied the children floating in the tanks, eyes closed and limbs slack, realization dawned on her. This is why the Aros Temple Cult can’t be crushed so easily.

They didn’t care about appearances. There was no façade, no pretense of humanity to uphold. Where the Kenneth Orthodoxy had to maintain public image and diplomatic standing, the Aros cult pursued victory with naked, monstrous pragmatism. Their goal was conquest of the Orthodoxy, of the Holy Kingdom of Gerleid, and they would sacrifice anything, anyone to achieve it.

Celestia’s voice was calm, but her thoughts pulsed with quiet alarm.

“The Kenneth Orthodoxy couldn’t implement something like this. Not with the burden of appearances.”

“Of course not,” Fuankilo replied casually. “They’re a pillar of the state. If word got out that they were doing anything remotely inhumane, the backlash from other nations would be brutal. Then again, I’m pretty sure we’ve already tarnished their reputation just by existing.”

That was true. International criticism had already begun to swirl around the Kenneth Orthodoxy. Accusations of negligence, of failing to contain the spread of this grotesque sect, had begun to spread. Outsiders, once they learned what the Aros Temple Cult truly was, were left stunned into silence.

“Does the Kenneth Orthodoxy commit any atrocities of its own?” Fuankilo asked, tilting her head with exaggerated curiosity.

“During battle, I once encountered soldiers using combat-enhancement drugs… but nothing beyond that, as far as I know,” Celestia replied.

“Hmm. I bet there’s more going on under the surface. You just didn’t see it. Maybe your side’s not so different after all.”

Celestia remained silent.

Then, another question surfaced, one more rooted in logistics than morality.

“I’m curious about one thing,” she began, eyes narrowing slightly. “The cult’s funding. Maintaining a facility of this size, producing these alchemical serums, outfitting and feeding a standing army… These are expenses that would dwarf anything gained from pillaging. What exactly is your financial engine?”

If this were a typical small cult, siphoning the assets of a few dozen followers would’ve been enough to sustain operations. But the Aros Temple Cult had swollen beyond reason, its influence extending too far, its logistics too refined. Without a robust financial engine driving it from behind, it should have collapsed under its own weight long ago. Which meant, of course, there was such an engine.

Standing at its heart was none other than Fuankilo.

It was she who oversaw funding, directed the staff, and issued the financial orders that kept the gears of this machine grinding ceaselessly. When Celestia asked her question, Fuankilo simply narrowed her golden eyes, then casually reached into a newly opened growth tank and seized a child by the head.

“If you wander the world long enough looking for money, you start to meet all kinds of people—folks who want kids for soldiers, maids, slaves, toys… You’d be surprised how many buyers are out there,” she said, her voice almost sing-song. “Honestly, it’s a miracle we’re not drowning in profit.”

“I see. My apologies, that was a rather invasive question,” Celestia murmured.

“Not at all.”

Celestia was quietly reeling.

Even with the personality modifications already imposed on her, even with the twisted sense of loyalty now coiled inside her like a parasite, this was too much. Her moral instincts, though dulled, recoiled. The sheer scale of ruthlessness behind the cult’s policies was staggering.

Fuankilo, perhaps sensing that recoil, dropped the leering grin and adopted a dainty, almost innocent expression like a debutante preparing for a ball. Then she tossed the child aside without a second glance and began walking toward the next facility.

Celestia hesitated. The child landed stiffly and simply stood there, unmoving. That reaction—or lack thereof—only deepened her suspicion. Are the children born from those womb-bags even structurally human?

“Are there no lasting health effects on the children produced by these methods?” she asked. “Do they suffer from reduced lifespan or impaired cognition, for instance?”

“Oh, their bodies work fine,” Fuankilo said with a shrug. “But they burn out fast. Lifespan tops out around thirty years, maybe less. Funny, isn’t it? Aging at triple the normal speed.”

She let out a laugh as sharp and brittle as broken glass.

“But don’t worry,” she added. “Even their corpses are useful to us. We’re a very sustainable organization, you know?”

I suppose that’s… unfortunate, Celestia thought dispassionately, as though observing cattle at an abattoir. Pity lingered at the edge of her mind, but it didn’t pierce the haze of her altered emotional responses.

Outside, faint streaks of rain traced across the darkening sky. Fuankilo followed Celestia’s gaze and tilted her head.

“Looks like it’s time to part ways for now.”

“You have business elsewhere?”

“Mm-hm. Boring errands. You look tired. Why don’t you head back and rest?”

“Understood. Good night, Fuankilo.”

“Yeah. G’night.”

Celestia offered her a gentle smile and quietly took her leave, fading from the corridor.

Left alone, Fuankilo turned on her heel and walked purposefully toward the smelter.

※※※

The exchange of hearts had triggered a revelation. By trading organs, they could invade each other’s minds. Oakley and Joanne now sought more than flesh. They sought domination. Supremacy. Subjugation.

It became a conversation of madness—one carried not through words, but through shared memories, bleeding souls, and the intimate destruction of identity. They were no longer simply two people. They were twin whirlpools of thought and emotion, each spiraling toward the other at terminal velocity.

Joanne’s blind devotion to Aros. Her hair-trigger temper when challenged. Her indiscriminate malice toward strangers. Her indifference. Her fractured sense of self, forged by loneliness and abandonment. All of it poured into Oakley, corrupting him like slow-acting venom.

In turn, Oakley seeped into Joanne, unraveling the tattered remnants of her sanity.

So that’s it, Joanne thought, mind flickering in euphoric delirium. You love me so much it’s killing you. You hate me so much it makes you sick. And still, you want me so desperately, you’re falling apart inside.

Oakley’s feelings had once been hidden behind spite and defiance. But now they reached her—raw, scalding, undiluted. The grotesque cocktail of twisted affection and righteous fury washed over her in waves.

It was, to Joanne, nothing short of bliss.

Four hours had passed since their communion began.

Their bodies, slick with sweat and fluids and barely distinguishable from each other, rose from the floor like creatures struggling out of tar. Every nerve had been stripped raw. Every mental barrier was torn down. Their eyes met—trembling, exhausted, locked in a gaze so intimate it bypassed language.

A glistening bridge of saliva stretched and snapped between them as they pulled apart.

“The only parts left to trade are bone and brain,” Oakley murmured, voice shredded.

They’d exhausted almost every exchangeable organ. The deeper the trade, the more their minds began to crack. The boundary between you and me had dissolved. Sanity was a flickering candle in a storm of identity collapse.

Just one more push—one moment of doubt—would decide everything.

“We’re tapped out, huh?” Joanne whispered. “I wanted more. I wanted to feel you deeper, longer… forever.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to Oakley’s. Gently. Almost reverently. Her body trembled with love that bordered on religious ecstasy.

Her tongue slithered forward, guided by nothing but craving.

The room echoed with the wet sounds of lips meeting, then parting—the soft pop of suction. The slow roll of saliva exchanging hands like secrets.

It was clumsy. Sweet. Awkwardly sincere. But it was charged with something forbidden. An intoxication that sent the mind plummeting into a pit of pleasure and madness.

The taste of blood lingered—metallic, bitter, intimate.

Inside their torsos, the swapped organs pulsed violently. Memory transfer surged to new heights. Thoughts flared and flickered, consumed in a blaze of overstimulated emotion. Soul-fire.

“I love you… I love you so much, Oakley,” she panted between kisses. “So give up already. Let go of the fight. Let yourself fall. Just be mine… and live happily ever after with me, okay?”

She kissed him again, but this time it wasn’t gentle.

It was invasive. Consuming. Predatory.

A kiss meant to devour.

It wasn’t just physical affection. It was an attack. A final psychological assault to collapse his will. She was filling him with feeling, overwhelming him with her perverse, obsessive devotion, enough to make him dizzy, enough to make him forget why he ever resisted.

“I want to stay with you until we die. I’ll kiss you, hold you, fuck you. I’ll give you anything.”

It was a promise soaked in absolute hedonism—the dream of eternal love, delivered with the sincerity of a monster wearing a princess’s smile.

“I’ll give you my heart, my soul, my whole body. So look at me. Only me.”

I’ll give you everything you ever wanted if you just surrender.

Because I love you that much. Because I’ll forgive you for anything. And because once you accept me… there’ll be no going back.

Joanne’s psychic onslaught dug deep, fusing itself with one of the most vulnerable images buried within Oakley’s subconscious: a dream of a quiet, happy family. Domestic bliss. A life he had given up on and long dismissed as fantasy.

Now, that dream became her weapon.

Picture it. A girl so stunning, so achingly, perfectly beautiful, that the entire world would crawl over broken glass just to win her smile. And she was offering herself, not for a day, not for a season, but for a lifetime.

A normal man would have crumbled.

No matter how well he knew it was a trap, how obviously self-destructive the path, for a normal man, the temptation to accept that dream would be too much. The image was irresistible. Insidious. It bypassed reason and appealed directly to instinct, to need.

Unfortunately, in this moment, imagining a future with Joanne was no different from losing.

Even allowing the fantasy to form was a betrayal. Because to imagine it, even for a second, meant letting her in, letting Joanne invade through the back door of his own desire.

So the last, withering blow of her mental attack slammed into Oakley’s core.

A kill shot, aimed at his deepest longing.

It should have been enough.

It should have shattered him.

But it didn’t.

Oakley didn’t flinch.

Not at her words, not at the visions of joy she painted in his mind, not at the synthetic warmth that wrapped around his battered spirit like a siren’s lullaby.

He showed not a single crack.

No stray thoughts. No wandering gaze. No flicker of doubt.

“You’re resisting this?” Joanne breathed, her voice disbelieving. “Even though it’s coursing through your blood? It’s instinct, Oakley. You can’t fight instinct.”

People were weak. They craved pleasure, escape, comfort. If a sweet fruit lay within arm’s reach, they would take it, even if they knew it had been poisoned.

“No one can resist that,” she murmured. “No one.”

But Oakley could.

And he did.

He possessed the strength to crush those weak, seductive voices into dust. To see the snare for what it was and walk past it without looking down.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t falter. He refused to be touched.

Not by her imagined happiness.

Not by her love.

Not by the illusion of peace.

You think I’d let you take this from me, Oakley thought, fire roaring behind his eyes. After everything the cult’s done… after all the lives it’s destroyed, the futures it’s stolen… after the oceans of blood it’s shed—

You think I’d surrender to something like this?

No.

Not a chance, Joanne. Not now, not ever.

The rage within him was incandescent. It scorched his bones, reignited the dying embers of his consciousness, and sealed his soul behind walls even she couldn’t breach.

She had polluted his body. But the conviction carved into his soul? That remained untouchable.

“Why? Why won’t you give in, Oakley? I love you—I’m in love with you, so much it hurts!”

Her voice trembled as she clung to him, tears streaking down her cheeks. But the young man before her didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes—those cold, unchanging eyes—held no hint of surrender.

Unlike Oakley, who clung to his sense of self with a maddening, near-suicidal clarity, Joanne was unraveling by the second. The deeper they fused, the more his presence bled into her, corroding her core. And now, the word defeat loomed over her like a guillotine, its shadow growing longer by the breath.

“If the Prophet’s dream comes true, we’ll have everything. Everything. You won’t need to suffer anymore. Just drown in bliss and wait for the day it all comes true… Until then, I’ll protect you.”

Her voice was soft—too soft. Desperate. But the sweetness of her promise failed to touch him.

“Why? Why are you so strong?”

The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them, her voice cracking with disbelief and something far more fragile—grief.

To Joanne, Oakley had always seemed… small. A frail little thing. Someone who’d crumple if she so much as kicked him too hard. He couldn’t regenerate from a severed limb. He couldn’t leap across buildings. He couldn’t survive being torn apart.

He was supposed to be delicate—something to protect, to love, to possess.

Standing before her now, bleeding and broken in body, he shone with a will so unshakable that even she recoiled. He had no armor. No monstrous strength. No divine backing. Just a soul so resilient that it burned through her every attempt to swallow him whole.

She understood, with the cold sting of finality, that even if she poured every last memory into him… even if she bared every aching piece of her love, her madness, her desire, he would never yield.

He was beyond her reach.

The realization shattered something inside her. A raw, childish wail ripped from her throat as she collapsed forward, sobbing in great, breathless gasps. Her voice cracked, hoarse with grief, as she opened her mouth and cried—loud and ugly, the way children did when they no longer cared who was watching.

She hiccupped. She sniffled. The unfamiliar sting in her sinuses sent her keening, unprepared for the pain. Tears, huge and hot, burst from her swollen eyes and streamed down her cheeks, dripping into the sticky lake of blood beneath her knees.

I love Oakley.

I love Aros-sama.

She loved them. She loved them both so much.

All she ever wanted was to stand beside them. To walk the same path. To build a perfect world together.

But that dream…

That dream was slipping away.

I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Aros-sama. You saved me… and I couldn’t do a single thing to repay you. The one I love the most… I couldn’t even make him serve you. I couldn’t make him see your dream.

“Ah… AAAHHH!”

The scream tore from her lungs like something dying. For the first time, Joanne stood face to face with complete, irrevocable defeat.

She had cornered herself, staked everything—her pride, her flesh, her soul—on a single gambit. And she had lost. Within her tears was a strange, unfamiliar heat, burning and cool all at once. A paradox of cleansing agony, of heartbreak so sharp it felt almost refreshing.

It was the bitter aftertaste of genuine regret.

Joanne had always been strong. Fiercely so. But even she wasn’t flawless. Even she couldn’t go without a single moment of weakness. She’d looked at it. That future. That impossible, sweet, tragic possibility. Just for a second.

Just once, she’d let her gaze slip toward it.

That was all it took.

That single glance had cracked her defenses, and Oakley’s being had poured in like a flood. His thoughts. His will. His essence.

Her mind was drowning.

Euphoria enveloped her like warm oil—viscous, suffocating. But somewhere deep in the core of her despair, a quiet, undeniable joy bloomed.

Of course, she thought. Of course, this is the boy I fell in love with.

Her limbs slackened. Her mind faded. And as the last of her resistance crumbled, Joanne collapsed into the bed.

Oakley lay beside her, their bodies still pressed close, his presence steady even now. She tilted her head, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“So this is what it feels like to lose…”

“You lost,” he replied gently, “because you made the mistake of loving me.”

“But you love me too, don’t you?” Her voice was a breath, wistful and bare. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t… You wouldn’t have stayed…”

“I loved you too much,” he admitted quietly. “That was your real mistake.”

Joanne gave a quiet, tired laugh, a sound like air slipping through a crack in a shattered mask.

“Guess I was just a girl in love after all…”

She leaned into him one final time, resting her forehead against his chest. A smile—soft, relieved, almost childish—played across her lips as sleep took her. Just like that, as if drifting off for a nap, Joanne Sagamix slipped away.

The battle of wills—the clash of madness, love, and agony—had come to its end.

The victor: Oakley Mercury.

The first man to defeat a cult executive through willpower alone. The first to choose conviction over temptation and emerge whole.

The girl named Joanne entered a deep, endless sleep.

In her place, something new was born. A fused, uncertain spirit—neither wholly Oakley nor wholly Joanne, but the inevitable outcome of their union. That was the vow they’d made the moment the duel began. They’d both wished for it, longed for it.

A conclusion that could never be undone.

“Goodnight, Joanne.”

Oakley’s hand slid gently through her hair, a tender motion laced with mourning. A man brushing back the bangs from the face of someone he once hated. Someone he… might love.

The room around them was soaked in their blood. And yet, the sight of the two lying together—broken, clinging, complete—was a kind of terrible beauty.

Like something out of a painting.

Chapter 9: The Smelter Duel

The lamp’s glow barely pierced the blood-smeared haze hanging over the room. Crimson had soaked into every surface, the walls awash in blotches of dark and deeper red, the floor a shallow sea of it. The new bed, barely used, was already submerged.

Every time one of us shifted, ripples spread outward from our bodies, gliding across the shallows and lapping quietly against the far corners of the room.

In the center of this ruined sanctuary, Joanne lay limp in my arms, unconscious, asleep, or something like it. Her breath was soft and shallow. Her skin, fever-warm against me. Her mind was still somewhere between, still tangled with mine. We weren’t done. Not yet. Something… new was being born from us both.

I didn’t know what kind of person would come out the other side.

“Is it… over?”

The worst-case scenario—that I’d cave under her assault, that I’d let my thoughts dissolve and my soul slip into Aros’s doctrine—never came to pass. I had outrun the chaos. I had survived.

I looked down at her.

Her body was curled lightly in my embrace, face still stained with tears. I wiped the wetness from the corner of her eye with a fingertip, observing how the skin beneath was swollen red. She’d cried hard. Harder than anyone should have to. And now she said nothing. She didn’t stir or resist.

Only then did it finally start to sink in.

I’d won.

Really, truly won.

I was still alive.

The cost was obscene. More blood than I thought I could lose, flesh from places I’d rather not name, every organ in my torso torn out and bartered like currency, fragments of my own identity gone, and a crawling, permanent stain of psychic contamination worming through my mind. But I’d done it.

I’d shattered the will of a high-ranking cult executive.

It hadn’t even been a proper battle, at least not in the traditional sense. I didn’t overpower her with brute force. I took the shortest path I could, and even that nearly destroyed me.

Victory only came because the stars aligned.

I won because Joanne loved me madly, hopelessly. Because she fought me on my terms. Because her emotions made her reckless, and just this once, I was able to exploit that.

I didn’t win because I was strong.

I won because she fell in love.

And that was enough.

Because now, I had her. A powerful ally. A card no one else could play.

That alone could turn this whole hopeless situation upside down.

My strength finally gave out.

I slumped forward, collapsing into her, letting my weight rest against her small frame. Breathing became harder. Shallower. I could feel my vision flickering, fading at the edges.

Even with healing magic cast over me earlier, my body was wrecked beyond belief. The joy of survival clashed with a deep, grinding pain, but that was fine. This level of suffering was cheap compared to what it bought me.

I was never going to live long anyway. Health? Screw it. I had no regrets. None at all.

Still… this mental contamination is worse than I imagined.

Joanne had drowned in my psyche, yes. But inside me, her remnants were still there—clawing, whispering, waiting. A struggle between what was me and what was her had already begun, and it would keep going until the day I died. As long as I clung to sanity, I’d have to keep facing her madness head-on.

Still… I’d accepted that when I made the deal. Scars that wouldn’t fade, a soul half-stained—that was the price for gaining her as an ally. And I’d paid it willingly.

I pushed myself upright, just barely, and took hold of the girl’s fragile shoulder. Her body swayed slightly as I touched her—limp and unresponsive. She was out cold.

The air in the room was thick, humid, tinged with iron and body heat. As it brushed across my exposed torso, a shiver ran through me.

Shit. My chest is still wide open… and I’ve got no healer.

My abdomen, I could manage. But my chest hadn’t been closed. The bleeding had slowed, but I’d already lost way too much blood. Too much to walk it off.

No healers nearby. No spells left. My only shot was a basic recovery potion. The good old “Steve Special.”

Pain flared like firecrackers behind my eyes as I fumbled for the edge of the bed. I slipped, crashed, and slammed face-first into the blood-slicked floor with a sickening squelch. Bright sparks exploded at the corners of my vision.

Gotta… get to the potion… on the shelf…

My whole body seized in chills, but I gritted my teeth and raised one arm—just one. I groped for the shelf and barely managed to snatch up a tiny vial. I yanked the cap off with my teeth and tipped it straight into my open chest cavity.

Cool fluid dripped into raw, exposed tissue. I couldn’t help but let out a hiss of agony. The pain nearly made me vomit.

Not enough… Not even close…

The wound stayed open. The bleeding continued. The potion wasn’t enough. Its limits were showing.

No way… Am I really gonna die like this?

There was something farcical about how quickly death came knocking. I’d just won a battle that should’ve killed me—and now here I was, bleeding out anyway.

That was when I heard the rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps pounding from beyond the room.

A moment later, three deafening knocks shattered the tension. It was the kind of knock meant to break the door down, causing the wood to creak and groan under the assault.

And then came the voice.

Raging and familiar.

Pawk. Shouting through the door like she meant to tear it off its hinges.

“Creak-creak-creak in the dead of night. Seriously, I was willing to ignore it for a while, but four hours straight? Are you two trying to break records or what?!”

Help, finally. I exhaled in relief at Pawk’s unmistakable voice beyond the door. Not that I cared to correct her misunderstanding. The moment she opened that door, she’d know exactly what had happened.

“Hey! Enough already! I’m about ready to launch into an hour-long lecture, okay?! Starting now! I’m coming in whether you’re mid-thrust or not!”

She shoved the door open without waiting for permission.

A sharp splash echoed through the room as the movement sent waves through the pool of blood soaking the floor. The sheer volume had created enough resistance that the door opened slowly, as if dragging itself through syrup.

“What?”

That was all she said at first, her voice tightening as the scene that looked like it was straight out of a horror movie slowly revealed itself.

The hinges screeched as hallway light spilled in, casting stark shadows across the blood-blackened walls, the coagulated smears on the lamps, and the bed drowning in a lake of red. A slow current of gore rippled past her boots and into the hallway.

All color drained from her face.

“What the fuck is this?”

Her body tensed instinctively, the bare skin at her neckline bristling with thorns, her venom-tipped weapons springing forth as if on reflex.

Then her eyes landed on me, sprawled on the floor and barely conscious, and they flashed with something colder than panic: readiness. She scanned me first, then followed my line of sight to the bed, where Joanne lay unmoving, her pale chest slowly rising and falling in sleep.

The moment she saw the gentle rise of breath, the thorns retracted. Her expression didn’t soften, but the murderous tension bled out of her.

“Right… I did forget your idea of ‘intimacy’ doesn’t resemble anything close to normal.”

Pawk wiped the sweat from her brow with a shaky hand, then stepped in without another word. No questions. No lecture. Just the silent hiss of magic activating as she knelt beside me and began healing my torn body.

Her eyes never met mine. They were as cold as polished glass.

Honestly, the misunderstanding was working in my favor. No matter how much blood had been spilled, I could still claim it was just… a very extreme method of emotional communication between lovers.

Would she believe the truth even if I told her? Probably not.

While she worked on healing me, I didn’t have much else to do. My head throbbed like someone had shoved a red-hot spike through my skull, so moving it wasn’t an option. I ended up just staring at Pawk. Not that I had any other choice. She was right there.

Her sleepwear was… practical, I suppose. It featured a cropped, sporty top that left her navel exposed, with her toned midsection and those faintly twitching venomous thorns half-visible around her hips. She hadn’t fully retracted them, which meant she was still on edge.

I couldn’t blame her. Walking into this mess must’ve been a lot to take in. A pang of guilt stirred in my gut.

“I’m not going to ask what you two were doing,” she muttered without looking at me. “Those wounds pretty much spell it out.”

“Apologies. We, uh… got a bit carried away.”

“Don’t say it!”

Even as she yelled at me, Pawk still offered her hand when I tried to stand. I took it, stumbling to my feet with her help. Only now, upright and halfway lucid, did the full horror of the room hit me. The place looked like a slaughterhouse. There was no way this room would be usable again, not without scrubbing it down to the foundation.

“Hah… Guess I’ll heal Joanne, too,” she sighed.

“I appreciate it. Sorry for the trouble.”

“You should be. Next time, use the torture chamber, got it?”

“Noted.”

If I ever had to go through this again, the next target would probably be Celestia. That would be a whole other nightmare.

Bracing myself against the wall, I staggered into the hallway. My clothes—what was left of them—were so saturated they were practically black. Blood coated everything, turning the world into a surreal fever dream.

As I slumped down the corridor wall, catching my breath, a series of deliberate, heavy footfalls approached me. It was the clack of thick-soled loafers. I glanced sideways and found myself at the feet of a girl wearing black, frilly, knee-high socks and a school skirt that stopped just above them.

My gaze tilted upward and landed directly between her legs. A beat later, the girl coughed pointedly and pressed down on the hem of her skirt.

“Pervert. Kindly restrain yourself.”

“That wasn’t intentional.”

Lured by the smell of blood, our visitor was none other than the madwoman, Stella, the culinary lunatic who rated human flesh like fine wine. She puffed out her cheeks, raising a tiny fist in mock indignation, clearly offended by my accidental peek under her skirt.

Of course, her gothic lolita outfit had full defensive coverage under the skirt, making it impossible to glimpse anything, no matter how unfortunate the angle. Still, defense or not, having someone look up your skirt, even by accident, wouldn’t feel good. I bowed my head without argument.

“Sorry,” I said.

She ignored my apology and replied, “Stella followed the scent of something delicious and found this mess instead.”

I had no comeback for Stella’s flat-toned observation. Sure, it was nice to have my wounds healed, but the last thing I wanted was her sniffing around Joanne. Something about it just felt… wrong.

Her eyes slid over my body like the slow drag of a tongue. Without a change in her vacant expression, she brought a hand to her lips.

“A full swap?”

I was too stunned to respond.

“Remarkable. It’s like grafting. I’m only interested in what the brain, cultivated in such purity, might taste like now.”

Without hesitation, she crouched and dipped her fingers into the blood still trickling from the room. A red tongue darted out, licking it off and rolling the flavor in her mouth. Her face twisted for a moment, followed by a delicate cough. Then, she turned sharply on her heel.

“Peculiar taste. I’ll ask about the method of exchange next time.” With that cryptic farewell, she disappeared into the dark.

Stella. With just a glance and one taste, she had already figured out everything about the organ swap Joanne and I had performed. Her senses were absurdly sharp. Just a drop of blood was enough for her to deduce the broad strokes of what had happened between us.

Meanwhile, Pawk was still peeking hesitantly into the room, barely daring to look at the scene.

“Pawk-sama,” I called.

“Yeah, yeah, just go already,” she replied.

“Thank you. Good night, Pawk-sama.”

“You’re still in pieces. Get some rest. I know you’re probably too exhausted to move, but consider that a formal warning.”

Despite her exasperated tone and the wreck I’d left behind, Pawk still made sure I didn’t keel over. Now armed with cleaning tools held by the thorns extending from the gaps in her sleepwear, she quietly got to work scrubbing the blood from the walls and floor.

Even though this was technically my room, it was still cult property. Anyone else would be furious that I’d drenched it in blood and viscera. But here she was, offering advice and worrying about my condition. For an executive, she was damn decent.

“Hurry up and get to bed. You’ll really die at this rate.”

With Pawk urging me out like that, I didn’t put up a fight. I left quietly, carrying Joanne’s unconscious body in my arms.

I nudged open the door to her room with my foot. Contrary to her chaotic personality, the interior was neatly kept. I immediately noticed the polished little accessories—an elegant-looking comb, a hand mirror—laid out with care atop her desk.

Now that I think about it, when we were touching earlier, her hair felt smoother than usual.

It had gotten soaked in blood not long after, so I hadn’t been sure, but seeing this side of her stirred a strange mix of emotions.

Before laying her on the bed, I wiped away the blood and bits of flesh clinging to her skin. Then, gently, I lowered her onto the clean sheets. Even after scrubbing off the visible grime, that iron tang still lingered in the air. I didn’t have the strength to bathe an unconscious girl, though, not in this state.

Still, I couldn’t rest yet.

There was one more thing I had to do. I had to settle things with Fuankilo.

We’d arranged to meet tonight. I’d used up my supply of healing potions during the organ swap earlier, but everything else was ready. The real fight began now.

Today is the day. I can still move. My body can still fight!

I changed clothes and stepped out into the night air of Metasim.

Rain poured from the sky. Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked like a god’s fury, sending a tremor through my gut.

Perfect. If I had to detonate something tonight, the storm would cover the sound. Luck was on my side.

I retrieved the explosive I’d stashed earlier, swiped a spear from the armory, and crouched in the shadows to secure the warhead firmly to the tip.

“All right…”

I double-checked the construction, flipping it back and forth a few times before breathing over the spearhead.

With that final touch, my makeshift anti-executive weapon was done.

If I had to name it, I’d call it the Blast Pike.

One press of the switch on the shaft would trigger the fuse, and then, boom.

When I extended the spear from under my cloak, the distance was just shy of two and a half meters, comfortably outside the range of Fuankilo’s curse.

I’d already confirmed that the blast radius would reach roughly one meter. Compared to modern explosives, it was pitiful—both in killing power and coverage—but with this world’s technology and my own know-how, it was the best I could manage.

Even if the warhead functioned flawlessly, it wouldn’t be enough to completely vaporize Fuankilo. Something would remain, some sliver of her, spared from the blast and heat, lingering like a curse.

If I wanted a real victory, I’d have to use the smelter. There was no other way.

This wasn’t a fight I had any business winning.

I gripped the spear tightly and swung it once through the air to gauge its weight. I’d rigged it so a little jostling wouldn’t trigger the fuse, but I still couldn’t use the spearhead for defense. The whole thing was top-heavy from the bomb and blade lashed to the tip, and a fuse cord connected the warhead to the trigger on the shaft.

Worse, the battlefield was a refinery. Long weapons like this weren’t ideal in tight quarters, and with the heat that thickened the air inside, the risk of accidental detonation was dangerously high.

It would be a nightmare to wield. But it was my only shot.

If I die here, the cause will almost certainly be instant death from her curse. There’s no point in armor. This needs to be over in seconds.

I left behind my usual chain hauberk and plated gear. They’d only slow me down. Instead, I wore a robe, concealing the custom “Blast Pike” strapped to my back. My only weapon. My trump card.

After checking the fastenings and making sure everything was in place, I pulled my hood low over my face.

Then I ran through the rain-slicked streets of Metasim, my robe heavy with water.

By chance, I found myself retracing the same path I’d taken that day, when I was racing to Alfie’s house.

Thoughts surged through my mind. Memories. Regret. Determination.

I won’t fail again. I won’t let this slip through my fingers.

The war was tilting heavily in the cult’s favor. With Celestia now under mind control, the Aros Temple’s upper ranks outnumbered the Orthodoxy’s eight to six.

But if I could turn Joanne and take Fuankilo off the board…

Then it would shift—six to seven. The Kenneth Orthodoxy would take the lead. This was the only opportunity a nobody like me might ever get, and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

The downpour soaking my back only grew heavier, as if urging me forward. Visibility shrank to less than five meters under the thick shroud of rain.

Let’s hope Celestia doesn’t clear the sky with a spell. Though at this point, all I can do is pray.

When I finally reached the foundry, the orange glow of lamplight cast a hazy cone ahead; at its center stood Fuankilo.

“Fuankilo-sama, working this late into the night… I admire your dedication,” I said in greeting.

“I do what must be done.”

I brushed back the rain-soaked hood of my cloak and exposed my face. The dusky-skinned beauty didn’t so much as glance at me. She turned away, her expression unreadable.

In the cracked reflection of a nearby pane, I caught a glimpse of my silhouette. The robe bulged at odd angles, a triangular swell concealing the explosive-tipped spear strapped beneath. With the room’s dim lighting and shadows lapping at the corners, she hadn’t noticed my weapon.

“Take a look. The furnace is still in working order.”

I jogged up beside her. Fuankilo was staring up at the towering structure of the main forge and kiln with something like satisfaction playing on her lips. She must’ve fired it up ahead of my arrival.

I nodded, feigning interest. “Then we’ll finally be able to resume arms production.”

My guard nearly slipped. The urge to crack a joke, to ease the tension in my chest, flared up without warning. I crushed it immediately.

Focus. My mind sharpened, eyes narrowing, every muscle poised to strike when the moment came.

“Today’s a glorious day,” Fuankilo purred. “Honestly, I was getting sick of blowing our funds on importing gear. About time we stopped relying on outside suppliers.”

She lifted a lantern and started ascending a scaffolding of metal and wood, clinking softly with each step. From the unsteady platform above, she leaned over and peered into the churning core of the furnace.

It looked like she’d been preparing for this reactivation for days. Everything inside the facility—from tools to fuel—was ready to go, only awaiting labor and materials.

Once the foundry became fully operational again, the Aros Temple Cult’s military might would spike dramatically—no more bleeding money for supplies. No matter how I looked at it, this was an unequivocal win for them.

Fuankilo practically licked her lips at the thought of such a future, her voice lifting with excitement as she muttered complaints under her breath.

“This facility… I guess I’ll end up managing it too, won’t I? Ugh, being in charge is nothing but a hassle.”

“You sound thrilled.”

“Well, I am.”

I climbed the scaffold after her, keeping my movements quiet and deliberate.

The footing was narrow and unstable. The elevation was at least several times my own height. Falling from here wasn’t something I could walk away from.

Off in the distance, a whole row of industrial furnaces and kilns stretched into the gloom. Converters, smelting vats, and other heavy equipment loomed in rigid lines. Fuankilo had picked one cluster to bring online, probably for a test run.

Once I reached her side, I looked past the safety railing to find the open maw of the furnace yawning wide beneath us.

From inside, an overwhelming heat poured out in waves. It wasn’t just smoke or steam or haze; it was something worse. Something that clung to the skin and made you feel like your bones might start to melt. At the heart of it, molten ore writhed like a beast, a glowing liquid inferno surging and snapping in thick, volatile splashes. It must have been thousands of degrees—more than enough to vaporize anything that touched it.

If I pushed her right now, I could kill her.

Just one shove. If I hurled Fuankilo into that roaring cauldron, she wouldn’t be coming back. Out of all the cult’s executives, she was one of the least physically resilient. There’d be nothing left to recover.

But she could still use magic.

If I didn’t finish it in one clean, precise moment—before she could so much as think to cast a spell—I’d be the one dying here. The margin for error was zero.

I stilled my breath, steadying myself as I slowly reached for the shaft of the spear hidden under my robe.

Fuankilo said nothing, but it was like she could feel the tension in the air.

She remained still. Good. I could work with that.

I exhaled through my nose, every muscle wound tight, ready to make the first and last move. Then, just as I shifted forward, she murmured while staring down into the furnace.

“If you fell in there… you’d die, wouldn’t you?”

A startled gasp almost escaped me.

She was right there. I’d already moved. I was already within range. The moment I came within two meters of her, I’d entered the reach of her curse.

Too close. I got too close.

“Please… don’t joke like that.” I managed to force the words out, turning to face her directly.

Fuankilo was smiling gently. She looked toward the future of the cult, her eyes calm, her expression full of hope.

The decision took less than a second.

“What—?”

I caught the back of her high heel with my foot and seized Fuankilo by the waist and thigh in the same breath.

Before her chains could fly at me, I lunged forward and hurled her over the railing, straight into the furnace’s yawning mouth.

All of it—every motion, every decision—had been done in a single second. She hadn’t even had time to blink. I’d moved while she was still utterly unsuspecting.

Our eyes met as she plunged downward.

Those gold irises flared wide in raw shock—

And then, click. I saw it. Something behind them switched.

The next instant, just before she vanished into the molten chaos below, an explosion tore through the air right in front of me.

Heat and a wave of something wet and warm slammed into my face. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.

“Gah!”

For a heartbeat, I panicked, thinking the bomb spear had gone off prematurely in the heat, but no. It was still strapped to my back, untouched. I reached for it just to be sure.

When I wiped my face and forced my eyes open, I saw her.

Or rather, what was left of her.

Fuankilo’s body had been torn apart mid-fall. Limbs and flesh scattered, suspended in the air like a grotesque fireworks display.

“A built-in escape device!”

It made sense. She was physically weak.

With her level of healing magic, she didn’t need strength. She’d hidden a bomb inside her own body, a last-resort trick. When cornered, she’d blow herself apart, sending chunks of herself in all directions to confuse her enemy. Then she’d simply regenerate from one of the fragments.

A self-evacuation method, Fuankilo-style.

Like hell I’m letting her get away.

Her limbs arced through the air, spinning wildly. Some of the chunks slammed into walls, into scaffolding, even straight back down into the furnace’s glow.

Only one piece made it clear—her right arm. Everything else? Charred. Vaporized. No way she could regenerate from those.

I ripped the spear from my back and raised it, lining up the throw. Target: her right forearm.

Just as I reached for the trigger—

A fresh splash of blood burst into view.

Another chunk—Fuankilo’s torso—had spilled back out of the furnace, tumbling grotesquely across the edge of the opening.

It must have ricocheted off the inside of the furnace—delayed just enough to fall out after.

Her torso landed closest, the right arm further behind. Two targets. One bomb spear.

No matter how I looked at it, hitting both was impossible. It was a desperate, hopeless shot.

“Fuck… you’ve got to be kidding me—”

The words escaped my lips in a pathetic breath of frustration. There was no helping it. I had no choice but to lower the spear.

With a wet splatter, Fuankilo’s torso slapped down onto the metal grating, spraying molten droplets in all directions. A beat later, her brown right hand—once further off—curled in on itself as it carbonized into blackened waste. Too late.

The regeneration began from the torso. I was a second too slow. Within seconds, she was back—standing, swaying, temple twitching like a frayed wire.

“What a goddamn joke, Oakley-kun.”

She was furious. Of course, she was. She probably thought we had a bond, some mutual understanding, maybe even a thread of envy or obsession toward me, twisted though it was.

She’d granted me access to the foundry, convinced herself that if it was for Aros’s sake, she could overlook her reservations about me. And I’d repaid her by trying to throw her into the damn furnace.

No wonder she snapped.

“Got nothing to say for yourself, huh? Huh?” Her voice curled with venom, but her face… was smiling.

That cold, poisonous smile of someone who thought they’d finally caught you red-handed. But I wasn’t about to let her have the last word.

“Fuankilo. What the hell are you smiling about? You really don’t get it, do you?” I asked.

“Huh?” Her brow twitched. I’d dropped the honorifics. Dropped the mask.

“What… What was that? Where’s your polite little tone, huh? Show some damn respect, you worthless piece of trash.”

“Respect? For garbage like you? Not a chance in hell.”

“What did you just say?!” she yelled in disbelief, brows drawn tight in anger. Her expression screamed confusion, like she couldn’t even process the shift in my demeanor.

If she ran now, I wouldn’t get another chance. So I baited her. Went for the throat. I dug right into the soft, festering part of her ego and twisted.

I wanted her to chase me. To drag her down from that smug high horse, to peel off her layers of pride and strip her nerves raw. I needed her off-balance, emotional. Reckless.

“You’re jealous of me, aren’t you?” I asked.

She replied with a wry smile, “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I ever be jealous of someone like y—”

“Don’t bother lying.”

I cut her off, talking faster now, my words like bullets, sharp and relentless.

“Let’s break it down, shall we? Oakley Mercury, genius behind the Mobile Fortress Plan, decorated hero of the Daskel campaign, riding high on a wave of success. Compared to that, what do you have to offer?”

Her mouth clamped shut. A flicker of something—genuine hurt—danced across her face.

“No proof. No real strategy. Just bullying the next-generation elite out of spite. No one in the upper circle respects you anymore. And it’s not like you ever brought anything to the battlefield either. All you do is sulk in your moldy little dungeon, torturing the weak and pretending that makes you important.”

Fuankilo froze.

Exactly what I needed.

“Outshone by a lowly believer in every way that counts… You couldn’t take it, could you? You had to assert dominance. That’s why you kept dangling your little ‘curse’ over me. Because your ego couldn’t survive the idea that I might be better than you!”

Fueled by rage—hers and my own—I pushed deeper, twisting facts and barbed truths into weapons.

I knew her too well. Fuankilo took pride in her work, in the meticulous suffering she dealt out, in the order she maintained, no matter how twisted. But deep down, she knew. Her magic, her methods, her entire existence were a half-measure compared to Aros himself.

Aros’s divine magic made her feel obsolete. And because she idolized him, she accepted that, swallowing her inferiority with zeal and calling it faith.

All the better for me.

“You’re a fraud,” I snarled. “A coward in a corset. A shrine to envy and laziness dressed in leather and pride. You look at me—the guy who gets his hands dirty, who fights on the frontlines, who’s earned Aros’s attention—and all you can do is rot from the inside out.”

Every word hit her like a whip crack, peeling away the careful facade she’d spent so long building.

This was only the prelude.

If I really wanted to shatter her, I’d have to go lower—far lower. The kind of insult that didn’t just sting, but cut. And there was only one thing that could do that now.

Pity.

Fuankilo had spent her entire life clawing to keep her position, fending off the rising pressure from people like me—the ambitious, the competent, the blessed. She must have been desperate every single day just to hold her place. She was buried beneath struggles I could hardly begin to imagine.

Anyone with a scrap of empathy could see it.

And if someone ever voiced that empathy? If anyone dared to pity her?

That would be the landmine—the one truth she couldn’t bear to face.

“But… I get it,” I said quietly, tightening my grip around the shaft of my spear. “I understand how you feel.”

“What?” Her voice trembled.

“I’ve been there. I’ve felt that helplessness too.”

My chest rose and fell with each breath. I didn’t break eye contact.

For a moment, she stood there—completely still.

Then, slowly, her shoulders started to shake, not from pain or rage, but from laughter.

“Ahaha…”

A grin bloomed across her face, different from before. No longer smug or composed, this was something twisted. Vile. The smile of a monster dressing up in human skin.

“AhahahaHAHAHAHA!!!”

She’d probably been boiling over ever since I tried to throw her into that furnace. Now, the lid was coming off.

She laughed and laughed, and then, just like that, the laughter came to an abrupt stop.

“Say that again.”

Drip. A thin bead of blood fell from her clenched fist and hit the steel with a sound so small it barely registered. But I heard it. So did she.

Then she screamed.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP YOU LITTLE—!!”

She finally exploded.

Bingo.

My gamble had paid off. That single, carefully placed thread of sympathy—thin and hollow—had torn through the last of her armor. It smashed her pride to bits and set off a reaction I could feel in my bones.

It was working. Oh, it was working.

Her clothing, already scorched to tatters, flapped wildly as she tore at her own hair. Her scream was more animal than human now.

“I’m not like that! Who the hell would be jealous of a worthless insect like you?! Don’t flatter yourself, you scum-sucking bottom-feeder!!!”

Of all people, Fuankilo had been forced to confront her deepest, most fragile truth from the mouth of the one she despised the most.

She couldn’t walk away now. Not like this. Not after I’d ripped off her mask and shoved her raw, pulsing insecurities into the light. There was no retreat left for her.

She wouldn’t stop until she silenced me for good.

One of us was going to die here tonight.

My blood surged. A second chance had opened itself up, and the sheer rush of it pulled the next taunt out of me before I could stop it.

“Hah! What’s wrong, Fuankilo? You still wanna talk?! What is it now? Gonna challenge me to a debate since you can’t beat me in a real fight? Or is that just your body moving on its own ‘cause barking orders is all you’re good for?!”

I should be the cornered one here, and yet, laughter and a shiver of anticipation welled up from my gut. Maybe I was just shocked at myself. Shocked that I had her dancing to my rhythm. That I, Oakley Mercury, had managed to unbalance the great Fuankilo.

This is working.

“I won’t let you leave.”

She launched herself at me, bare feet slapping against the metal, her tattered clothes forgotten, hair whipping behind her like a banner of war.

She landed in front of me, perfectly poised on the unsteady scaffold. Now we stood face to face, high above the molten chaos below.

“I’m going to kill you. I swear I’ll kill you!”

“The feeling’s mutual, Fuankilo. I’ll never forgive you.”

I raised the spear, thrusting the oversized head skyward before leveling it with precise, unshakable hands. The shaft wobbled slightly under the uneven weight of the bomb I’d wrapped in cloth, the head bloated like a tumor. It didn’t matter if it looked ridiculous. This was the only card I had left to play.

And the duel was about to begin.

Just one shot. That was all I had. One explosion, and a long weapon meant to hold her at bay. No second chances.

Fuankilo, on the other hand, had her curse. A two-meter zone of absolute control, and all she had to do was get close. If she managed to use that muscle-bound body and her self-regenerating magic to close the gap, I’d be done for.

“Fufu… You talk big, but for all that bluster, you’re not even moving.”

The roar of the molten metal surged from below, climbing like a tide of fire. It pounded against the platform beneath our feet, urging me forward, daring me to strike.

Sparks flickered in the corners of my vision, stoked by the impurities in the furnace—blood and flesh, most of it hers. A minor explosion popped somewhere below, embers dancing around scaffolding like confetti.

Every time she stepped forward, I stepped back.

Fuankilo’s curse had a two-meter kill zone. Letting her get close meant instant death.

That wasn’t all. She possessed the flesh of a transcendent. One solid kick could snap the shaft of my spear like a twig.

Behind her, the shadows writhed. Dark clouds clung to her back, pulsating and simmering as if alive. That was her power—the source of her strength.

“You know the range of my magic, don’t you?” Her voice drifted across the shimmering haze, distorted by the furnace’s blistering heat.

Then, without warning, she stomped through a support beam of the scaffold and kicked a shower of debris directly at me.

I gasped.

Though the strike was not as fast as Joanne’s volleys, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t kill me. One hit from a chunk that size would leave a crater in my body.

I swatted aside the first chunk with the iron heel of my spear, barely shifting its course. Another came, then a third. I dodged as best I could, but the effort knocked my posture off-kilter. Seizing the advantage, Fuankilo rushed in, closing the gap like a hunting beast.

Two meters.

The cursed number rang in my mind like a war drum. If she got close, I was dead. The pressure alone pressed down on my spine like a lead weight.

I parried her reaching hand with a twist of my blade, nicking her wrist. She charged straight through, reckless, so I swept at her ankle, tripping her off balance.

But I didn’t pursue. I couldn’t, not with her body capable of transferring to a severed limb in an instant. She could vanish and respawn anywhere within range.

If I don’t take the fight to her, I’ll never get her into the furnace!

Unfortunately, the battlefield was against me. The active furnace was far behind her, well out of reach now. And she knew it.

I could see it in her eyes, the cold calculation. She was backing away from the furnace, and with every barefoot stomp across the platform, she shattered another segment of the scaffolding that led to it. One by one, she was removing my only path to victory.

If I fell now—even a minor fall—it wouldn’t be survivable. After the organ exchange with Joanne, my body couldn’t take that kind of trauma anymore.

I should have killed her in that first moment, when she hadn’t expected it. One clean throw. One strike to end it all.

It was too late to regret that now.

The plan to knock her into the furnace from above had failed, which meant I needed to move on to the next strategy. Glancing down at my feet, I began adjusting my position, preparing for the second stage of the battle.

“You sicced Celestia on me, didn’t you? You had her spying on me, probably even hiding in my room.” I threw the words out half as a gamble, half as a way to buy time.

To my surprise, Fuankilo tilted her head slightly and answered with a curious smirk, “My, how did you figure that out?”

So, it was her. That explained Celestia’s strangely suspicious behavior toward me. Fuankilo must’ve planted that seed. I’d only noticed Celestia’s intrusion by sheer luck. When I entered my room that day, there was a trace of a soft floral scent in the air. That was all. Barely anything. But enough.

We’d only exchanged a few words before the pieces clicked together. It didn’t matter. My repositioning was complete. I could still recover, even if only barely.

However, I had to get down from this crumbling height, and there was no safe way left to do that.

Then it happened.

Just as Fuankilo’s foot came down on the next beam, a sharp crack split the air beneath me.

“The hell? Now?!”

The structure gave way. My balance snapped backward, and the telltale lurch of gravity ripped through my gut. That weightless horror surged up my spine as my feet left the ground, the platform above vanishing in a blink.

The ground rushed up to meet me like a closing trap.

The spear! Protect the spear! That was all I could think about. My arms curled instinctively around the bomb-tipped weapon, and because I twisted to shield it, I couldn’t brace properly for the landing.

The impact was brutal.

“Gah!”

Something cracked. My head, maybe more. I couldn’t tell. The floor was spinning even though I hadn’t moved. My right temple screamed with heat, raw and blinding.

For one terrifying second, the pain smothered everything. I groaned, writhing on the floor like a crushed bug, barely aware of my own breath.

My fingers grazed my brow. When I looked, they were wet and smeared with crimson.

The sight of my own blood snapped me back.

Clutching the bomb-spear tight, I scanned the darkness, searching for Fuankilo. I soon spotted her pinned beneath collapsed scaffold beams. It seemed she hadn’t seen me yet.

My vision wavered, but I staggered upright and ran—ran toward my one chance.

“Damn it! Where the hell are you?! Oakley, show yourself!!” Her voice thundered behind me as she rose from the rubble, bloodied and pierced by shards of metal scaffolding but still standing.

Keep going. Don’t slow down.

“Haaah… haaah…”

I tried to steady my breath, but the pain wouldn’t let me. My lungs were burning. Every step felt like I was pulling my feet through syrup and thorns. My head throbbed like it was about to split open.

“Oakley-kun! I’m gonna torture you until you can’t talk back ever again, so come oooout and playyy!”

Yeah, right. Like hell I’m showing myself to you now.

I only had one weapon left that could do real damage—the bomb-spear. And one chance.

During the earlier scramble, I’d noticed something. A weakness in the terrain, a variable I could gamble on.

This wasn’t just a duel anymore. It was a final, all-in bet.

Clutching the spear close, I forced my failing body to keep moving.

Come on. Just hold out a little longer.

※※※

Fuankilo stalked the shadows of the smelting hall, her voice drifting mockingly into the empty air as she searched for the man who had vanished with the collapsing scaffold.

“Heyyy! I’ll forgive you for everything up to now. I’ll even apologize, okay?”

Of course, she didn’t mean a single word. She wandered amid the hulking silhouettes of refining machines, her tone light and sickly sweet. But behind that sing-song sarcasm seethed something far darker.

Of all the people in the world, he had uncovered what she most wanted to stay buried. Oakley, the one man she despised above all, had pierced straight into the rawest core of her self-loathing. That, more than any attack, was the unforgivable sin.

His attempt to kill her had become nothing more than a bonus, a delightful excuse for slow, exquisite revenge.

“Where are you?”

She would find him. She would carve him apart slowly, piece by pleading piece, starting with his precious manhood, slicing through it again and again with thread-cutting scissors while gently knitting it back together with healing magic. No man had ever been able to resist screaming, and Oakley would be no different. She was already savoring the sound of it.

The fury she’d felt when he’d first thrown her into the furnace had cooled to something far more dangerous: icy calculation.

She told herself she was calm now. Collected. Her pace was measured as she swept her gaze across the iron-and-shadow labyrinth of the refinery.

The catwalk to the furnace had been destroyed. That spear—oddly wrapped in cloth—was the only tool Oakley had left. Whatever he still had up his sleeve, it wouldn’t be enough.

Still… that spear. I don’t like it. Can’t say why, but it gives me a bad feeling.

That stray thought flickered across her mind, stopping her in her tracks. That was when she noticed it.

Blood.

A trail of it, smeared along the floor in small, wet crescents, leading deeper into the gloom. She crouched to inspect it, lips curling upward.

It wasn’t hers.

Of course not. There was no way Oakley could have survived that fall unscathed. The blood was his. She had him now.

Following the trail, she rounded a thick iron pillar and caught sight of the toe of a boot, just barely visible from the shadows behind it.

Well, well. There you are.

Her smirk deepened. She didn’t bother hiding it. She even ran a hand through her tousled hair, patting it flat, preening, composed as always.

So, this would be the end for Oakley Mercury.

A shame, really. He’d done well, all things considered. He’d rattled her, rattled her more than she’d like to admit. But in the end, fate had a sense of irony. The reckless, half-mad zealot would meet his death as a loyal little lamb of Aros, swallowed by darkness with his pride intact.

An unfortunate accident. That was what she’d call it.

Fuankilo raised her leg high and delivered a sweeping roundhouse, the same brutal high kick that had shattered Celestia’s jaw. The blow struck the pillar with a thunderous crack, obliterating the concrete and the silhouette crouched behind it—Oakley, or what was left of him, scattered into dust.

“Just kidding.”

She whirled, face split in a grin, her eyes locking onto a different target.

There, just barely visible above the edge of the converter vat, fluttered the hem of a cultist’s robe.

“Tch.”

She heard it. A sharp breath sucked in through clenched teeth. That little gasp told her all she needed to know.

So, it had been a trick. The blood trail, the body behind the pillar—it was all bait to lure her in. The real Oakley was above, waiting for a kill shot. But she had seen through it from the start. And she had played along.

Her lips curled in cruel satisfaction as she raised a hand and leveled her magic.

“I know you’re there, idiot!”

The chains of her curse burst forth from her palm, serpentine and shining with dark enchantment. Anyone caught by them would be paralyzed—trapped, helpless, utterly hers. She could already imagine his face contorting in despair, all that fire and defiance crumbling into fear.

Fool. That was what he got for underestimating her. His trick was clever, sure. But cleverness only got you so far when you were facing someone better.

“You almost had me there, Oakley. Almost.” She laughed, high and triumphant. “But you picked the wrong opponent! AHAHAHAHA—!”

She’d done it.

The little rat who’d dared humiliate her was going to die like the vermin he was.

“Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re supposed to say after you’ve actually won?”

“What—?”

She barely had time to turn before something gleamed in the shadows behind her.

A flash of metal. A hiss of breath.

The shaft of a spear, glinting with muted light, exploded from her abdomen.

“Ahhh!”

Oakley’s roar was feral. The spear rammed upward from behind, driven with such force that it shattered her spine and lifted her off the ground. Her whole body lurched forward, impaled and trembling.

Too close. He was within two meters, but she hadn’t sensed it.

She hadn’t seen it coming.

She’d thought he was on the other side of the vat. She’d been too drunk on victory, too wrapped up in her own brilliance.

And now? Now she couldn’t even process the pain. Because in that instant, just as her body tried to react, her mind refused to accept it.

Bellowing through a throat soaked in blood, Oakley drove forward like a freight train, dragging Fuankilo’s impaled body with the momentum of a man possessed. The furnace loomed ahead, swollen with molten steel, its surface blistering the air with every breath.

“Let the hammer fall, and remember the name of the man who swings it!” he roared. “I am Oakley Mercury!!”

The spear, still skewering her from lower back to gut, struck the side of the furnace with a sickening, final crunch.

Click.

A mechanical snap echoed through the smog-choked foundry.

And then a detonation.

The second explosion of the night ripped through the room like divine judgment. Though Oakley had released the weapon a heartbeat before the blast, the concussive force still smashed into him head-on, hurling him like shrapnel across the steelworks. He bounced off a support beam, then skidded along the floor in a battered heap, blood streaking the ground behind him.

“Ugh… ngh—”

Half-conscious, he lifted his head.

A hole yawned in the side of the furnace, over a meter wide, melted open by the embedded explosive. From it, incandescent liquid metal burst forth in a glowing torrent, the roar of its release nearly drowning out Oakley’s shallow, rattling breath.

Then came the scream.

Shrill. Piercing. Unrelenting.

It wasn’t the sound of pain. It was the sound of raw, animal terror.

His vision, blurry and blood-slicked, began to clear just enough for him to make out the figure writhing atop the pool of molten steel.

Fuankilo.

Her silhouette was aflame, her skin sloughing off in steaming ribbons. The molten metal had drenched her from above, cascading over her like divine punishment. Her arms flailed blindly, fingers melted to bone, her jaw frozen in a silent scream even as her throat tore itself ragged from howling.

It was a grotesque sight, precisely the one Oakley had gambled everything to create.

Even with her regenerative magic, there was no hope. Not this time. The extreme temperature overwhelmed any healing her body tried to perform. Every new layer of flesh born from magic was seared away the moment it formed. Her body was locked in a loop of suffering, trapped in the flames of her own demise.

The fake blood trail. The planted robe. The decoy corpse. Every piece had fallen into place. Every second had counted.

In the end, it had worked.

Bracing against the wall, Oakley limped closer.

Fuankilo’s lower body was gone, having been destroyed in the explosion. What remained of her torso was being steadily devoured by the lake of liquid fire she’d fallen into.

She was dying, truly dying.

He looked down at her, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

She writhed. Flailed. Smoke wreathed her like a funeral shroud. From within that seething, skeletal mess, her voice—ragged and cracking—tore free:

“I… I don’t want to die!”

Perhaps mimicking Joanne’s trick, Fuankilo hurled a half-melted chunk of her own flesh toward safety—some futile attempt to anchor her soul to a vessel beyond the flames.

It hit the ground with a wet splat, let out a sizzling screech, then blackened into ash.

Oakley took a step closer, each breath labored, but his gaze unflinching.

“This is your reckoning.”

Fuankilo’s world was fire.

The heat—transcendent, apocalyptic—devoured every nerve, every cell, every delusion of immortality. Her regenerative magic, once her absolute shield, now only prolonged the agony. Her body tried desperately to repair itself even as the flames consumed it, one futile heartbeat at a time.

She still clung to life.

Faces floated before her in the inferno, grotesque and warped—faces of the people she had killed. Their mouths twisted with curses, their eyes paralyzed with fear.

So many. So many had begged for their lives. So many had screamed.

And she… had laughed.

She hadn’t cared. Not once. Their terror had never touched her. Their deaths had been a game, a reminder of her superiority.

That’s right, isn’t it?

I can’t die. This isn’t real. It’s just… just another show, right?

“No… no, this can’t be real…”

Her remaining tissue began to blacken and crumble. Protein seared and peeled from bone. The scent of burning flesh hung heavy, suffocating.

She still didn’t understand.

Some part of her—some wretched, prideful fragment—was still laughing because it was impossible. Ridiculous. She couldn’t die. She was special. She was chosen. This wasn’t how her story ended.

But then…

Then came the real fear.

Not a phantom, not an echo, but the primal certainty of death. It split through her like an ax to the skull, and everything—everything—crashed down.

The pain multiplied.

The terror bloomed.

No, no, no, I don’t want to die. Someone help me help me please—

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!!!” she shrieked in a voice no longer her own. Her body, disintegrating. Her mind, unraveling.

Oakley, watching it all unfold, whispered, quiet and cruel, “The people you killed said the same thing, didn’t they?”

The words struck harder than the flames.

For the first time in her life, Fuankilo understood.

Each life she had toyed with had meant everything to someone. Each cry for mercy had come from a soul fighting not to disappear. Every victim had been just like her.

And now, she was them.

This was justice.

Her last thought came not with rage but clarity.

“Oh… I see.”

Fuankilo Legacy shed a single tear as her flesh burned away. A tear no one saw.

And in the end, her body left nothing behind.

※※※

I don’t remember how I got back to my room.

What woke me was the noise outside—muffled voices echoing through the corridor. It was distant but agitated, as if the air itself had grown heavier overnight.

When I looked down at myself, I saw that most of my wounds had already started to heal. On the desk nearby, some leftover herbs and a nearly empty vial told the story. I must’ve patched myself up after crawling back here. Not that I remembered doing it.

The fog in my mind started to clear slowly and uncomfortably.

Joanne was still asleep in the bed beside me, utterly still. I realized that the commotion outside could only mean one thing.

Last night… I killed Fuankilo.

Didn’t I?

Even now, after everything, the doubt crept in. After seeing how hard it was to kill a so-called immortal in this place, even with overwhelming force, part of me couldn’t help but wonder.

They say a killer always returns to the scene. I guess that made me just another cliché.

I threw on a robe, making sure to hide the bandages still wrapped around half my body, and made my way to the smelting plant.

Or what was left of it.

The place had burned to the ground—charred beams jutted from the rubble like broken bones. Only the metal furnaces had survived the fire, blackened and warped.

No one’s fixing this without specialists. Not anytime soon.

I kept walking until I could hear the voices. I strained to listen in.

“Fuankilo-sama is dead,” someone whispered.

They thought it was an accident. That she’d fallen into the molten pit, tried to eject herself with that weird escape spell of hers, and failed.

Burned alive.

No one even suspected foul play.

From the edge of the wreckage, I saw them. Pawk, standing like she’d been carved from stone. Aros with his head lowered, shoulders heavy. Even Celestia was there, though she didn’t say a word. She just stared down, her expression unreadable.

I had to leave. Fast.

I told myself it was for the world. That killing her was the only way to tip the scales back. But even as I turned away, something stabbed deep in my chest. It hurt more than I thought it would.

Some days later, just after sunset, they held Fuankilo Legacy’s funeral.

Despite preaching resurrection for the faithful once their divine mission was fulfilled, the cult often performed formal services like this—mourning rites to offer closure. This time, though, it was different. The death of a high-ranking executive due to an “accident” demanded a stricter, more solemn ceremony.

It all felt hollow.

There was no body to bury. Only a vacant coffin at the center of it all, resting beneath the temple’s shadow in the heart of Metasim. Those attending had gathered like mournful wraiths. Clad in black cloaks, they formed a ring around the sanctuary, torches held aloft in reverent silence.

The flamelight spilled across the temple steps, flickering over the coffin and revealing the only thing inside: scraps of clothing, singed and torn. What little had survived.

No body. No remains. Just the echo of her destruction.

For those who possess healing magic, death doesn’t come with a corpse. When it does come, it consumes everything. They don’t just die. They’re extinguished. That’s the paradox of their power. They live on the edge of annihilation, always a breath away from vanishing entirely.

The fact that any of her garments remained was a miracle in itself.

Standing closest to the coffin were the four remaining great executives: Aros, Shadik, Pawk, and Stella. Celestia stood off to the side, awkward and uncertain, as if the space around her had grown colder. Joanne, of course, still hadn’t woken up. She was locked in that unnatural sleep with no signs of stirring.

When the officers stepped forward, the gathered believers raised their torches high. The flamelight shuddered in the air, casting wavering gold and crimson across the temple's face. It was the only warmth in a night that had gone cold with grief.

Aros’s voice rang out, smooth and clear.

“Fuankilo Legacy was a fine subordinate.”

His mask caught the torchlight as he raised a hand over the coffin, lifting it gently with an unseen force. From where I stood—directly across from him—I stared straight into that hollow-eyed porcelain.

“She committed herself wholly to the unglamorous work. Oversight. Infrastructure. Interrogation. She demanded excellence in every detail. Her diligence, her refusal to cut corners—that was her strength. She could be stubborn, yes, but that stubbornness… was endearing. In its own way.”

Pawk’s lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Shadik moved to support her, one gloved hand resting gently on her shoulder. Stella remained still as stone, eyes closed. Celestia looked off into the distance, brushing her long hair from her face as if trying to disappear into thought. Aros kept speaking, unshaken.

A lone sound of grief rippled outward, then others followed. Gentle weeping broke across the assembled crowd like soft waves against the temple stones. I stood there, still, torch raised, and couldn’t help but wonder—was Fuankilo really this loved?

No. I couldn’t bear to watch this. A sharp, unseen hand clenched around my chest—guilt, pressing deep.

I squeezed the haft of my torch tighter, grounding myself in that searing grip.

That woman… They were treating her like some kind of saint now, as if she’d always been kind. Compassionate. Just.

I knew the truth. She was a monster.

And these mourners? Glorifying her? You’re no better. All of you are just as rotten. Aros, when is that mask of yours finally going to crack?

I glared at him from beneath the hood of my robe, eyes burning through the shadows.

“Bow your heads,” Pawk commanded, her voice sharp and carefully stripped of emotion.

Celestia raised a hand. A whisper of wind curled through the air, snuffing out the flames on the torches in a single breath. As the smoke spiraled into the dark, silence took its place.

The deepest mourning our cult ever offered.

Only the pale light of the moon touched her coffin now.

Fuankilo’s casket, now entombed beneath the temple, would never see daylight again.

That night, I dreamed.

It was during the early days of the Metasim raid. Back when we still thought this war was something we could plan neatly on maps.

“You. Take this.”

The voice came out of nowhere. Fuankilo, that sadistic freak, just… handed me a knife. It was rusted dark with dried blood.

“It’s still usable if you clean it. I’m too lazy to scrub it myself. It’s yours now.”

She didn’t wait for thanks. She said her piece and turned to go.

“Tch.”

“Ow—?!”

She kicked me. Hard. Right in the ass as she left. I remembered the pain and the smirk on her face.

Why that memory now?

When I woke, it had already slipped away.

Fuankilo Legacy was gone. Her unique magic—her curse—was erased from existence.

One more enemy, wiped clean from this world.

※※※

A week had passed since Fuankilo’s quiet funeral.

Shadik, who’d attended the ceremony, had returned to the Central Branch headquarters. Word was, Stella would soon be heading back to the Northeast Branch as well.

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve accompanied her, continuing my development, rising further through the cult’s ranks. But now wasn’t the time for progress reports and training plans. Not with Fuankilo dead and Joanne still unconscious. No one was in the mood to talk strategy.

Pawk and Celestia were working themselves to the bone trying to cover for Fuankilo’s absence. Aros had disappeared again, as he often did. The entire cult was descending into one of its worst periods of disorder in years.

Joanne still hadn’t opened her eyes.

I sat beside her, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead and letting my fingers graze her cheek. Her skin was warm. Soft. She seemed almost peaceful.

The brainwashing had already taken hold. It must have been fully embedded. I could only assume that she hadn’t woken because her mind was still sorting itself out. Reassembling.

I needed her to wake up. I needed her to talk to me and to stand by my side. We still had to break Celestia’s conditioning together. She was the first ally I’d made in this hellish place. Of course, I was impatient.

Over the past week, I’d become aware of something else.

My thoughts were tainted, tainted in a way I couldn’t ignore.

Every time I remembered that Joanne’s organs were inside me and that mine were resting delicately within her small frame, something moved in me. Something feverish and alive.

My blood boiled and burned. A thrill surged through me that was unmistakably sexual.

There was no denying it anymore. Just thinking about the exchange made my body shudder. This swelling warmth that crept over me like I wanted to cradle her… cherish her… claim her. This contamination inside me had to be her influence. I could feel this other self, this foreign presence, rewriting the laws of my mind.

If she’s been altered even more than I have, maybe we’ll actually be able to talk like equals…

The worst-case scenario lingered like a shadow in the corner of my thoughts: that my sense of self—my logic, my morals, even my desires—were being rewritten in her image. That I was being pulled into her madness, and not the other way around.

Our original dynamic had been clear: I was the rational one, and Joanne was deranged. But what if, after all this, she woke up sane, and I was the one who’d slipped into madness?

We’d trade roles. It would be a pointless reversal. The only true victory would be both of us—normal, stable, human—standing together to crush the cult.

I sighed. Her condition hadn’t changed at all. She was still sleeping. Still untouched by all the chaos she’d left behind.

Needing something to do, I left to fetch some fresh water. I dipped a cloth into the cool bucket, wrung it out, and returned to gently wipe her down.

Suddenly, I noticed something.

“What was that?”

Her cheek. It had twitched.

A barely perceptible shift beneath her skin. Her eyelids, too, began fluttering, as if caught on the edge of a dream. They twitched in small, involuntary tremors, the kind that suggested they could open any second now.

I dropped the towel without thinking, my breath catching as I leaned over Joanne’s delicate face.

Then finally, it happened.

“Nnh…”

A soft voice emerged from her, rough with disuse. She let out a faint groan and slowly opened her eyes.

She stared up at the ceiling in silence, then calmly raised herself into a sitting position. I immediately moved to support her frail back, pulling her into my arms with everything I had.

“Welcome back, Joanne! Welcome back!”

Finally, after everything, I’d regained someone I could truly talk to, someone who could understand me, speak with me not in riddles or twisted dogma, but honestly. And not just anyone, this was Joanne.

If she were on my side, there was nothing we couldn’t do.

I eased away from her, meeting her gaze head-on. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, locked onto mine.

“Ah… Good morning, Oakley.”

Her voice was the same as ever—gentle, affectionate, laced with a kind of warmth that hadn’t changed… and yet, it felt different. A little softer, maybe. A little more human.

Or perhaps… less.

There was something off about her. Not dangerous, but strange, like a presence that teetered between the real and the otherworldly. A part of me recoiled. Another part couldn’t look away.

Snapping myself out of it, I forced the words I’d prepared to the front of my mind and asked her plainly, “Joanne-sama. I know you understand what I’m trying to do, but I have to ask anyway. Will you help me destroy the Aros Temple Cult?”

“Sure, I’ll help.” Her answer came so quickly I almost missed it.

All the tension I’d been clenching melted into confusion. Her tone was light. It sounded genuinely easygoing. There was no doubt in her voice.

It wasn’t a lie. At least, I wanted to believe it wasn’t.

However, that strange aura around her still prickled at the edge of my senses. Maybe it was just the aftermath of the organ transplant. Maybe I was still shaken by the unknown. Or maybe I was right to be uneasy about how eager she sounded.

Still, I had no choice but to move forward.

I opened my mouth to push the plan ahead, but she beat me to it.

“You don’t have to explain. I get it. If the long-term goal is wrecking the cult, then the short-term one is breaking Celestia’s brainwashing, right?”

“Y-Yes. Exactly.”

“How were you going to do it? Don’t tell me you were gonna try the same method you used with me.”

“Right now… I don’t think I have the stamina to survive something like that.”

“So, if you did have the stamina, you would’ve gone through with it?”

Joanne narrowed her eyes in a bemused smile, the corners of her mouth twitching in mild exasperation.

She was right, of course. If I’d had the stamina and my own unaltered organs still inside me, I would have done the same thing. But given my current condition, opening myself up again anytime soon was out of the question.

“It’d be far more efficient to transplant the organs you received from me into Celestia and let the next phase of psychic contamination run its course.”

“I mean… wow,” she muttered, glancing down at her abdomen with a look of faint distaste.

I’d only gone through with it because she’d asked for it at the time. And now she was recoiling in disgust? That stings.

“Well, it’s all hypothetical for now,” I added quickly.

Whether a second transplant would trigger another memory transfer was a complete unknown. Would Celestia inherit my consciousness, Joanne’s current one, or neither? It was anyone’s guess.

Still, it felt ironic to be hesitating over uncertainty now. I’d been tightrope-walking without a safety net for this long. What was one more reckless leap into the void? Risk had always been part of the game. There was no point in flinching now.

Besides, with my record so far, even Pawk and the others were likely to sign off on the plan.

“I get the gist. So… what happens after we break Celestia’s brainwashing?”

Joanne seemed fully on board with the strategy. Maybe it was because my way of thinking had seeped into her mind during the transplant, but it felt easier to talk to her now, like we were finally speaking the same language.

“We hand Celestia over to the Orthodoxy. She can leverage what she learned during her time here to gain trust, integrate, and feed us intel from inside.”

“Hmm. Makes sense.”

“Our primary objective, for now, is to break the brainwashing. Let’s move quickly.”

“Yeah… all right. Leave it to me, Oakley.”

Just like that, the post-reawakening briefing with Joanne had progressed without a hitch.

But… I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Every time I looked into her eyes—those spiral-patterned irises that shimmered like glass catching a madman’s fever—I found myself unable to trust her. They weren’t the same as before.

No. They’d evolved and grown deeper, more chaotic.

I didn’t make the wrong call, I told myself silently. I know I didn’t.

The only thing I could truly do now was keep telling myself that and keep walking forward.

※※※

Another cultist had been there the night of Fuankilo’s death, hidden in the shadows of the smelting facility.

He’d watched the battle unfold in secret, a deadly clash between a rising star of the faith and the infamous torture executive.

“I-I saw something I really shouldn’t’ve…”

The blonde-haired man trembled where he crouched, his voice little more than a shiver. He had witnessed everything: Fuankilo’s incineration, Oakley’s blood-soaked escape, and the furnace roaring out of control. In the aftermath, all he could do was stare blankly, stunned into numb silence.

Oakley Mercury, the promising young believer—the one everyone talked about—was a traitor? The roar of fire and steel had drowned out most of the conversation, but from what little he’d seen, there was no mistaking it. Oakley had slaughtered Fuankilo with unmistakable intent.

What the hell is going on?

By the time the flames swallowed the facility, the blonde cultist was hugging his knees on the ground, trying and failing to steady his trembling body.

“This is perfect.”

His mind had twisted into something deeply warped, so much so that he hadn’t even considered reporting what he saw. No. He made a decision instantly.

He would let Oakley run free.

Why hadn’t he turned him in? The answer was disarmingly simple.

Because it would be a hell of a lot more fun this way.

Because the world might actually tear itself apart.

That alone was reason enough.

“Ah, this is the best. Joining this cult to kill time might’ve been the best decision of my life.”

The next day, he was the one who quietly spread the rumor that Fuankilo had died in an accident.

During her funeral, while the other mourners stood in silent grief, he stood just behind Oakley, watching him.

Oakley-senpai… you’re doing something really interesting, huh? Don’t be greedy. Let me play too.

His eyes glimmered with a madness too dangerous to ignore—an unfiltered, chaotic fascination.

His name was Alex Eagley.

And this jester who called life itself a game was about to make his move.

Afterword

Thank you, as always, for your support. This is Heaven99, the author of GANGIMARI.

Welcome to Volume 2! First and foremost, I’m just grateful it made it to publication without incident.

When Volume 1 was released, friends and acquaintances congratulated me left and right, but a good number of them also said, “Wow, that’s a hell of a title.” And yeah, fair point. Honestly, no one could’ve predicted a sharp-edged web novel like this would ever get a physical release. If I’d known back then how things would turn out, I might’ve gone with a more mainstream title. Now I can’t imagine calling it anything else. Funny how that works.

This second volume included a lot of new content not found in the web version, so I hope even returning readers found plenty to enjoy.

First, the swimsuit scenes with the heroines—those were a brand-new addition at the suggestion of my editor. “Add a reward scene,” they said. It’s not that I wanted to write them or anything… Okay, that’s a lie. I absolutely did. Thank you, editor-san, for the very persuasive advice. And thank you, Namanie-sensei, for the absolutely incredible color illustration. It’s everything I hoped for and more. Truly amazing work.

Next, the molten furnace battle was another significant new development. In the original web version, the arc climaxed with Oakley and Joanne’s organ exchange. There was no battle at the forge to speak of. Writing Volume 2 meant reworking a lot of that, and I think the changes brought real tension and depth to the story. I’d be thrilled if you compare the two versions and see the evolution for yourself.

And now, a huge announcement!

GANGIMARI is getting a manga adaptation!

When my editor broke the news, I was so shocked I literally lost the ability to speak. Then I saw the storyboard, and my surprise and excitement exploded all over again. The heroines look amazing! The action scenes are stunning! I devoured the entire thing with the enthusiasm of a kid in grade school, and I can’t wait for you to see it too.

Volume 3 is already in the works, and I’ll be doing my best to get it into your hands as soon as I can. I hope you enjoy both the manga and the upcoming volumes!

Finally, I’d like to express my gratitude.

To the editors who offered spot-on guidance and unwavering support, to Namanie-sensei who brought this volume to life with such brilliant artwork, to the entire team involved in making this happen, and to all you readers out there.

Thank you, truly.

I’ll keep giving this my all, so please keep sticking with me!

— Heaven99

Author: Heaven99

This is Volume 2, with many new episodes added beyond the original web version.

I had no idea how to write a cover blurb or an afterword, so I actually ended up searching: “how to write cover blurb afterword.” Yeah.

Illustrator: Namanie

I love dark-fall arcs with corrupted holy characters! Thank you so much for letting me draw this one!

For the cover, we went with a totally different vibe from Volume 1—something a bit more mystical. How do you like it?

Also, we finally get to show off Stella, who only appeared in silhouette at the end of the first volume. I’m so happy we can fully introduce her now. I hope you enjoy this second volume!

Thank you all

Thank you for reaching the end of I Got Reincarnated as a Cultist Mob Volume 2! We hope you've enjoyed Okley's desperate struggle for survival against a brutal fate and the attention of the world's most deranged heroines. Your support means the world to us!

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