* * *

“Kill her with that knife. Right here, right now.”

In the tense silence, Jerome’s gaze fell upon Jeanne.

Holding the knife, he made no move to act, prompting Freya to snap in irritation.

“What’s holding you back? Don’t tell me you can’t bring yourself to kill a mere human woman?”

Despite her goading, Jerome remained motionless, simply staring at the knife in his hand.

Frustrated, Freya started toward him when he finally spoke.

“There’s meat grease.”

“What?”

“There’s grease from the meat on the knife.”

Freya froze, momentarily stunned.

His expression was too serious for this to be a joke.

Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What nonsense is that? Have you lost your mind?”

Ignoring her, Jerome rubbed his fingers along the greasy knife, where the meat fat had hardened like wax.

In a flat voice, he said:

“To survive, I’ve had to kill people. I never cared much about the weapon or the place. But death is as beautiful as birth.”

“…”

“It’s disrespectful to kill someone, especially someone beautiful, with a knife covered in grease. If I must kill, I’d rather give her a fitting death.”

Freya’s lips parted slightly at his unexpected words.

This was a man who had fearlessly sealed Mephisto, a demon even other demons revered, within himself.

She had thought that anyone willing to take such a risk couldn’t possibly be fully sane.

But she hadn’t expected him to be this unhinged.

Gazing into Jerome’s pitch-black eyes, Freya scowled.

“So he’s not afraid of me? How arrogant… for a mere human.”

Annoyed, Freya reached out to snatch the knife from his hand.

But Jerome caught her shoulder, pulling her close.

Freya flinched as his expression darkened, his voice lowering.

“I’m going along with your plan because being a king sounds more interesting than being a hero. I’ve been a hero, I’ve been a monster… but I’ve never been a king.”

Jerome, who could play hero or monster, was an unsettling figure even among demons, always blurring the line between ally and foe.

He wiped the greasy knife on a strand of Freya’s hair, near her neck.

She stiffened as the blade glinted close to her throat, and she shook with indignation, feeling used like a mere napkin.

“So don’t put on airs in front of me. That’s boring.”

Jerome tossed the knife behind him.

It clattered to the floor.

Freya was speechless as he let out a soft laugh, pulling her close.

“Why don’t we do this instead? Let’s sacrifice her to Parak. Killing her here would be a waste. This way, we could keep your reputation intact and still achieve what you want.”

“My reputation?”

“Yes. Once we summon Parak and slaughter humanity, what’s your plan? The world will turn against you if they see you as a mindless killer.”

Freya’s eyes widened.

She had never considered this perspective.

She was solely focused on her revenge on behalf of Freya, whose body she now inhabited.

Jerome, sensing her hesitation, continued with a casual tone.

“People like to feel special. Everyone prefers a martyr over a heretic. Just say, ‘We need martyrs like her to prevent the desecration of divine beasts.’”

“…”

“One by one… they won’t even realize they’re being deceived. Killing them slowly like this is far more entertaining, wouldn’t you agree? You could torture them under the guise of martyrdom.”

Jerome’s grip tightened on her shoulder, his face drawing closer until his lips were almost at her ear, causing her skin to flush.

He whispered softly.

“She’ll be the first martyr. The perfect death for someone this beautiful.”

“…”

“Oh, and by the way, your strap is showing.”

His hand slid along her shoulder, prompting Freya to push him away quickly.

Jerome backed off without resistance.

Freya hastily adjusted her shawl, her cheeks flushed.

“Reigen!”

Shouting, visibly flustered, Freya called for her knight.

Moments later, her guard burst into the room, immediately sensing the tension and stiffening.

Freya, maintaining her icy expression, gave a curt nod.

“Take both of them to the underground cell.”

“Pardon? But… what…”

“Silence. Just do as I say.”

Caught off guard by her unusually sharp tone, the guard nodded.

Servants entered, carrying Jeanne and Marchen from the hall.

Freya let out a sigh, then spoke.

“Martyr, huh? Not a bad idea for you.”

“Right? Oh, and… would it be okay if I led the praise ritual before the sacrifice?”

“The praise ritual?”

“I have hypnotic powers. It’d be much easier to sway the crowd that way.”

Freya coughed awkwardly.

His enthusiasm made her momentary suspicion of him seem almost ridiculous.

She turned briskly away.

“Do as you like. I’ll be busy with the summoning ritual for Parak.”

With that, Freya quickly left the hall.

Jerome’s gaze lingered on the redness of her ears as she exited, and he murmured in a softer tone, a smile fading from his face.

“Leave it to me. I’ll handle everything.”

✽ ✽ ✽

Knock, knock.

The steady sound of dripping water stirred me awake.

Just as planned with Jerome, Marchen and I were tied up in a dark warehouse.

I sighed and blinked, trying to shake off the drowsiness.

“Living as Jeanne is exhausting. Even ten lives wouldn’t be enough…”

Groaning, I slowly pushed myself up.

My head throbbed, probably still under the lingering effects of the sleeping potion.

Even diluted, it was still this potent—it was no joke that it could knock out a bull.

I nudged Marchen, who was sleeping with his head on my shoulder.

“Marchen, wake up. Marchen.”

No matter how much I shook him, he didn’t budge.

He was big enough as it was, and trying to wake him felt like wrestling with a boulder.

After a moment’s hesitation, I leaned close to his ear and whispered softly.

“Marchen, look closely. This is your child. You should’ve been more careful.”

“Gah…!”

At those words, a line bound to scare anyone witless, Marchen jolted awake, eyes wide and gasping.

Watching his pale, horrified expression, I scowled.

“If I were you, I’d be a nervous wreck. How about living a little more… conservatively?”

“Hah, that’s rich. Telling a caterpillar to stop eating leaves… Ahhh!”

“What now?”

“My skin—it’s so dry…! It must be from missing my skincare routine. Any man who isn’t beautiful should just die. I’m not beautiful at all right now—I just want to bite my tongue and die.”

Panicked, Marchen huddled into himself, clutching his head.

I suddenly remembered we hadn’t briefed him on the plan we’d hastily crafted with Jerome back in the carriage.

But explaining it would mean telling him that Freya had become a heretic.

Marchen had known Freya since they were children, and this revelation could be a huge shock to him.

Yet, I had no choice.

We needed his cooperation to escape. Reluctantly, I began.

“Marchen, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“…”

“A powerful demon has taken over Freya’s body. Jerome spiked the wine with sleeping potion to separate Freya from us.”

Marchen, who had been holding back tears, froze.

His usually confident blue eyes wavered with uncertainty. In a hoarse voice, he asked,

“You’re joking, right?”

“…”

“Even as a joke, that’s unacceptable. Anyone else, maybe—but not Lady Freya. She’s the strongest person I know. She wouldn’t succumb to a demon’s temptation.”

His fierce denial left a bitter taste in my mouth. If I were Marchen, I’d react the same way.

To him, Freya was a hero, stronger than anyone. With a sigh, I pressed on.

“Think about it. Didn’t anything seem off?”

“…”

Under my questioning, Marchen pressed his lips tight, as if something was gnawing at him.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

“Lady Freya… When guests would come from afar, she always served her special mulled wine. It was her own way of welcoming them. The northern cold is too harsh for outsiders to endure.”

“But… we drank white wine that night.”

“Exactly, cold white wine. I thought it was strange too. I didn’t mention it at the time to avoid spoiling the mood, but for Lady Freya, who always took her hospitality so seriously, serving white wine instead of her signature mulled wine was… strange.”

Still in disbelief, Marchen hung his head.

“This can’t be happening. Why did this have to happen to Lady Freya? Why didn’t the god Maya protect her? Damn it…”

I stayed silent, sensing he needed time to process this.

“I… I never even got to tell her how I feel. If I’d known this would happen, I would’ve at least confessed my feelings.”

He sniffled, looking disheartened.

Yes, this was actually a hidden subplot I’d kept in the story.

In the original novel, Marchen’s relationship with Freya was depicted as sibling-like affection.

But in truth, Marchen’s feelings were a complicated mix of familial love and unrequited romantic affection.

“Unrequited love… It’s a curse, I swear.”

“What was that?”

“Don’t worry too much. Freya hasn’t completely succumbed yet.”

I tried to console Marchen, who looked deeply distressed.

If just hearing about her becoming a heretic had upset him this much, he’d be devastated if she actually died, like he had been in the original story.

Feeling a strange discomfort, I snapped.

“Why didn’t you confess? If I were you, I’d have done it already instead of wasting time assembling a harem of 163 wives. What’s the point if you can’t even express your true feelings to the one you actually love?”

“But Lady Freya already had someone she loved. A man named Pascal, a servant who served her from childhood.”

Suddenly, the storyline of the original novel flashed through my mind.

Marchen was right—Freya did have a lover.

They’d even promised to marry in secret.

But Pascal had been brutally beaten to death by Count Gontier, who’d discovered their relationship. Freya had fallen into deep despair, grieving over Pascal.

Their child had been the only link between Freya and Pascal, and also the main reason Freya had turned to heretic.

Her overwhelming sadness, the guilt of not being able to give the child a father, and the fear of losing her position as the high priestess—all these dark emotions had driven her to the brink.

Marchen gave a bitter laugh and added,

“And besides, Lady Freya has never seen me as a man. She’s always thought of me as her cute little brother. That’s why I brought you here. I thought maybe if she saw someone as beautiful as you, she’d at least feel a little envious.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

No one was as pathetic as this guy.

“So, bringing me along was just some jealousy scheme?”

“Yes. And then Jerome, that bastard, had to crash in and ruin everything. That guy takes joy in torturing people, doesn’t he?”

“You’re spot-on.”

“Someday, I’ll pay him back for this,” Marchen muttered, grinding his teeth.

I sighed.

If everything went according to the plan Jerome and I devised, there wouldn’t be any problems.

But Jerome was so unpredictable that it was hard to trust him even as an ally. I anxiously tapped my foot.

‘He should be coming to get us soon.’

Just then, the sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, signaling the start of the sacrificial ritual.

Right on cue, the warehouse door creaked open, and Marchen met the gaze of a mercenary.

He jumped up and shouted,

“Hey! What are you planning to do with us?”

“Calm down. Lady Freya is actually offering you a privilege.”

“A privilege?”

The mercenary smirked darkly at Marchen’s confused expression.

“Yes. The privilege of becoming martyrs in today’s ritual.”

Marchen collapsed, unconscious, beside me.

* * *