Satan had gleaned the information he wanted.
Information about the one they called the Wraith of Babel.
From many lips he had gathered the same portrait: a cold-blooded, ruthless madman who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.
So… Theresa has such a figure under her command?
He was doubtful.
Theresis often complained about Babel's commander, but Satan had never witnessed it for himself. And besides—who in their right mind would waste tactics on a wandering merchant of uncertain strength and uncertain origins?
So Satan listened silently to the drunkard's laments.
The man's wish was simple: he only wanted someone to hear his true feelings.
Though drunk, he remained clear-headed enough to know what he could and could not afford. He could never pay the price for the commander's death. Nor did he want to wallow in false illusions.
He still had to live—for himself, and for the shares of life his fallen comrades could no longer claim.
But without you all… what use is money to me?
So he paid with coin for a different bargain: the company of a confidant, even a false one, for a single night.
Within the tavern, patrons came and went, cups clinking, footsteps fading.
But the suited man and the ragged drunk remained side by side at the counter.
The mercenary drank ceaselessly, pouring out his heart to the stranger who never interrupted.
Unlike most of Kazdel's mercenary bands, his had been born from childhood bonds. They had grown up together, full of youthful fire, dreaming of building a company that would shake Kazdel itself.
Now, only he remained.
The weight of their deaths had crushed him. Yet even the false comfort of a silent listener was a balm he could not refuse.
At last, the drunk slumped forward onto the table, muttering his comrades' names as he drifted into sleep.
"…"
Satan lifted the untouched glass of liquor before him and drank it down in one go.
Disgusting.
He straightened his suit, smoothing his collar.
"Keep the tab on that man," he said to the barkeep. "Tell him this is the price he must pay."
With that, he left the tavern behind.
The fleeting passions of these short-lived breeds… no matter how often I savor them, they never lose their flavor.
---
"Doctor, you should rest."
Kal'tsit's voice was steady as she addressed the hooded figure wrapped in layers of clothing, standing before the massive war map.
This was the Wraith of Babel. The one they called the Doctor.
"…"
The Doctor ignored her words, his gaze fixed on the map, calculating.
"Overtaxing your body without reason will only lead to mental fatigue—and to mistakes in judgment."
"I have not."
His voice was flat, unwavering. His eyes never left the map.
Kal'tsit exhaled softly, shaking her head. She knew she could not sway him.
Yet as the conflict escalated, the Doctor's presence grew ever more terrifying.
At first, he had mourned the sacrifices of soldiers.
Now, he coldly issued orders that guaranteed the deaths of his subordinates.
The burden upon his shoulders was crushing.
He brought victory to Babel, but his methods sowed unrest among its ranks.
Lives weighed against triumph—which was worth more?
Even if today's sacrifices were made for a greater tomorrow…
Who else could see with the clarity he did?
His path was one destined for fear and misunderstanding.
And isolation.
---
"Unusual activity detected. A suspicious Sarkaz male is approaching Rhodes Island."
"The mercenaries didn't stop him?"
"…They're requesting reinforcements."
"Reinforcements? For a single man? Who is it?"
"…"
The comms channel suddenly filled with static.
"Respond, soldier. Who is it you're facing?"
The static cleared—but the voice that followed was no longer that of the comms operator.
"Just a merchant looking for a place to rest, that's all~"
---
So this is Rhodes Island? Took me quite some time to track you down.
Satan adjusted his collar and straightened his suit as he gazed at the colossal fortress-ship.
He was about to meet some very important guests, after all. First impressions mattered.
Patrolling mercenaries soon spotted the out-of-place figure: a man in a sharp suit, bright red hair, and a tall top hat.
They instantly recognized him.
The self-styled mysterious merchant—Satan.
"Stop right there."
The mercenaries closed ranks, surrounding him. They had no wish to provoke this enigmatic figure, whose true abilities remained unknown, but orders were orders. The employer's mission came first.
Satan chuckled softly.
"Seems I'll have to prove my worth to these esteemed clients."
He slipped off his white gloves.
On his bare hands, words etched into his skin began to shift and crawl restlessly.
For a true merchant, demonstrating the ability to meet the client's needs… is the very foundation of business.
---
Meanwhile, W prowled the halls of Rhodes Island, searching for her true target.
She had to avoid that eerie hooded figure, and steer clear of the Feline doctor whose face was always locked in a scowl.
Her destination: Her Highness.
Perhaps she could be of some use to Theresa.
Not long ago, Her Highness had been curious about Satan.
W, never one to miss a chance for conversation, had shared the memory from her childhood: the time she nearly starved to death—until Satan saved her.
"Though, honestly, that guy's got a decent heart, he's ridiculously picky. Wouldn't even drink water left overnight… no wonder he struts around in that flashy get-up."
W muttered with a half-smile, half-grumble.
Listening quietly, Theresa's expression remained gentle. Only once—when W described Satan's companion from that time—did her brow crease slightly.
To Theresa, who had lived for more than a century, W truly was just a child.
"Have you considered," Theresa said softly, "that perhaps Satan was wasting food on purpose—so you could eat it without feeling any burden?"
W blinked, caught off guard.
She had lived her whole life seeing treachery carefully plotted, conspiracies hidden deep. Never had she met someone who went so far as to conceal even an act of kindness beneath layers of theatrics.
No one—except Satan, and that strange companion of his.
Now that I think about it… they really were acting suspicious back then…
Seeing W lost in thought, Theresa simply chuckled and let the matter drop.
---
Just as W was about to resume her search for Theresa, a message reached her ears—one that left her momentarily stunned.
The Devil of Kazdel has infiltrated the Rhodes Island landship.