* * *

From a certain point on, Jerome struggled to remember his happiest memories or the fleeting connections he’d once made.

He guessed vaguely that it was due to the endless mental torment at the sanatorium and the madness Mephisto had drilled into him.

Still, one memory had managed to cling on through it all. It was the voice of someone softly humming a song by his bedside as he slept.

Swaying slightly as the memory resurfaced, Jerome started to walk toward the faint sound of singing.

‘Ah, I remember now.’

It was the “Waltz of the Winter Soldier,” a tune about a winter soldier who fell in love with spring and danced for it.

Even as his body melted in the warmth of spring, the winter soldier didn’t stop his welcoming waltz, as it was the only way his frozen heart could make spring smile.

Amidst the chatter of the crowd, Jerome stood quietly, absorbing the music. He pictured a white hand brushing his hair gently.

The musicians exchanged glances and coordinated their movements with an unspoken harmony, their faces alight with a passion for life.

Yet again, Jerome felt oddly detached from everyone around him.

“Jerome.”

The sound of his name pulled him from the depths he’d been sinking into.

Jerome slowly turned to see Jeanne watching him with her usual aloof expression, though he had no idea when she’d gotten close.

“Happy birthday. I don’t know if you’ll like it, since I got it in a rush… but here’s a gift.”

Jeanne fished around in her pocket before holding something out—a glass figurine of a cat.

Its large eyes looked a little like his friend Jerry’s.

The delicate piece seemed so fragile that a slight squeeze might shatter it.

Laughing, Jerome accepted the gift.

“Jeanne, enough jokes. Bring me my actual present.”

“Just this once, let this slide,” Jeanne muttered with an exasperated look.

Jerome’s gaze shifted to the people staring at Jeanne.

Her rare beauty always drew attention wherever she went.

Her cheeks, red from the cold, looked endearing, and her violet eyes, misted with moisture, carried a touch of melancholy.

One man who met Jerome’s gaze flinched and turned away from Jeanne.

‘A gift, huh.’

While Jeanne’s words echoed in his mind, Jerome noticed people laughing along to the lively rhythm, reminiscent of a dancing soldier.

Lost in thought, he realized something: Jeanne had often gotten mad at him but had never once smiled at him.

How could he make her smile?

Pondering, he pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“Thanks for the gift.”

“…”

“I’ll treasure it.”

In truth, he wasn’t grateful, nor did he intend to treasure it.

He figured that if Jeanne hadn’t bought it specifically for him, he’d have seen it as just another piece of junk.

But Jerome lied, solely to see her smile.

For a moment, Jeanne’s expression faltered, then she turned to him and, perhaps a little embarrassed, broke into a bright smile.

Her nose was reddened from the cold, and if Marchen had been there, he would have scoffed, “Showing teeth—so undignified!”

But it was the purest, most open smile, and as soon as Jerome saw it, a new, intense feeling rose within him.

‘What… is this feeling?’

It was different from the attachment he’d once felt.

He didn’t want to destroy it or possess it for himself.

He just wanted to watch that smile, like observing a small star in the dark night sky.

Jerome’s lips parted slightly as he sensed a change within himself.

‘So that’s it… Maya sent you to me on purpose.’

Jerome had never feared any monster, no matter how powerful, nor was he afraid of Maya’s hatred.

The world had given him strength to match his fearlessness, yet even that power felt like a hollow façade to him.

But now, in this endless cycle of meaningless births and deaths, as Jerome saw Jeanne’s smile, he felt a massive fear for the first time.

It was a sense of uniqueness that he could never possess, no matter how hard he tried.

Amidst the swirling snow obscuring his vision, her smile held a vivid life force, giving him a reason to look forward to tomorrow.

Finally understanding Maya’s intent, Jerome let out a hollow laugh.

‘The moment my empty life gains meaning, I’ll start fearing death.’

The musicians finished their performance and bowed to the crowd.

Jeanne, who had paused her applause to check on him, looked at Jerome, eyes wide with concern.

“You look pale. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“…”

“Jerome?”

As Jeanne kept asking if he was alright, she reached out as if to check for a fever.

Jerome’s gaze drifted beyond her.

Murmurs grew louder from the crowd.

“It’s Lady Freya.”

“What brings Lady Freya to the town?”

A woman with white hair like swan feathers stepped through the crowd, pulling down her hood.

Her crimson eyes shone as she looked at Jeanne.

“So, you’re Jeanne.”

Jeanne flinched, her shoulders trembling.

Jerome, who had been silently watching Freya, immediately pulled Jeanne behind him.

In that brief moment, he made a decision about how he would live from now on, and how he would bring this tenacious life to an end.

✽ ✽ ✽

In the tense atmosphere, Jerome fixed his gaze on Freya, his usually pale face now tinged with fury, exuding a more dangerous aura than usual, like he was facing a monstrous foe.

He tightened his grip around Jeanne’s wrist.

‘It’s clear. He sensed Belial’s presence within Freya.’

Unlike Jerome, whose expression had hardened, Freya met his gaze with a gentle smile.

With her pure white hair and finely chiseled features, she resembled a delicate Russian doll.

The eerie similarity to Jerome’s aura, however, likely stemmed from Belial’s influence within her.

Clutching the vial in his pocket, he thought to himself:

‘I need to make her let her guard down if I’m to get her to take the sleeping potion. I can’t let on that I know about Belial’s presence.’

The sleeping potion Marchen had made was powerful, capable of putting someone into a coma with a single drop mixed into food.

‘I can’t risk acting suspiciously in public; I need to find a way to be alone with Freya.’

Hiding his nervousness, he met her gaze.

Freya, looking back and forth between him and Jerome, approached with a serene smile.

At the same time, Jerome moved his hand toward his sword hilt, causing my eyes to widen.

“Jerome, what are you doing?”

Ignoring my plea, Jerome drew his sword and pointed it at Freya.

Only then did Freya stop, blinking slowly.

The townspeople began cursing loudly.

“Put down your sword immediately!”

“What are you doing? Call the guards!”

Even amid the mocking atmosphere around him, Jerome didn’t lower his sword.

Calmly adjusting his grip, he strode purposefully toward Freya.

The sight of him made my heart drop.

“Could it be… has Mephisto taken control of him already?”

I examined Jerome carefully.

His hair hadn’t turned black, and the sacred runes didn’t seem to be reacting either—signs that Mephisto hadn’t possessed him.

But Jerome’s murderous aura was undeniable, and Freya instinctively stepped back.

Sensing danger, I quickly stepped in front of Jerome, blocking his path.

He glanced briefly at my pocket and murmured in a dry, emotionless voice.

“Jeanne, there’s no need to go about this the long way.”

“…”

“We can just kill him right here.”

My heart pounded at Jerome’s words.

He’d already figured out my plan to use a sleeping potion on Freya.

Having sensed Belial’s presence in Freya’s manor, Jerome must have realized why I came here—to confront the Freya who had fallen into heresy.

As Jerome suggested, killing Freya would indeed resolve everything.

Unlike me, who understood Freya’s situation, Jerome only saw the surface and naturally thought killing him was the easiest option.

Meanwhile, the townspeople’s angry whispers condemned Jerome.

“Not now,” I told him.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want people to hate you.”

“…”

Finally, Jerome’s gaze left Freya and returned to me.

Whether or not Freya was a pitiful human was beside the point; I just didn’t want Jerome to once again become everyone’s enemy.

The tense atmosphere hung between us until it was broken by the sound of Marchen’s furious shout as he arrived late.

“You bastard…!”

Grinding his teeth, Marchen stormed toward Jerome, reaching out to grab the blade without hesitation.

Blood trickled down his hand, staining the white snow red.

Staring Jerome down with bloodshot eyes, Marchen sneered.

“So your madness was supposed to be cured, but it looks like your mind’s broken again. What do you think you’re doing to Lady Freya?”

Jerome tilted his head slightly, looking Freya up and down with a faint smile.

Eventually, yielding to Marchen’s intervention, Jerome lowered his sword and muttered quietly.

“Oh, right. Now that I look again, it’s definitely Freya.”

At that moment, the guards who had arrived late pointed their swords and spears at Jerome, clearly viewing him as a traitor.

It made sense—Freya held an unmatched position in the North with her strong holy powers, and it was unthinkable for an outsider to raise a weapon against such a revered figure.

Yet Jerome, as if indifferent to the hostility around him, replied lazily.

“Apologies. Like Marchen said, my mind must be out of sorts. I mistook her for someone else.”

“…”

“Will you forgive me?”

Seeing Jerome ask for forgiveness so readily left the guards speechless.

I was just as stunned.

If he was going to ask for forgiveness so easily, then why attack in the first place?

Being around him really felt like a constant test of my patience.

Freya, however, just smiled softly instead of answering.

She approached Marchen, gently taking his hand, and in an instant, the deep wounds on his hand vanished.

To heal such a wound so easily… it was clear why the temple watched her with wary eyes.

Once she finished, Freya nodded reassuringly to the guards, signaling them to stand down.

“Yes, I’ll forgive you. But… why did you come all the way to the North? Here for the Starlight Festival?”

Freya’s serene expression showed she wasn’t bothered at all by Jerome’s overly straightforward apology.

Despite Belial lurking within her, Freya seemed every bit the ordinary human—if a bit clueless.

At Freya’s question, Marchen shot a sharp look at Jerome.

“Come to think of it, didn’t you say you’d act as my partner instead of me? Will you really introduce yourself as my lover?”

Everyone, including me, waited with bated breath for Jerome’s answer.

Marchen’s glare seemed to say, ‘Say anything stupid, and I’ll kill you right here.’

Jerome, acknowledging Marchen’s look, calmly replied.

“Freya, Marchen’s gay.”

That was far too blunt.

* * *