Who?
Satan was momentarily confused, though his practiced merchant's smile never left his face.
He turned toward the Sarkaz woman who had spoken.
She was dressed in the typical garb of a mercenary, two red horns curving from her head.
Yet Satan did not recognize her right away.
After all, the girl he remembered had once been nothing more than a filthy, ragged child—hardly worth a second thought. He had no reason to keep track of every stray he happened to save.
Especially since, for the sake of misleading that Confessarius, he had rescued countless children.
That Confessarius was no ordinary figure. To Kashchey's eyes, she was born for the sword. Even with all the time he himself had devoted to studying swordsmanship, compared to her, he was woefully lacking.
A warrior of such caliber within the Confessarius would make their order even more formidable.
Thus, he had founded the Satan Foundation, an institution devoted to investing in war orphans.
Its purpose was not charity, but influence—an attempt to sway, to tempt that gifted Confessarius.
For Satan, anything solvable with money was hardly a problem.
He had no intention of raising those children with care or privilege. A little basic education, enough food to fill their stomachs—that was sufficient.
Once they grew older and acquired their true names, he would cast them out.
The expenses of the foundation were insignificant compared to the fortune he had amassed.
This approach not only planted doubts in the talented Confessarius's mind, it also expanded the number of contracts tied to Satan's name. Perhaps it might even earn him some reputation, paving the way for future schemes—and, of course, feeding his vanity. Why not?
Though in the end, he had failed to sway that Confessarius.
---
"Hey, you haven't forgotten me, have you?"
The mercenary's voice carried a trace of impatience.
This mercenary was named W. Her name had never appeared on Satan's contracts, so it was only natural he didn't immediately recall her.
"You and that woman in the black cloak once saved my life."
Who are you supposed to be?
Satan's doubt lingered.
The description was far too vague—he and the Confessarius had saved too many people to remember them all.
Immortality did not grant perfect memory, after all. And truthfully, he had never cared to remember when or how he had saved some stranger's life.
"Ohhh~ so you're that little girl from back then. I never thought you'd grow into a mercenary."
Satan put on an expression of sudden realization—though in truth, only the faintest, most trivial impression stirred in his memory.
"Forget it. Someone like you has no reason to bother remembering a small-time mercenary like me… So, what do you have for sale?"
W asked casually.
She took no offense at Satan's vague recollection. After all, he was a figure capable of maneuvering even amidst the war between the twin kings.
The Devil of Kazdel—that was the name most mercenaries gave this enigmatic merchant.
Some who had doubted him and dared break one of his contracts found themselves inexplicably struck down the next day, sinking into a sleep from which they never awoke.
It was as though their souls had vanished, leaving only their empty bodies behind.
Many believed Satan collected the souls of those who defied him, keeping them as part of his private trove.
"Want to make a deal with me? Of course you can~ Do you still have my card, by the way? With it, you can enjoy a ten-percent discount… though only on monetary transactions."
"Of course. Here."
W reached into a hidden pocket in her clothes and pulled out a weathered business card.
It was worn, frayed around the edges, almost ready to fall apart.
Yet she had kept it with her all this time, never selling it, never discarding it.
What had been, for Satan, nothing more than a trivial gesture, had once meant everything to a starving little girl.
Her action now was, in a way, an answer to that past.
---
"This canned food tastes bland. I don't want it."
"This water… stale, must be from yesterday. Drinking it isn't healthy. Toss it."
The man in white gloves casually discarded a half-eaten can and a nearly full bottle of water onto the ground.
Beside him, the Confessarius merely watched in silence.
Before the little girl who had been following them from afar appeared, Satan had never behaved so picky or wasteful.
After a moment's hesitation, even the Confessarius lowered her own rations.
"…I don't have much appetite today. I won't eat."
Her voice was stiff, unnatural.
"Come on," Satan sighed dramatically, "your delivery sounds like you're reading a script. You need to put in emotion—like me."
He went on with his endless chatter.
"With skills like yours, you'd never survive as an advertising spokesperson."
Why in the world would I want to be a spokesperson?
The Confessarius endured his constant needling in silence. She knew full well she could never outtalk him, so she simply ignored him, hoping he would eventually tire of his own voice.
"One fire is far too cold. No, no… I'll need more bonfires to keep myself warm."
In the distance, the little girl only watched, baffled, as this man squandered food and warmth with such casual extravagance.
He already had delicious food, already had the comfort of fire—yet he still wasn't satisfied, throwing it all away.
Well… more for me.
She smiled to herself, quickly snatching up the discarded food and water before retreating to that same cautious distance—not too close, not too far.
At the farthest of the fires, she curled up, and soon drifted into sleep.
---
"So, what wish do you want me to grant?" Satan asked smoothly.
"I want ten grenades. I ran out in my last battle, and I need to restock… Monetary transaction."
"You're sure that's all?"
"Yes."
"Fine~ if you insist."
Satan couldn't hide a note of disappointment. Still, professionalism demanded he fulfill the deal.
A simple monetary exchange meant no Contract could be formed—merely business, nothing more.
With a glance, he signaled to Hoederer, then produced a communicator from his pocket.
The sight made Hoederer hesitate, but in the end he did nothing.
After all, Satan's reputation among mercenaries was surprisingly good. At the very least, the words on his card—profit over blood, self-interest over cruelty—were true enough.
Before long, a heavily armed man on a motorcycle arrived, dropped off a package, and rode away without a word.
"…Uh. This isn't quite what I imagined."
"And what exactly did you expect? Don't tell me you actually believed those rumors—that I just snap my fingers and conjure things out of thin air?"
"…"
"That kind of thing falls under high-level Contract services. It's a little different from your humble ten-percent-off monetary trade."