"Kal'tsit, have you ever heard of the 'Devil of Kazdel'?"
A Sarkaz woman with pale-pink hair and two black horns growing from her head asked quietly aboard a massive mobile fortress known as Rhodes Island.
"I have, Your Highness," Kal'tsit replied, her light-green hair shifting in the sea breeze.
"They say this mysterious merchant has the power to grant any wish a client desires."
At that, Kal'tsit let out a short, disdainful laugh.
"Though, of course, the way those wishes are granted rarely matches what greedy men expect."
"Then tell me, Kal'tsit," Theresa pressed with curiosity. "What kind of person do you think this 'Satan' really is?"
Theresa herself had never met Satan. Strangely, she had not even encountered anyone who openly admitted to having dealt with him.
Yet mercenaries across Kazdel whispered of him. Some even claimed that a wish made to Satan could tip the scales of the War of the Twin Kings.
But the cost of such a wish… was often far beyond what most could ever bear.
Theresa certainly did not believe that Satan could truly grant any wish. From the rumors and his methods, it seemed more likely that he twisted and reshaped the wisher themselves, molding them until their desire was realized.
"I cannot say for certain, Your Highness," Kal'tsit answered after a thoughtful pause.
"He might be nothing more than an arrogant trickster, convinced he can toy with all lives as pieces in his hand. Or perhaps he is an ancient being, treating Kazdel as little more than his playground. Or—he may well be a schemer, using the guise of wish-granting to advance his own designs…"
Kal'tsit's eyes narrowed, her words deliberate.
"I will not make hasty judgments about a force I do not fully understand, Your Highness."
As the two spoke on deck, a medic rushed up to them with a report.
"Your Highness, Doctor Kal'tsit—the mercenary has awakened."
---
This mission had been to escort a massive, classified cargo.
But before the operation even began, the Sarkaz mercenary camp where W and her company had been stationed was ambushed.
That was when the strongman's so-called "father" revealed his true strength.
Or rather—his terrifying might.
"…Such a light body. I haven't moved like this in years."
The taciturn giant's expression shifted—his usual silence replaced by a sneer of contempt.
"Back in the day, your father earned his way across every battlefield and faction in Kazdel on nothing but raw strength. Don't you forget it."
With a single strike, the "father" cut down the attackers, relieving much of the pressure on the others.
So his father's really that strong?
When the dust finally settled, the mercenaries looked at the silent strongman with new eyes.
He had never shown this level of battlefield instinct before.
Still, having a comrade like that is no bad thing.
And with that, most simply let the matter drop.
For all his strength, the "father" wasn't absurdly overpowered. At best, he seemed only a little stronger than Hoederer.
From time to time, the "father" would speak with the mercenaries as if nothing were unusual. Once, he even admitted his cause of death with disarming candor—
severe Oripathy infection.
By contrast, his son, the strongman before them, bore only the early signs of infection.
But the escort mission soon stripped away what little ease the mercenaries had.
Dozens of heavily armed Sarkaz struck with frightening precision, their coordination flawless. Among them were several Centurions, battlefield commanders in their own right.
"(Kazdelian curse)… I knew this mission smelled wrong! I told you we shouldn't take a job with an anonymous employer and an unknown target!"
W spat blood, clutching at wounds already bleeding through her armor.
"Quit your (curse) whining and fight!"
Ines snarled, deflecting a hail of bolts with practiced precision.
W, ever the opportunist, slipped behind her cover, fumbling for a detonator.
"(Curse) all of you! Let's see how you like being blown sky-high!"
BOOM!
Explosions tore through the ranks, but the enemy pressed harder still. The mercenary band was moments from collapse when reinforcements finally arrived.
As W drifted in and out of consciousness, the last thing she saw was a pale pink-and-white figure descending upon the battlefield—effortlessly cleaving through enemies that had given their unit such desperate trouble.
But why… why was her expression so sorrowful?
---
Within Rhodes Island's infirmary, the mercenaries slowly regained consciousness.
But something was wrong with the strongman. His left eye moved unnaturally, locking onto Theresa and the light-green-haired figure beside her.
The Sarkaz King… and Kal'tsit?
Far away, at a nameless campfire, Satan sat with his left eye closed, lost in thought.
If Kal'tsit truly sides with the Sarkaz King… then this becomes troublesome.
Kashchey knew of Kal'tsit.
How many years older was she than even he? He could not say.
In artifacts so ancient that even he considered them relics of forgotten ages, faint traces of her work could still be found.
Yet she had always seemed disinterested in power. When Ursus offered her a lordship, she dismissed it without a second thought.
Kashchey had even visited her once.
She had been arrogant, brusque, a woman unsuited to society. Her combat ability was unremarkable, and she had no faction to call her own.
And yet—her knowledge was vast. Terrifyingly vast. She knew things even Kashchey himself could not grasp.
The impression she left was that of a reclusive scholar, content to walk her own path.
But then… what is her true purpose?
---
That man… he's strange.
Theresa studied the Sarkaz strongman quietly.
His left eye had returned to normal now, no trace of the earlier distortion.
But her senses told her otherwise—within him stirred three different consciousnesses.
Two fractured minds stood guard, shielding the third, whole and unyielding.
It was a strange image, but in Theresa's perception, it was as though two weary parents were standing protectively in front of their sturdy son.
Theresa withdrew her perception, her expression softening into a gentle smile. After offering words of comfort to the mercenaries, she spoke no further.
For she already understood what had happened to the Sarkaz strongman.
Someone had used an unknown method to forcibly drag the consciousness of his deceased parents out from the vast Sarkaz Sea of Consciousness—and then stuffed those fragments into his living body.
The Absolutionist's rites, the Sarkaz King's power, and certain other esoteric arts could all achieve such a thing—reviving the dead.
But among the Sarkaz, resurrection was considered a taboo.
It was the dead encroaching upon the world of the living—an act that invited only scorn.
And yet, what remained now were the rootless. The Sarkaz who clung desperately to survival.
---
Even without probing further, Theresa could see it in the man's eyes—hope.
So unlike most mercenaries she had met before.
Perhaps it was simply the feeling of no longer being alone—of being able to sense his family beside him once more.
Theresa could not say what kind of "resurrection" this was, nor whether it carried any hidden cost. She could not judge whether it was a blessing or a curse.
But one thing she knew with certainty—
The strongman, without a doubt, believed himself to be happy.