Chapter 81
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 81
The man sat with his hands clasped as if in prayer, his eyes closed. Scattered incongruously around him were the mutilated remains of several corpses. There were five heads, seven arms, and at least thirteen legs. She hadn't even been that late; how many people had he slaughtered in such a short time?
"Sir Azazel."
At Saraka’s call, his peacefully closed eyes snapped open. Azazel Astaroth was not a member of the knight order led by Gabriel; he was Bishop Marik's personal guard.
He reproached her, a lazy smile playing on his lips. "You're late, Saraka. I was getting bored, so I decided to play with the Imperial Palace servants for a bit."
"My apologies. I was delayed verifying whether Bishop Marik's lost item had been found."
When she spoke of the Bishop's lost item, she was, of course, referring to Gabriel.
With a soft breath from Azazel, the room, which had looked like the aftermath of a serial murder, was swept clean. If not for the thick scent of blood lingering in the air, no one would have ever guessed a gruesome slaughter had just taken place.
"You certainly are devoted to a dying woman, Saraka."
With a dry, sarcastic remark, Azazel stood and pulled her into an embrace. He reached out and unwrapped her scarf, revealing the lower half of her face, which was vividly scarred by burns. He didn't stop there, taking Saraka's hand and pulling off her glove. Just like her hidden face, the hand beneath was covered in a hideous burn scar, the flesh looking as if it had been melted by fire. Azazel leisurely traced the marks.
"I'll never understand what you find so wonderful about the person who gave you these."
Saraka's burns had been deliberately inflicted by Bishop Marik. Yet, Saraka had never once resented her. That was simply how she had been raised. Knowing his sarcasm was wasted, Azazel quickly changed the subject.
"So, did you make her drink the holy water?"
"Yes. The holy water had no effect on Evangeline Rohanson. She doesn't appear to be a demon. It's hard to believe, but perhaps she simply has a cursed constitution?"
"And you really think that thing is human?" Azazel shot back, as if the notion were absurd. How could an entity that made demons submit, that made them want to bow their heads, possibly be called human?
Saraka pulled out the vial of holy water she had tucked into her apron, dabbed some on her finger, and flicked it at Azazel. Where the droplets splattered, his flesh sizzled and melted away.
"I made her drink it directly and even splashed her with it, but there was no change. If she were a demon, her flesh would have melted from a single drop, just like yours did, Sir Azazel."
"My regeneration is slow right now. Would you mind not using me for your experiments?"
Azazel knew why she was being so prickly. It was her way of expressing displeasure at him for badmouthing Bishop Marik—a woman Saraka didn't just revere, but wished to become one with.
His flesh slowly began to swell, gradually restoring itself. The regeneration was much slower than usual; Azazel was suffering from prolonged starvation. The only reason he was still functional was because he had gorged himself during the Pagan Massacre twenty years ago.
"Then what is she?"
Could she really be a god? That was impossible. Azazel recalled the pure white figure that had caused him such agitation from just a fleeting glimpse.
"Saraka. Are you sure it's wise to frame Evangeline Rohanson for this?"
"On the contrary," Saraka said, nodding without hesitation. "It is precisely because it's her that this has meaning."
While Azazel wanted to exclude the uncontrollable variable that was Evangeline, Saraka thought the exact opposite.
This was all to recreate the golden age of the Temple—the era of the Pagan Massacre—just as Bishop Marik had done. While burning Saraka's hand, the Bishop had taught her that firsthand experience was paramount. Simply sharing the same scars was not enough to become her. Only by recreating the Pagan Massacre, the event Bishop Marik missed most, could Saraka experience it for herself and truly become one with her idol.
And what better target to unite the faithful against than an entity followed by demons, yet untouched by holy water?
Suddenly, Azazel buried his face in the crook of Saraka's neck and inhaled deeply. Mixed with the sweet scent of a human was another, nauseating fragrance. While he couldn't pin down Evangeline Rohanson's true identity, he could easily recognize this one.
"This is Flauros."
Judging by how the scent clung to her, the demon had slipped into the banquet hall. He must have brushed past Saraka while wandering about. It seemed Flauros had also caught Azazel's scent and was following it.
Suppressing a wave of nausea, Azazel urged Saraka to change her clothes. For the sake of the squeamish knight, Saraka removed her maid uniform.
"Will this disrupt the plan?"
"Not at all. Fooling Flauros is incredibly easy. Aside from his sharp eyes, he's nothing special."
In truth, it was just a matter of poor compatibility. Azazel blew a soft breath. By now, every light in the banquet hall would have gone out. He could hear the humans panicking, but the most flustered of them all would undoubtedly be Flauros. Stripped of his sight, he would be flailing around, utterly helpless.
He couldn't possibly miss such a hilarious sight.
*
Vanishing from Saraka's side in an instant, Azazel reappeared atop a chandelier in the now pitch-black banquet hall, which was filled with chaotic murmurs. Looking down, he saw Flauros, his angelic face twisted in a deep scowl as he pinched his nose.
Perhaps because of their poor compatibility, Azazel and Flauros found each other's scents exceptionally repulsive. Deprived of his sight and with his sense of smell overwhelmed, Flauros must have been losing his mind, yet he still managed to sense Azazel's presence and lunged toward him.
Azazel made himself the bait, drawing Flauros's attention completely. While he bought time, a girl in a fine gown began to move through the chaos.
Besides Azazel, only one other person in the hall could see clearly in the dark. The assassin Saraka had personally chosen to kill the Crown Prince was one of his own twin daughters.
Watching the princess seize the opportunity to plunge a blade into her father's heart, Azazel swooped down. He hooked the Crown Prince's corpse by its collar and hung it from the chandelier, arranging it so that everyone would see it the moment the lights returned.
Then, just as Saraka had requested, he drew a modified summoning circle on the floor—a version of the one shamans used to call demons. He had altered the design slightly; if everyone in the hall started successfully summoning demons, it would exceed the Temple's capacity to manage.
The circle was a wicked trick designed to bewitch humans into summoning demons, and even a mere resemblance to the real thing was enough to incite those who saw it. The design would spread among the nobles, secretly becoming a trend. Among the bewitched, some would eventually find the real summoning circle and succeed. Those who failed would still be punished for betraying Goddess Rachel by believing in a fake.
That would be the signal to officially resume the Pagan Massacre.
*
"Everything is ready."
Having finished setting the stage, Azazel appeared before Saraka again. Conveniently, she had just finished changing into the clothes he had prepared.
She wore black garments buttoned up to her chin and a veil pulled low over her face. Bound in cloth from head to toe, the only exposed skin was on her hands, which looked like those of an elderly woman. Since the lower half of her face, occasionally revealed when she drank tea, also bore burn scars, it was only natural for onlookers to mistake Saraka for Bishop Marik.
Saraka addressed Azazel in a voice she had spent a lifetime refining, making it indistinguishable from the Bishop's.
"Sir Astaroth, shall we?"
"Yes, Bishop."
The noble, middle-aged voice of a woman flowed from Saraka's lips. Her tone, her phrasing, her mannerisms—all were identical to Bishop Marik's. It was a perfect mimicry that even a demon had to admire. It truly feels as if Bishop Marik has possessed her, Azazel thought with a flicker of appreciation.
*
"Lady Rohanson..."
Madame Toten called out to me, her voice thick with emotion. I feel like crying too, Madame Toten.
A villainess is always destined to end up in prison, awaiting execution. That was why I had worked so hard, even keeping Gabriel on a leash, just to avoid that fate. I had treated the female lead, Canna, so well you'd think I'd pluck my own heart out for her. Because Gabriel was so infatuated with me, I had let my guard down, my vision narrowed by complacency.
Right. A villainess doesn't just go to prison for tormenting the heroine. They get locked up for treason all the time, too.
But to be framed and dragged away on the very day of my debutante… it was just too much. All my past efforts, all my running around to avoid the execution ending, felt utterly futile.
What was the point of getting on Gabriel's good side? They framed me the moment he left the room. And speaking of which, it seemed the secret of his birth hadn't been revealed yet. He wouldn't suddenly turn on me, claiming I killed his brother, would he?
"Dame Musetta, we have testimony that the weapon used to stab His Highness the Crown Prince is identical to the dagger brought by Lady Rohanson. Their Imperial Highnesses also witnessed it from right beside him."
Dame Musetta, the Crown Prince's escort knight, glared at me with bloodshot eyes, looking like she wanted to kill me on the spot. It's not the same sword! The one I brought didn't even have a blade!
But with the dagger still embedded in the Crown Prince, there was no way to prove it. The only ones who could testify that it was bladeless were Gabriel, the knights who inspected my belongings at the entrance, and Madame Toten. Gabriel, however, was nowhere to be seen, likely still receiving treatment.
"Lady Rohanson, is this true?"
"It is true that I brought a sword," I said, keeping my voice steady. "However, the dagger I presented to His Highness was a decorative piece without a blade. It must be a different weapon that merely looks similar."
"Are you suggesting that someone prepared an identical sword just to slander you, Lady Rohanson? I suppose you'll claim the substance on your dress is wine, not blood, next?"
Yes. Because that is the truth… Still, even I wouldn't believe it if I were in her shoes. If it was a frame-up, it meant the culprit had anticipated my gift and prepared two identical daggers.
But I hadn't even been the one to prepare it. The Count had brought it to me, saying it would be a perfect gift for the Crown Prince. Since he had procured it, I hadn't questioned it, but now its origin was highly suspicious. Had the culprit prepared two swords and slyly passed one to the Count to set me up?
Having landed me in this mess, the Count was feigning ignorance. Not that I'd expected anything from him in the first place. Hadn't I pegged him as the type to abandon his daughter and flee at the first sign of trouble? My assessment was spot on.
"I cannot say for certain. Surely the knight who inspected my belongings before I entered will testify for me."
"A knight? You don't mean a member of the Order of Pararos Knights, do you? I only ask out of concern that they might give false testimony to protect the young lady so adored by their commander, Sir Gabriel."
Oh, no. Since they called Gabriel their commander, they were most certainly from the Order of Pararos Knights.
"How very convenient," Dame Musetta sneered, her patience clearly gone. "It seems every single person who can testify on your behalf is connected to you, Lady Rohanson."
I could feel her rage boiling over. At this rate, she was going to drag Gabriel down with me.