He's gone mad.
That was Hoederer's first and most certain thought as he watched the Sarkaz brute—who had made a deal with Satan—cycle endlessly through three different expressions in a matter of moments.
This, he concluded, must be Satan's method of granting the mercenary's wish.
By driving him insane. Splitting his mind into fragments, birthing new personalities—hallucinations of his long-dead parents.
Hoederer had once read about such conditions in a book on psychology, a prize looted from the home of a mission target.
But as time went on, Hoederer realized things were not nearly that simple.
Multiple personalities can't grant someone skills they never had before… can they?
By the campfire, the towering Sarkaz warrior—whose body was built for the battlefield—wore an expression utterly out of place: a gentle, almost motherly smile.
Cooking utensils clattered in his hands as he prepared a fragrant meal, rich aromas drifting through the camp.
Nearby, W, Ines, and the others had already set out their bowls and utensils, sitting in anticipation.
At first, they had been wary. After all, the brute had never known how to cook. The only explanation was that his "mother" had appeared again.
Or… perhaps his "father."
Yet the food smelled far too delicious to ignore.
So, they pushed one poor soul forward as a tester.
The unlucky volunteer reported back that, despite the heavenly aroma, the taste left much to be desired.
Afterward, whenever the group fought together, that same unlucky tester always seemed to vanish without a trace when mealtime came around.
Only later did they realize the selfish bastard had deliberately kept the meals to himself, unwilling to share what he alone deemed edible.
He was promptly beaten to a pulp.
Since then, the mercenary brute had been named the group's official cook.
According to him:
"Mother worries about me. She thinks the life of a mercenary is too harsh. But since she can't help me in battle… she said the least she can do is cook for me."
Watching his comrades devour the food ravenously, with the hulking warrior smiling warmly all the while, Hoederer felt a chill crawl down his spine.
The dead, attaching themselves to the living… how can such a thing be possible?
It wasn't the brute he feared—it was the bizarre merchant who had caused all of this: Satan.
Could it be that to this mysterious dealer, even the souls of the dead were merchandise to be traded?
Hoederer recalled an ancient tale.
The Teekaz people—all of them, in life or in death—were said to be under the dominion of the "Demon King."
"Teekaz" was what the Sarkaz had once been called, before Kazdel was shattered by foreign powers.
Now, "Sarkaz" meant only one thing: a people without roots.
---
"Shining, do you know who Satan is?"
"…No. I don't know. I've never heard of him."
"You sound… strange when you say that."
"…Why did you suddenly bring up that name?"
"I don't know either. Just a strange feeling, like I've heard it before. Maybe I knew him, once. You know… I've forgotten so many things."
"If remembering is too painful, then don't force yourself."
The blonde girl nodded obediently, but the healer who carried a sword could not keep certain memories from rising unbidden.
"…What a filthy, wretched place. And to think they treat doctors this way… no wonder they'll never amount to anything."
A red-haired Sarkaz in a pristine suit wrinkled his nose, pushing open the rusted iron door of an underground cell with his gloved hand.
The stench was suffocating. Rats and insects scurried across the damp stone floor, and dried bloodstains had long since rotted into black smears.
"I came all this way," Satan muttered with disdain, "because I sensed a powerful desire… and I thought I might as well develop a new customer or two along the way."
His eyes slid toward the woman at his side—the Confessarius with a sword in hand.
"Unlike someone I know, who draws her blade and slaughters at the slightest provocation."
The Confessarius did not respond.
Her silence was not agreement, but fury held on the edge of breaking.
Because what they had found in this manor was beyond words.
Its master had not only trafficked terran lives, but also tortured children for his own depraved amusement.
Satan and the Confessarius had come because whispers reached them: someone was targeting orphans under the protection of the Satan Foundation. Following the trail led them here.
And what they found turned the Confessarius's stomach.
So she had acted.
---
I want to die…
A frail, golden-haired girl lay collapsed on the dungeon floor, her breath shallow, her eyes clouded.
Life was slipping away from her. She could feel the countdown to her final moments.
"No wonder they treated her like this," Satan said lightly, voice mocking. "In their eyes, she was never a patient—just a disposable 'medical kit.'"
The girl's ears caught the sound of his careless drawl.
"Enough of your sarcasm. I'll save her."
The Confessarius knelt beside the girl, channeling Originium Arts to knit her shattered body back together.
"No, you won't."
"…What did you say?"
Her Arts flared brighter, refusing to cease.
"I said, you won't."
Satan snapped his fingers. The healing light flickered out instantly, as if crushed under an unseen weight.
In the next breath, a blade was pressed against his throat.
"…Why?"
"Because of a Contract, of course. Did you really think I could have found this place—so easily, so precisely—without a contract leading me here?"
Satan's tone remained maddeningly calm. He made no effort to raise his hands, still poised mid-snap.
Contracts were binding. That much was truth.
Satan was no true Demon King; without that power, borrowing the Sarkaz consciousness sea came with countless restrictions.
He could define the terms of a Contract, but once signed, they could not be changed.
And to fulfill a Contract was not a choice—it was an exchange.
He had to grant the wish, or suffer backlash from the collective will of his people.
The clearer, simpler, and stronger a wish, the less room Satan had to twist its outcome.
Most who sought wealth, after all, did not truly crave the gold itself, but the pleasures it bought. That kind of wish was easy to trick, for human senses were endlessly pliable.
But this girl…
Her wish burned so strongly that Satan had sensed it directly, through the current of the Sarkaz consciousness sea. A rarity.
Through that same link, he had read her situation, traced her existence, and been drawn to this accursed manor.
Her Contract was simple.
Pure.
Undeniable.
I want to die.
That was all.
---
"Are you sure you want to save someone who so desperately wishes for death?" Satan's voice curled with mockery as he watched the Confessarius. "You might mend her flesh, but you cannot heal her heart."
His words carried no spell, no Art—just the weight of influence born of proximity.
It was the most terran kind of corruption: the way constant company shapes and erodes.
Her blade grows dull, Satan thought. Good.
Neither as the Black Snake nor as Duke Kashchey did he desire Kazdel to gain another champion.
Besides, while he valued his own life above all else, he could still understand those who longed for death.
Sometimes, in this cruel land, living was the greater torment.
So he watched, curious.
Would the young Confessarius give in, grant the girl mercy?
Or resist, and drag her back to life?
What he did not expect—was her choice.
She did not lower her sword.
Instead, she struck—not at him, nor at the girl, but at the space between them.
A plain, unremarkable stroke.
Satan frowned.
…The Contract failed?