"Everyone, please, don't be so tense. I was merely acting in self-defense… After all, as a timid merchant surrounded by so many vicious mercenaries, it's only natural I'd have a bit of an… overreaction."
When Theresa arrived, she was greeted by the sight of Satan raising both hands high in the air.
Around him lay mercenaries sprawled across the ground, none of them able to rise.
"Rest assured," Satan said with feigned ease—though his tone was edged with gravity—"I only deprived them temporarily of the ability to rob a poor merchant."
Inwardly, he was anything but calm.
What concerned him was whether the young Sarkaz King before him could perceive the unnaturalness of this vessel.
This was a test—an experiment to see whether the Black Snake could evade the senses of a Sarkaz King.
Most mind-readers discovered possession because they could feel two consciousnesses inside one body.
But once the Black Snake fully devoured the host, the original soul was erased, leaving only one presence behind.
Lesser mind-readers would never notice.
At most, they would sigh about the fickle duality of human nature, and then dismiss it as nothing unusual.
After all, in this land, masks and duplicity were far from rare. Wasn't that so?
---
"This gentleman… for what purpose have you come here?" Theresa asked sternly.
Elite Operators who had rushed over stood ready, tense with suspicion.
No one believed Satan's airy words.
His objective was clear—he was here with intent.
The preparations Kashchey had inscribed into Satan's vessel were working.
Through a Contract, he had tethered the Sarkaz King's perception to the contractor, while burying his own essence deep within.
It was a gamble. Ordinary tricks could never fool a Sarkaz King.
But for now, it seemed effective.
In Theresa' sight, the man before her appeared like a flickering slideshow—shifting from one identity to another without pause.
Still, that was far from enough.
The Sarkaz King's perception could cut deeper.
Just as she pressed further into his inner world, the markings across Satan's skin flared violently, writhing as they attempted to sever her intrusion.
No—did sever it, but not completely.
Even a Sarkaz King who had yet to fully grasp her Authority was not someone this vessel could easily contend with.
'So even without full mastery, the Sarkaz King's power is formidable…' Satan thought grimly.
As the inscriptions on his body brightened, ready to erupt into frenzy, Theresa suddenly withdrew her hand.
She had no wish to escalate this into open conflict.
The mercenaries were, after all, unharmed.
And to force her probing further would risk turning this ambiguous, mysterious merchant into an enemy of Babel Tower.
Not everyone could tolerate having their minds read.
Such recklessness could only backfire.
It was wiser to hear his intentions first. If necessary, she could return to reading later.
Theresa had always loathed the crushing burden that came with her title of Sarkaz King, but she was not without pragmatism.
Mind-reading was no pure blessing. At times, it felt more like a curse.
The terran heart was treacherous—not only because its truths were hidden beneath layers of masks, but because it was always shifting, always in flux.
"Your Highness Theresa," Satan said, bowing low.
"Though I am but a humble merchant, as a Sarkaz, I still wish to offer what little strength I can… to you, my Sarkaz King."
This was no empty courtesy.
It was the formal obeisance of a Sarkaz before their sovereign.
It was an ancient rite.
A ceremony by which a Sarkaz pledged loyalty to their king.
"(Obscure Ancient Sarkaz tongue…)"
Satan spoke the words of oath, and the ancient language itself carried power.
If Theresa were to accept, she would, without question, gain a subordinate—one who was very likely an Immortal.
"…Thank you for your offer."
In the end, Theresa did not accept the allegiance of this mysterious merchant, whose motives—and very existence—remained suspect.
"Is that so…? What a pity. My rare burst of patriotism, snuffed out just like that."
Satan's smile never faltered.
Of course, he had never intended true loyalty to the Sarkaz King.
Though it resembled that ancient ritual, at its core it was nothing more than a Contract.
Had Theresa accepted even for a moment, a link would have been forged between them.
And within the legacy of the Sarkaz King would lurk a venomous serpent.
Kashchey had studied the Sarkaz King for centuries, even crossed blades with one who wielded their Authority in full.
He was confident he could remain undetected.
And if the Sarkaz King took the bait, Kashchey would gain an opening—
An opening to advance even further.
---
We must keep running… just to remain in place.
The Yan Nation's Godslayer, the rise of the Witch King, the Columbian technological hegemony—
The world marched ever forward. And if Kashchey did not keep pace, he too would be left behind, reduced to relic and refuse of a bygone age.
Once, the destruction of an entire nation was scarcely worth the trouble of an Immortal or a Feranmuts.
But now, many immortals could do nothing but hide, bow their heads, or live at the mercy of nations' commands.
That thought unsettled him deeply.
---
Though Theresa' refusal was disappointing, Satan had expected it.
It had been too sudden, too brazen.
But he had little choice.
Experience had shown: when facing the Sarkaz King, hesitation was fatal.
Radical, swift action was the only chance.
Satan had neither the time nor the means to slowly earn the Sarkaz King's trust.
Her perception, her influence—were simply too overwhelming.
---
"In that case, since Your Highness is unwilling to accept the loyalty of a devout Sarkaz… might you, instead, be interested in a trade with a conscientious merchant?"
With a snap of his fingers, and under the wary gazes of all present, a mound of military supplies appeared out of thin air.
The weapons and equipment were of exceptional quality, and the quantity was considerable.
'What a drain…' Satan thought grimly. His body felt hollow, nearly spent. Such a feat demanded much from him.
"…And what exactly do you wish to obtain in return for these?" Theresa asked cautiously.
For Babel Tower, such supplies could greatly relieve the pressure on their battlefront.
But there was a dilemma.
They didn't have nearly enough funds.
"Your Highness, I know… If I were to say this was a gift, freely given, you would only doubt my intentions."
Satan drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at imaginary tears, playing the role to the hilt.
"In truth, I am merely curious… about this warship called Rhodes Island."
Putting the cloth away, he smiled with playful amusement.
"After all, I have quite the fondness for antiques. Rest assured—I've no delusion of buying Rhodes Island outright. I only wish to take a tour, to lay eyes upon a relic of ancient civilization."