Chapter 61

Prismatic light cascaded down from the stained glass above. In the main prayer hall stood a colossal plaster statue so immense it overwhelmed any who beheld it—a benevolent angel gazing down upon the earth.

Every time I see it, all I can think is how ridiculously huge it is.

Percival stared blankly at the sacred, gleaming white statue. There were few people who could make him—who despised waiting—endure even five minutes of delay. In fact, it was safe to say no such person existed.

Soon, a refined voice echoed from behind the statue.

"Our proud Lily Knight! You've returned with an even more beautiful face. The Papal Court welcomes you back."

The man who emerged wore yellow vestments. It was Bellacups Cardinal, one of the Pope's most trusted confidants.

Percival asked in a voice thick with boredom.

"Where's His Holiness the Pope?"

"His Holiness is hurrying here—most urgently."

"Must be that countess sneaking in late at night again. Even in his old age, the geezer's still got stamina to spare."

The Pope was a young, handsome man. Though his age exceeded that of Percival and Bellacups combined, his shell was robust and vigorous, rivaling any youthful knight. Women who adored him were as countless as the stars in this land.

To put it kindly, the Pope was a man overflowing with love. Less kindly, he was promiscuous. And subjectively speaking, he was the kind of superior who made one cringe with embarrassment.

Bellacups chuckled, shaking his head at Percival's mockery.

"Such dalliances do happen often, of course... but surely you know this already. No matter how alluring any beauty may be, the one His Holiness cherishes most is you, Sir Benedict."

Percival pressed his solar plexus and grimaced theatrically.

"Feels like that chamber pot just crawled all the way up here."

"It does seem that way."

"I don't need that old man's love. If he doesn't show in five minutes, I'm leaving. Tell him that."

Percival had rushed straight from Beaton Blue to the Papal Court. Having spent days on the train, he craved rest as soon as possible.

......Beaton Blue.

The Iterana Empire's bluest resort. He still couldn't forget it.

On that night with the enormous full moon rising, Percival had felt "that sensation"—one he'd never experienced before. It wasn't the instinct of one powerhouse recognizing another. It was an overwhelming pull that drew in every sense, like sinking into a quagmire.

And at the edge of that mire stood the woman.

Anne Orleans.

......No, perhaps Catherine Panya is more accurate.

Percival's intuition told him she was, like him, contracted to a Great Demon.

How?

In his hazy old memories, Catherine's shoulders had been so small and fragile they could fit easily within his arms. And she hadn't changed much now. The image etched in his mind was of a flower that had barely bloomed before spring's end—precarious, like a cursed mirage that would vanish at a touch, impossible to grasp lightly.

But not anymore.

The current Catherine Panya harbored a profound abyss of power that even Percival alone—perhaps even the Pope—dared not approach. Despite being fellow contractors of Great Demons, he felt an inexplicable, immense pressure from her.

This meant hierarchies existed even among Great Demons.

A Great Demon stronger than one summoned by sacrificing ten thousand lives? Unthinkable.

If I crush that demon of hers, will Catherine Panya become obedient too?

For the first time in ages, Percival felt the blood in his veins boil.

"Haha! Please bear with it. Sir Benedict is now the future of our Papal Court, its most sacred sword. Though you always were, of course."

With a benevolent smile, Bellacups asked slyly,

"How fares that one?"

Percival let out a hollow laugh at the shameless face.

"That one? You mean [Behemoth]?"

As the Great Demon's true name was uttered, the earth ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and sky shuddered as if in terror.

Bellacups quickly admonished Percival's reckless act.

"Please refrain from speaking the true name. We nearly triggered the Papal Court's intrusion alarm."

The Papal Court automatically sounded alarms for demonic or monstrous intrusions. Percival shrugged indifferently.

"Let it ring. Shame I won't get to see the fun."

He rose slowly from his chair and approached Bellacups.

"Pope Marcus III has some explaining to do about why I ended up like this."

His bright smile carried a clear warning.

"Or I'll turn this Papal Court to dust."

"Of course, Sir Benedict."

Bellacups bowed deferentially toward Percival.

"No need for concern. Our great undertaking will surely benefit Eden and humanity."

The sky stretched high, and the breeze drifting in through the window was refreshingly cool. Catherine closed her eyes briefly, savoring the crisp early autumn air. Then she read the letter in her hand.

Catherine folded the letter, which felt more like a curt recipe than correspondence. Her grandmother, the Panya Marchioness's, missives were always like this—straight to the point, no pleasantries. Pure Panya Marchioness.

"Gaaah!"

"H-Help! Somebody!"

Looks like fun.

Catherine sipped her steaming coffee and glanced out the window. Terrified screams erupted here and there. A massive three-year-old baby gargoyle was rampaging outside the front gate.

"R-Run away!"

The crowd gathered since dawn scattered in panic. They were all reporters waiting to interview her.

To think it turned into a mob scene in just one day.

Catherine spread out the morning papers.

The local headlines were even flashier.

Making a fuss over a mere 100-year age gap.

"......They even dug this up?"

So that's how they found out.

The "Ma something-or-other" mentioning Catherine was unmistakably Magi Orleans.

Roze, who had brought tea, sat across from Catherine.

"Is it okay to leave Yaong like that, miss?"

Catherine glanced at the still-rampaging Yaong before replying.

"I told him not to eat people."

"Really? Phew, that's a relief. I was worried he'd get a tummy ache from something weird..."

Her tone was genuinely concerned for the pet cat, making it impossible to ask if "something weird" meant humans.

"By the way, I haven't seen Fontpado Madam since morning. Did she go out?"

Ah, right.

Catherine nodded, recalling the message Fontpado had left last night.

"She probably won't be around for a while."

Fontpado Madam had left for the capital to find a contractor. She planned to visit the Imperial Magical Academy and contract with a mage of equal caliber.

She said exceptional Nephilim are coveted by all mages.

Fontpado Madam was a Nephilim so remarkable that even Giovanni Busperfield, commander of the famed Busperfield, desired her.

Catherine wondered what mage she'd contract with and return.

"Makes sense—she's a famous mage, right? Must be super busy. She needs to eat properly! She was skin and bones."

Roze sighed worriedly and dashed to the oven. Catherine watched impassively as scones fresh from the oven piled high on a plate.

Roze was great in every way... except she fed people too much.

"There, so our miss needs to eat lots and lots! Eating well means leftovers!"

As she popped the fifth scone into her mouth while watching Yaong's antics,

"Miss! Is this article true? Huh?!"

Demian came barreling in from the entrance, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He clutched one of the local papers Roze had bought.

Catherine replied indifferently.

"Fifty percent true, fifty percent false."

"I'm dead serious right now—the most serious of the year. Answer for real, no jokes."

He thrust a page of the gray paper in front of her eyes. His finger pointed to a headline in the corner.

It was much like the tiresome articles she'd seen all morning.

"What's this?"

"Here! Right here! Nor. Th. Ern. Dea. Th. Go. D!"

One side of the article featured a photo of Chezare alongside Panya Marchioness—Catherine's grandmother.

So what?

"Is the article saying you're the Northern Death God's granddaughter true? Huh?!"

The Northern Death God was one of Panya Marchioness's longstanding nicknames, earned for mercilessly slaying the northern monsters threatening the border.

Demian's mouth gaped wide in shock.

"Y-You, miss!"

"What?"

"C-Could you get me her autograph...?!"

He flung the paper aside and gripped both of Catherine's hands tighter than ever, his face more desperate than usual.

"If you do, I'll tend the garden like a dog!"

"You should do that anyway, no autograph needed."

"I won't sleep until the garden's fully restored!"

"Honestly, I'm not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even looking forward to the 'restored' version."

Demian pouted hurtfully. He'd slack off later, no doubt—especially now that Fontpado Madam, the whip-cracker, was away.

Watching him steadily, Catherine made a new offer.

"Want to come to Panya with me, Demian?"

Demian released her hands, looking puzzled.

"Panya? I'd love to, but it's awfully far. Even the continental express train takes a full ten days."

"If you come with me, I'll get you her autograph and even a commemorative photo. Knights have begged before, but she's never agreed—top-tier service."

"When do I pack?"

He looked ready to bolt to his room if she said "now."

"But there's a condition."

Not really a condition, though.

Demian sat gingerly on a chair, eyeing her warily.