Chapter 104
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 104
Even Jeremia didn't know why the Emperor had spared Tenebrae. After all, running to her grandmother to ask, "Why didn't you kill my sister?" would have been utterly bizarre.
"When Azazel stabbed me, he seemed to know exactly where the crest was on my abdomen and aimed right for it."
In that moment, Jeremia truly understood that Tenebrae had betrayed her. Azazel must have learned the precise location of the crest on her abdomen from Tenebrae herself.
"He stabbed your abdomen so no one could tell who had died."
Jeremia nodded in agreement. A phantom pain flared, as if a blade were still plunged into her stomach.
"Stealing my name… Was Tenebrae envious of me?"
Jeremia had a habit of asking questions even when she already knew the answers.
* * *
As if to prove that twins were a bad omen, Tenebrae—the patricidal monster—returned as a corpse. Of all people, it was Gabriel who had transported her body. People whispered that a love-crazed knight had abandoned his beliefs and drawn his sword to kill a young girl, all to break the witch he loved out of prison.
Over sips of tea, they gossiped about how unsightly and wicked the deceased Tenebrae had been, especially compared to Jeremia.
While the outside world was in an uproar, the Temple was shrouded in a silence deeper than ever. Ever since the spell circle had reappeared at the Crown Prince's banquet, the Temple had been on high alert, keeping its head down.
At the news that shamans had resurfaced, the priests kept a wary eye on Bishop Marik, carefully monitoring the situation.
Thanks to this, Saraka was able to remain in the quietest corner of the Temple.
"Bishop. Here is your meal for today."
"Thank you."
Bishop Marik did not indulge in luxury. Her quarters were so humble that one would sooner believe an ordinary priest lived there. Her diet was no different; the meals allocated to Bishop Marik were incredibly simple.
Saraka prepared only a bowl of soup and some bread. It would be more than enough.
Carrying a candlestick and the meal, Saraka headed down to the basement. Hidden within Bishop Marik's modest room was a cellar unknown to anyone else. Even for a devout priest who had tortured and slaughtered pagans without a shred of guilt—dismissing it as God's will—there were still deeds that had to be hidden from the eyes of the Lord.
The further down she went, the stronger the smell of damp mold became.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Saraka scanned the basement to ensure nothing had changed. She set down the candlestick and the food, then lit the brazier.
As a fire as bright as the sun flared to life, warmth finally began to circulate through the cold basement.
"Oo… urgh…"
Saraka smiled brightly at the sound of the voice.
"You're awake, Bishop."
The thing lying on the bed was better described as ‘alive’ than ‘awake.’ Had anyone but Saraka laid eyes on it, they would have fled in terror, screaming that the thing was still alive.
Because Saraka had been away to stay by Tenebrae's side, bedsores had already formed on the Bishop's body. Pus oozed from a face and torso horribly scarred by burns. Yet, even before this creature—a grotesque amalgamation of sickness, the stench of decay, and raspy, wheezing breaths—Saraka did not even blink.
After all, the person lying before her was Bishop Marik—the woman Saraka respected like a mentor, loved like a lover, and followed like a parent.
To think you've become so hideous…
Who would ever believe this was Bishop Marik? Saraka admired the Bishop's foresight in preparing a replacement for ‘Bishop Marik’ ahead of time. Of course, that replacement was Saraka herself.
This basement, now the Bishop's sickroom, was Saraka's birthplace. It was where she had been raised.
Saraka was the daughter of a shaman. Her parents had been slaughtered right before her eyes by Bishop Marik. Her mother's heart had been pierced; her father had succumbed to the agony of torture. Only Saraka had survived.
"To think the spawn of a heretic is loved by God. Give thanks to the Sun Goddess. She has spared your life."
Saraka possessed a constitution that was exceptionally receptive to holy water. Bishop Marik had discovered this while torturing the child and decided to keep her alive.
At first, Bishop Marik had intended to send Saraka to the Temple's orphanage. However, fearing a pagan's child would corrupt the others, she locked Saraka in the basement under the pretext of providing "proper education." In that cellar, Saraka learned that she, a child of heresy, was filthy—a lesson she absorbed as naturally as breathing.
Not long after, Bishop Marik realized she had fallen ill. It was an affliction that even holy water could not cure—a curse cast by Saraka's parents in their dying moments. If word got out that a bishop was dying because she couldn't overcome a mere curse, it would bring immense disgrace upon the Temple. Thus, Bishop Marik sought another way.
Due to burns suffered in her childhood, Bishop Marik always wore a veil. To the other priests, that veil was synonymous with Bishop Marik. If the veil remained, who would notice if the person beneath it changed? Conveniently, she had the perfect resource at hand.
From then on, Saraka was groomed to replace Bishop Marik. The Bishop taught her everything: her tastes, her habits, her speech patterns, her preferences, and even her beliefs were meticulously transferred into Saraka, shaping her into the person she was today.
No one in the world knew ‘Bishop Marik’ better than Saraka did.
And now, don't you think I am closer to being ‘Bishop Marik’ than you are, Bishop?
Once the current plot was wrapped up, and she recreated the pagan massacre that Bishop Marik had once led, Saraka would become truly flawless as ‘Bishop Marik.’
"Ah…"
Hearing Bishop Marik's raspy response, Saraka smiled bashfully and changed the subject.
"Let me clean you up first. Then we can eat. I brought the soup you always liked."
Saraka wiped Bishop Marik's body with a damp cloth. Since every drop of water touching the Bishop's skin was holy water, it was an incredibly luxurious existence. Unfortunately, the holy water did nothing to heal her. Such was the power of the curse.
"Oo-oo."
"Yes? Did you call for me?"
Saraka leaned in close. The Bishop whispered faintly.
"P-please… k-kill me…"
Please kill me.
That was what Bishop Marik had managed to say. Saraka wanted to burst into giggles, but since ‘Bishop Marik’ would never laugh so vulgarly, she settled for a gentle smile instead.
"Bishop. What are you saying? Asking me to kill you…"
Saraka replied to the mentor she so deeply revered.
"You were the one who told me: if you commit a sin, you must survive to the bitter end, suffer, and atone for it. How can you think of dying already?"
She truly missed the glorious Bishop Marik of the past. Saraka's beloved Bishop was a woman who had never doubted her own righteousness, even while torturing children and branding them with fire. She was someone who prioritized the Temple's honor and God above her own life.
But at some point, the Bishop had begun to act in ways ‘Bishop Marik’ never would, likely due to the curse from Saraka's filthy pagan parents. The pinnacle of this degradation was when she used sorcery to summon a demon.
At first, Bishop Marik had diligently prepared for death. But unable to endure the agony, she had summoned a demon and begged to be saved. The moment Saraka discovered this, she seized the Bishop and locked her in the basement.
The Bishop had done something ‘Bishop Marik’ would never do. Saraka could no longer watch the Bishop defile the image of the ‘Bishop Marik’ she cherished.
The demon the Bishop had summoned did not stop Saraka.
"Marik begged me to keep her alive," the demon had said. "Well, she's still breathing, so what other wish do I need to grant?"
Demons were that sort of creature. In exchange for her wish, the Bishop had incurred God's wrath, reducing her body to a state where even holy water had no effect. Saraka had devotedly cared for Marik as her skin rotted and infections festered, keeping her barely clinging to life.
Since the Bishop's wish had been to prolong her life, and Saraka's actions were technically keeping her alive, the demon had no reason to interfere.
Leaving the Bishop's wish aside, Astaroth had watched Saraka and lingered around her. His reason was ridiculous: Saraka simply seemed far more entertaining.
"Don't you have a wish of your own?"
Saraka's sole desire was to discard her filthy self and become the perfect ‘Bishop Marik.’ But the real Bishop Marik loathed sorcery, hated heresy, and despised demons. Therefore, Saraka would never make a wish to a demon.
Seeing this, the demon had made a proposal. He suggested that she wasn't making a wish, but simply utilizing the resources at her disposal to become an even more perfect Bishop Marik.
Not wishing, but utilizing. Just as the Bishop had utilized Saraka, a child of pagans, to maintain the facade of ‘Bishop Marik.’ Saraka accepted the demon's proposal and bestowed the name Azazel upon the demon Astaroth.
"Sir Azazel is quite late."
He should have returned immediately after killing Jeremia. Since Gabriel was the one who presented the body to the Emperor, Lady Rohanson must have intervened, throwing a wrench in their plans.
Bishop Marik, who had been listening silently, tapped Saraka with a trembling hand. Seeing her extend a finger as if to write, Saraka offered her arm.
The contract with the demon has ended. My purpose is fulfilled, so please, kill me.
The contract had ended? It seemed Azazel had died. Had he been dissolved in holy water? Rather than worrying about Azazel's fate, Saraka focused on Bishop Marik's words.
The characters the Bishop traced on her arm were still remarkably elegant. Because she could still catch glimpses of the Bishop she had once loved, she couldn't possibly let her go.
"Bishop, you wanted to live so badly that you made a wish to a demon. How can you speak of death so easily now?"
In the meantime, Saraka finished wiping Bishop Marik's body clean, though her appearance remained unchanged. Next was mealtime. Saraka removed the gag from Bishop Marik's mouth and offered a gentle warning.
"I trust you won't do something like biting your tongue to commit suicide, Bishop."