Sister Mary stood by the door, her white robes settling around her, her hands folded in front of her. The afternoon light caught her hair, turned it to gold, and for a moment she looked like something out of the old paintings that hung in the church, a saint, an angel, a woman who had seen too much and still believed in goodness.
She turned to Yuuta.
"Please do not skip the campaign," she said.
"I will be joining this year."
Yuuta nodded quickly, relieved that she was leaving, that the interrogation was over, that he had survived the afternoon without confessing to anything he could not explain.
"Okay," he said. "I will not skip. I promise."
Erza stepped forward. Her face was the picture of wifely concern, her voice warm, her smile gentle. She was the perfect supporting wife, the devoted spouse, the woman who would make sure her husband kept his promises.
"Do not worry, beautiful human," she said, her hand resting on Yuuta's shoulder, her fingers pressing down just hard enough to make him wince.
"I will make sure my dear, innocent husband attends."
Her smile was evil.
It was the smile of someone who had been waiting for this moment, who had been planning this moment, who was going to enjoy this moment very, very much.
Yuuta's soul left his body.
"At least tell her without creeping me out," he muttered.
Sister Mary paused at the door. Her hand was on the handle, her face turned back toward them, her expression thoughtful.
"Oh," she said, as if she had just remembered something important.
"I almost forgot. May I know your name, Miss Yuuta's wife?"
The room went still.
Erza did not like giving her name. She never had. In her world, names were power, were history, were the weight of everything she had done and everything she was.
Erza studied the woman. Her blindfold. Her trembling hands. The way she held herself, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if she would fall.
She did not usually give her name. Names had power. Names could be used. Names were for people she trusted, and she did not trust easily.
But this woman had raised Yuuta. Had held him when he cried. Had been the only light in his darkness.
She deserved an answer.
She paused. Her hand dropped from Yuuta's shoulder. Her face, which had been warm with mockery, went still.
"My name," she said, "is Erza Vely Dragomir."
The name hung in the air.
Sister Mary's hand tightened on the door handle. Her face, which had been calm, went pale. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again.
She was trembling.
Yuuta saw it.
He stepped forward, his brow furrowed, his voice concerned.
"Sister Mary? Are you okay?"
She swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was too bright, too quick, too careful.
"Yes. I am fine. I just, I need to go."
She was lying.
He could see it in the way she would not turn around, in the way her hand was shaking on the door, in the way she had gone pale at the sound of a name she should not have recognized.
Erza felt it too. Her eyes narrowed. Her senses, honed by centuries of survival, sharpened. Sister Mary knew her. Or knew of her. Or had heard something that made her react the way people reacted when they saw something they should not have seen.
"Sister Mary," Erza said, and her voice was casual, too casual, the voice she used when she was hunting. "May I ask you something?"
Sister Mary's back stiffened. "Yes, Highness" She stopped. Her voice caught. She swallowed. "Yes, miss. What would you like to know?"
Erza's eyes narrowed further. Highness. She almost said Highness. She almost called me Highness.
She stepped forward. She opened her mouth to press, to demand, to find out what this woman knew and how she knew it and why she had gone pale at the sound of her name.
Yuuta stepped between them. "Stop it, Erza," he said. His voice was sharp, sharper than she had ever heard it. "Do not tease her."
Erza's eyes flashed. "I was not"
"You were." He did not turn around. "Let her go. Please."
Sister Mary's breath came in shallow gasps.
She was staring at Yuuta, not with her eyes, but with something deeper, something that did not need sight. Her face was pale. Her lips were parted. Her hands pressed against the doorframe like she was holding herself back from running.
"Yuuta." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Is it... is it all right for you to speak her name like that? So casually?"
Yuuta frowned. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter against the wood.
Yuuta and Erza Paused for a second.
"I mean, she is your wife. I thought you would call her... something softer. Darling, perhaps. Or sweetheart." She laughed, a thin, brittle sound that did not reach her face. "Something more... affectionate."
Erza's face went red.
The color rose from her neck to her cheeks to the tips of her ears, spreading like fire through dry grass. Her hand flew to her face, pressing against her cheek as if she could push the color back down.
Darling.
The word echoed in her mind.
Sweetheart.
She thought of Yuuta saying it. Softly.
Quietly.
The way he said her name when he was not thinking, when he was tired, when he forgot to be afraid of her. The way his voice would sound, shaping the word, offering it to her like something precious and fragile.
She pressed her hand harder against her face.
Yuuta's face was no better. Red from his neck to his hairline, his ears burning, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance that was very definitely not Sister Mary and very definitely not Erza.
"I, I mean, I could," he stammered. "Call her that. I can call her that. But not, not in front of you. That would be, that would be"
He did not finish.
He did not need to.
Sister Mary saw her chance.
Her hand slipped into her sleeve. Her fingers found the small device she always carried, the one that let her hear the voices of the people she loved, the one that had been silent for too long.
She pressed the button.
The phone rang.
She lifted it to her ear with trembling hands, her voice suddenly bright, too bright, the voice of someone who needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
"Please excuse me." She was already turning toward the door. "I have to go. There is an urgent call. I will see you at the Practical exam, Yuuta. I look forward to watching you cook."
She was gone before he could answer.
The door closed behind her.
Her footsteps faded down the hallway, down the stairs, out into the morning light.
Yuuta sighed. He slumped against the wall, his legs still weak, his back still sore, his head still throbbing. "Well," he said, "it looks like I have to take test now. For sure."
He did not see Erza move. He did not see her hand reach out. He only felt her fingers close around his head, her grip firm, her presence suddenly very, very close.
"You idiot mortal," she said, and her voice was cold, colder than it had been all day, colder than it had been since she called him her husband. "Did I not tell you that when you returned, I would make sure you paid with your life?"
He tried to pull away. His legs would not move. He looked down. Ice was forming around his ankles, spreading up his calves, locking him in place.
"No," he said. "No, please. Did you not already take Plenty of revenge? You had my godmother make me kneel for hours. You had me praying to a God I am not sure exists. You called me your husband in front of her. Is that not enough?"
Erza smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
It was the smile of someone who had been waiting for this moment, who had been planning this moment, who had been imagining this moment since he ran away from her that morning.
"That," she said, "was only the beginning. My revenge is making you feel the depths of despair. And now, Idoit Mortal" she leaned closer, her face inches from his, her voice a whisper, "now you are going to suffer."
He tried to run.
His legs were frozen.
He tried to call for help.
The door was closed.
He tried to think of something, anything, that would save him.
The door closed with a soft click.
The apartment was quiet.
And the only sounds that followed were the ones that no one outside would ever hear.
Meanwhile — Nocthollow
Nocthollow.
To ordinary citizens, it was little more than an abandoned district, a forgotten corner of the city where crumbling buildings stood behind rusted fences and empty streets.
But among certain intelligence organizations, the name carried an entirely different meaning.
For years, criminal groups had attempted to establish operations within its borders, only to retreat without explanation. Even powerful mafia organizations avoided the area, refusing to discuss what had happened to those who ventured too far inside.
Government intelligence agencies had also attempted to investigate the district.
The FBI, CIA, and several international organizations possessed extensive files on Nocthollow. Unfortunately, despite years of surveillance and infiltration attempts, none had managed to uncover what truly existed there.
Some believed the district concealed a secret military installation.
Others suspected an underground cult.
There were even rumors that the Illuminati operated from somewhere beneath its abandoned buildings.
Whatever the truth, one thing remained certain.
Those who discovered Nocthollow's secrets rarely returned to speak of them.
Tonight, however, several black vehicles approached a three-story building hidden deep within the district.
Their headlights illuminated the cracked pavement before the engines gradually fell silent. A group of men dressed in dark uniforms stepped out, their faces concealed beneath heavy hoods.
Without exchanging a word, they approached the entrance.
Two enormous figures stood guard beside the gate.
At first glance, they resembled unusually large men, standing nearly seven feet tall with muscular bodies and broad shoulders. However, their pale gray skin, unnaturally sharp teeth, and lifeless expressions revealed that they were anything but human.
One of the guards stepped forward.
"Password."
The men immediately lowered their heads.
"Hail the Demon Lord. May he become Zareth's follower forever."
The guard studied them for a moment before stepping aside.
"Enter."
The iron gate opened with a low creak.
Beyond it, the building's interior bore little resemblance to its abandoned exterior. Strange symbols had been carved into the floors, emitting a faint crimson glow that illuminated the narrow corridors.
Human skeletons decorated the walls, arranged in disturbing patterns. Between them hung paintings depicting burning cities, tortured prisoners, and witches consumed by flames.
The men kept their eyes forward as they walked.
They had visited this place many times, yet the atmosphere never failed to make them uncomfortable.
Eventually, they reached a large circular chamber.
Eight chairs surrounded a wooden table illuminated by several candles. Armed bodyguards stood behind the seats, but when the visitors entered, those guards withdrew to their assigned positions outside.
The men took their seats.
One of them cleared his throat.
"We have arrived as ordered, my lord."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the shadows at the far end of the chamber began to shift.
A tall figure emerged from the darkness.
He possessed long violet hair, a pair of curved horns, and eyes that shimmered with an unnatural mixture of red and gold. His appearance was almost human, though the demonic aura surrounding him made his true nature unmistakable.
The demon approached the table.
"So," he said, looking over the gathered men. "Have you brought the sin?"
"Yes, my lord."
The men immediately retrieved several sheets of black paper from their coats and placed them on the table.
Strange symbols covered each sheet, moving faintly as though something alive had been trapped beneath the surface.
The demon collected them one by one, examining their contents.
"One hundred... two hundred..."
His expression gradually brightened.
"Excellent. These offerings should please His Majesty."
He arranged the papers into a neat pile before looking around the table.
Then his smile disappeared.
"Wait."
The men exchanged uncertain glances.
The demon counted the occupied chairs again.
"Someone is missing."
Silence settled over the chamber.
The demon's gaze stopped at an empty chair near the end of the table.
"That human... the one who contributed nearly twice as much sin as the rest of you."
He paused, searching his memory.
"What was his name again?"
One of the men hesitated.
"Hemanth, my lord."
"Ah, yes. Hemanth."
The demon leaned forward.
"Where is he?"
The men exchanged nervous glances before one finally gathered the courage to speak.
"My lord... Hemanth is dead."
The demon's expression hardened.
"Dead?"
"Yes. He was killed inside his own building."
For several seconds, the demon said nothing.
Then he slowly narrowed his eyes.
"Who killed him?"
"We're still investigating, my lord. However, judging from the destruction left behind, the power involved was far beyond what an ordinary human should possess."
The demon's fingers tightened against the table.
"Was it the Blade of Phoenix? Or perhaps the Snow Wolf?"
His gaze moved across the room.
"Which Agency captain dared interfere with something belonging to the Demon King?"
The men immediately shook their heads.
"It wasn't the Agency, my lord."
One of them reached into his coat and withdrew a photograph.
The image was grainy, captured from a considerable distance, but the young man at its center was still recognizable. His messy black hair framed a face marked by anger, while his red eyes stood out even through the poor image quality.
"According to our investigation, this man was responsible."
The demon accepted the photograph.
He examined it briefly.
Then he looked up.
"An ordinary human?"
"Y-Yes, my lord."
The demon's expression turned cold.
"Are you telling me that you couldn't deal with a single human?"
The men immediately lowered their heads.
"Forgive us! Most of the surveillance cameras were destroyed during the incident, and we couldn't obtain any additional evidence. But everything we've discovered points toward this man."
The demon clicked his tongue.
"Pathetic."
He placed the photograph on the table.
"I entrusted you with a simple task, and now you're standing before me with nothing but excuses."
He was about to dismiss the matter when his attention returned to the photograph.
More precisely, to the young man's eyes.
Red eyes...
The demon frowned.
There was something unusual about them.
He couldn't explain it, but the longer he studied the photograph, the more an unpleasant sensation settled in his chest.
It wasn't exactly fear.
Rather, it was an instinctive discomfort, as though something about the young man contradicted what he should have been seeing.
What is this feeling?
The demon remained silent for several moments before placing the photograph down.
"Kill him."
The men raised their heads.
"My lord?"
"Did I stutter?"
His voice grew colder.
"Anyone who dares oppose the Demon King must be taught their place. I don't care whether he's an Agency member, a warrior, or some insignificant mortal."
He leaned forward.
"I want him dead."
"Understood, my lord!"
"However..."
The demon reached into his robes and withdrew another sheet of black paper.
Unlike the others, this one emitted a particularly oppressive aura. Its surface was covered in intricate symbols that shifted beneath the candlelight, causing several men to instinctively avert their eyes.
He placed it on the table.
"Before you kill him, put this on his head."
The men stared at the object.
They immediately recognized it.
A demonic aura stealer.
An artifact capable of extracting sin from a target and preserving it for delivery to the Demon King.
One of the men cautiously raised his hand.
"My lord, are you suggesting that this human possesses enough sin to be worth extracting?"
"That's precisely what I intend to discover."
The demon glanced at the photograph again.
"There's something unusual about this man. I cannot determine what it is from a mere photograph, but my instincts tell me he isn't an ordinary human."
He tapped his fingers against the table.
"If my suspicions are correct, he may possess a considerable amount of sin. Perhaps even more than we expect."
The men exchanged glances.
The demon noticed their interest and smiled.
"And who knows? If you manage to collect enough sin to please His Majesty, perhaps one of you might even receive a drop of the Demon King's blood."
The entire chamber fell silent.
A drop of the Demon King's blood.
For humans who had dedicated themselves to serving the demons, such a reward was beyond anything they could have imagined.
It offered them something far greater than wealth or influence.
The possibility of becoming true demons.
The men could barely conceal their excitement.
"Of course," the demon continued, leaning back in his chair, "that depends entirely on your performance."
They immediately lowered their heads.
"We understand, my lord! We won't disappoint you!"
"Good."
The demon pushed the artifact toward them.
"Extract his sin first. Once you've obtained everything you can, kill him and bring me his head."
"As you command!"
The men carefully collected the artifact before rising to their feet. They bowed once more and filed out of the chamber, passing the skeletons, ancient paintings, and silent guards stationed along the corridor.
Soon, their footsteps faded, leaving the demon alone beneath the dim candlelight.
He leaned back in his chair, but his attention soon returned to the photograph lying on the table.
After a moment of hesitation, he picked it up again and brought it closer to his face.
Those red eyes...
For some reason, they seemed strangely familiar.
"How peculiar..." he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "I'm certain I've seen those eyes somewhere before."
He searched through his memories, trying to recall where he might have encountered them. Yet no matter how hard he thought, nothing came to mind.
Only that lingering sense of familiarity remained, accompanied by an unpleasant feeling he couldn't quite explain.
"But where...?"
The demon continued staring at the photograph, his expression growing increasingly troubled.
"Where have I seen those eyes before?"
To be continued...