"…I didn't expect your swordsmanship to have reached this level."
Satan's eyes narrowed in wariness as he studied the Confessarius, who had already sheathed her blade.
He had to swallow his earlier words—her sword had not grown dull at all.
On the contrary, it had become sharper, more restrained, its edge turned inward.
This land truly crawls with monsters, he thought grimly.
That single stroke just now—he could feel it. A blade that could cut the very soul.
No wonder they call themselves 'Confessarius.'
The ability to sever a Sarkaz's link with the consciousness sea… it meant the power to resist even the Demon King.
It made sense. If the Demon King truly held absolute control over every Sarkaz, then how had the one who sought to enslave other races fallen so easily?
The Sarkaz Court, and among the Sarkaz themselves, too many strange individuals bore power beyond reason.
The strength of an entire people was never something outsiders could casually fathom.
This body—this painstakingly modified vessel, built with immense resources—was far too valuable to risk. He could not allow it to be scarred by her sword.
And yet, he could not simply let her walk away either.
"Ripping apart a Contract at will… for a merchant, that is nothing short of an insult."
Satan slowly peeled off his white gloves.
His hands were revealed, covered in ancient Sarkaz script—each character a True Name of those who had once signed a Contract with him.
The words writhed, alive, quivering as if eager to burst from beneath his skin.
"I don't want to fight you."
The Confessarius's voice was calm, steady.
She had no desire to cross blades with this enigmatic merchant.
Though she had traveled with him for months, she had never once witnessed his true strength.
Every time trouble came, Satan would laugh, call for help, and then—do absolutely nothing.
It always fell to her blade to resolve the danger.
But she knew. His harmless façade was a mask. His strength ran deep, far deeper than she could measure. Victory was far from certain.
And worse—if she fought, the golden-haired girl lying on the ground might be caught in the crossfire.
"Then what price," Satan asked smoothly, though inwardly relieved, "are you willing to pay for that outcome?"
For he, too, feared this duel.
A battle would consume Contracts, and he dreaded what might happen should her sword land upon this body.
It was a delicate, intricate construct—comprehensive in design, brimming with functions—but fragile all the same. A single external shock of sufficient force could shatter its balance.
And Kashchey never made a deal that lost him profit.
"…Forget it."
The Confessarius's sword rasped free once more.
She did not want the girl to die, but her past had taught her one bitter truth—never yield control of her fate to another.
If she signed a Contract, she might not save the golden-haired child. She might doom herself alongside her.
She would not sign.
Even severing the earlier Contract had drained her heavily. It was not something she could repeat anytime soon.
—(Ursine curse), she's really that decisive?
Satan's expression twitched. He could not read her condition at all.
To his perception, her presence had not dimmed in the slightest.
That was her way—Shining's indomitable will, her unique discipline as a warrior.
She had found her own path forward.
---
"Relax, relax. At least hear me out first."
Satan calmly slid his gloves back onto his hands, the ancient Sarkaz glyphs crawling across his skin fading back into silence. He raised them slightly to show he meant no harm.
Truthfully, he had only been probing—testing the Confessarius to see if some unexpected profit might fall into his lap.
In reality, the moment she had severed the Contract, Satan no longer had any reason to take the golden-haired girl's life.
Yes, the death of a Contract-bearer granted him some return. But compared to what the living could continue to provide, it was laughably meager.
When a contractor died, the vast majority of their soul was reclaimed by the Sarkaz consciousness sea. A portion would simply dissipate, and only a sliver remained for Satan to control.
It was like laboring tirelessly to cook a whole pot of rice—only to eat a single grain in the end.
A loss. A pitiful bargain.
The only reason he would have carried out her death was if that had been her wish—for the Contract always enforced itself. She had already paid the price, surrendering her location in exchange. Satan would have had to fulfill her desire for death.
Otherwise, the backlash from the consciousness sea could shut his vessel down entirely.
But the Confessarius's blade had cut through that Contract, sparing him the cost.
So he was not angry—if anything, he was relieved. His only concern was that she might one day sever his other Contracts as well.
Still, the thought stirred something new within him.
Could this be considered exploiting a loophole in the consciousness sea itself?
Am I finally entitled to say, "The right to interpret all fulfilled wishes lies solely with Satan"?
The ideas swirled and twisted in his mind, yet outwardly he remained composed, his expression as mild as ever.
"You know me—Satan's brand of wish fulfillment is absolute. That reputation cannot be tarnished."
"…So?"
"I will let her believe, at the level of memory, that she truly and completely died."
The Confessarius raised her blade again.
"Calm yourself, Miss Confessarius," Satan said smoothly. "What I mean is—I will make her forget that she ever made a wish to me."
On the ground, the golden-haired woman stirred faintly, listening in a haze, her spirit scattered.
She wanted nothing but release.
Release from the torment of her wounds, from the agony of the drugs coursing through her body.
It hurts… it hurts so much… I just want to die…
---
"The fire's going out."
The girl named Liz whispered softly.
Beside her, the former Confessarius blinked from her daze and quickly fed more wood into the flames.
In the flickering glow, Liz's frail figure looked breakable, yet no trace of self-destruction lingered in her expression.
The former Confessarius felt an immense, bittersweet relief.
But she knew well—it was not because Liz's heart had been healed.
It was because she had forgotten.
Satan had not only erased Liz's memory of her wish. He had locked all her pain deep within the recesses of her unconscious, far beyond reach.
"After-sales service. Please come again."
The memory of that inscrutable smile lingered, impossible to read.
What exactly is he thinking?
---
"Hey, old man. Tell me—why's that bodyguard who used to follow the boss around vanished for so many days?"
"According to Mr. Satan, she quit. For the sake of some sick stranger, she left her post, even walked away from her old organization. Now she's just a drifter. Word is, she's trying to take that patient and flee Kazdel altogether."
"All that effort… for someone she didn't even know? What a strange one. Still—escaping this war might not be such a bad choice."
"Then why are you still here? You've got enough saved up from the Foundation. You could leave, start over somewhere else, old man."
"…You know how it is. Sarkaz face nothing but discrimination outside these lands. Best to forget it."
"Better than staying here, never knowing when the next shell or bullet will find you! If I had your savings, I'd be gone already."
"…Kid, you don't understand. Kazdel is our home."
"A home where your life isn't even safe?"
"…"
"You're a stubborn old fool."