The Saint lifted the porcelain cup and took a slow, deliberate sip. The tea's steam curled into the false light above, carrying some spiced fragrance that only made Noah's stomach twist tighter. The man didn't rush, didn't fidget. He drank like there was no pressure in the world at all.
Noah's throat ached with the words he had to push out.
"Why?" His voice cracked against the silence. "Why would you do this to me? Why strip me down and hand me back the pieces? Why play with me like that?"
The Saint chuckled low in his throat, setting the cup back with a soft clink. "Because I need you. Alive, certainly. But also compliant. Docile." His smile curved. "The simplest way is to let you forget. Forget what we talk about, forget how long you've been here, forget how many times you've already asked me the same question. Without memory, you are manageable."
Noah's chest went cold. He forced the words anyway.
"For what? What do you need me for exactly?"
The Saint leaned back on the throne as if weighing the luxury of telling the truth. For a long, dragging moment, he just stared. Then he said it flatly:
"I need your divinity."
Noah froze.
"Preferably at its peak," the Saint went on smoothly, "when you've ascended further than I once did. A higher tier than my own. It would be something new… something exquisite." His lips twitched with irritation. "But your domain is absurdly slow. With fate, who knows how long it will take for you to reach the next tier. It could be years. Decades. Still…" His eyes glinted like a blade catching the light. "I have all the time in the womb. I've already used centuries for other designs. I can wait for you too, so long as you behave."
The words hit Noah like a blade between the ribs. He wasn't a guest. He wasn't a prisoner. He was cattle. Being fattened, groomed, readied for slaughter.
His lips twisted, the fight draining out of him until only a bitter laugh rose in his chest. "I wouldn't even be able to beat you as I am now. So why even bother? You don't need games like this. This—" he gestured at the cup, at the entire farce of their conversation "—is all just entertainment for you, isn't it? A little show to amuse yourself."
The Saint laughed, actually laughed, as if Noah had told a charming joke. "Perhaps," he said, utterly unconcerned.
That was when he slipped.
"You could defeat me, of course," the Saint added lightly, almost with mock generosity, "if you knew where the Sun's core lay. It sits just beneath us in this very palace, in the basement chambers. Not guarded. Why would I need to? I control memory itself. Thought. Loyalty. Every person here has already bent to me." His eyes gleamed. "But I learned long ago that erasure alone makes brittle servants. True loyalty is forged through grief, love, devotion. A subtler art. And that—" he leaned forward, proud as a child showing off a toy "—is why I keep my Choir."
Noah's mind sharpened like a blade. You stupid, arrogant bitch. He wanted to scream, wanted to laugh, wanted to drag the words out of him faster. But he forced himself calm. If he showed how much had just been handed to him, the Saint might catch on. He needed more distraction.
He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "What do you mean—building loyalty through emotions? With the Choir?"
The Saint's chest swelled. Pride poured out of him, unrestrained.
"I produce them," he said smoothly. "It's easy. Parents are sent on hunts that they cannot survive. Sometimes I sacrifice them myself, sometimes I let the monsters do it. Then I reshape the memories of those who remain. Some children believe they were abandoned. Others think their parents died nobly. Some are told they never had parents at all. And then—" his smile was almost tender—"I arrive. I save them. Protect them. Teach them. Become both father and mother, the figure they never knew they longed for. And in that way, they belong to me completely. Fiercely. Forever."
Noah's stomach lurched. He wanted to vomit. "You're disgusting," he spat.
The Saint only grinned wider, drinking in his revulsion like a toast.
Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he dismissed him. "Enough for today. Go back."
A wave rushed over Noah, the familiar pull of forced forgetfulness tearing at the seams of his mind. He clenched his fists, bracing for the blankness.
But it didn't come.
The guard took him by the arm and led him from the chamber. And as Noah's boots echoed down the hall, his thoughts remained intact. The words, the revelations, the laughter, the slip about the Sun's core—everything was still there.
His chest hammered with frantic relief. The spell had worked. Their plan wasn't broken after all.
For the first time, Noah walked out of the Saint's presence carrying memory instead of losing it. And with it, a sliver of chance—sharp enough to cut.
The guards' boots thudded in rhythm beside him, stone corridors blurring past. To anyone watching, Noah looked calm, maybe even resigned. Inside, though, he was burning alive with laughter.
He really did it. The pompous, self-absorbed idiot actually did it. He showed me the cards and then laid them down face-up. The core in the basement. Not even protected. All while sipping tea and stroking his own ego.
Noah nearly barked out a laugh, biting it back with a cough. The guards didn't notice. They were too blank-eyed, too far gone.
You've been in this womb too long, old man. Thousands of years rotting in your own pride. You think you're untouchable, but all you've done is hand me the knife to slit your throat with. God, you're pathetic.
Every step made it harder not to grin. For the first time since being dragged into this hell, Noah felt the weight shift. He had leverage. A target. An opening.
By the time he was shoved back toward his quarters, he could hardly contain himself.
Abel was waiting, his arms crossed, expression tight. He opened his mouth, probably to ask how it went—then froze.
"You… remember."
Noah smirked, throwing himself onto the cot like a man who'd just won a bet. "Yeah. For once, I remember everything."
Abel's eyes widened. "So the spell worked?"
"Worked?" Noah laughed under his breath, covering his face with one hand. "Abel, it didn't just work—it sang. He gave me everything. What he wants, why he's keeping me, how he makes the Choir… hell, he even told me where the core of his power sits. He's so far up his own ass he doesn't even realize he just doomed himself."
Abel leaned closer, voice sharp with urgency. "The core? Where?"
"In his basement," Noah said, still half-laughing, half-gasping from the rush. "Just sitting there. No guards, no seals. Why bother, right? He controls everyone's heads. Or at least he thinks he does. Oh, Abel—" Noah's grin cracked into a vicious, delirious smile, "—he thinks he's untouchable. But I've got him by the balls now. And when the time comes, I'll squeeze until he bursts."
For the first time, Abel's stony face cracked. Shock. And something else—hope, raw and dangerous, flickering through his eyes.
Noah lay back, chest heaving, the laugh finally spilling free. It wasn't pretty. It was sharp, unhinged, the laugh of a man who'd been cornered too long and finally found a way to bare his teeth.
The Saint thought he was still the master of the game. But Noah knew better.
The board had shifted.
And he was done playing the fool.