The two crouched in the shadows on either side of the corridor, their backs pressed against the rust-stained iron cell doors, corroded by years of neglect.
"I say, heretic, isn't that thing just a corpse wielding a great axe?" Jeanne d'Arc asked, one hand gripping the black longsword. After begrudgingly drawing life force from a fallen companion, the first thought crossing her mind was to send the heretic before her straight to hell—and quickly, she acted on it. The covenant immediately reminded her of the cost of breaking the rules: the soul would be dragged into the lower warren.
"We encountered this thing on the first level of the dungeon—purifying it is no more difficult than burning a defenseless follower of the Dark God."
Sensing the imminent danger, she halted at once, only to notice Sarthel turning to face her, a look of unsurprised expectation on his face. Evidently, he had foreseen this.
"How did you come in here without a shred of intelligence on this dungeon? Did the Cross-Church documents not warn you how different the Butchers of the deep dungeon are from the guards at the entrance?" Sarthel studied the subtle movements beneath her expression.
The question gnawed at him: why would a Burner come to such a forsaken place? Even he, hurriedly reborn, did not fully understand this accursed location—let alone these lunatics who burned precious spell codices for sport.
"Claudius' Hounds. We tracked their steps here," she replied, sinking deeper into shadow.
The Empress' Hound regiment—truly an unpleasant name.
A shadow crossed his gaze. The madwoman responsible for pursuing him to the point of rebirth was none other than her.
"Are they all dead?"
"A foolish question, the answer is obvious," Jeanne said, lowering her voice. "We only traced their footsteps."
Sarthel's mood darkened.
Had he destroyed the codices left in the Senate before the Empress' coup, he would not have ended up at the mercy of the Hounds.
"So, you were reborn hastily because you fell to the Hounds?" He noted her sarcastic smile. "Did you ever anticipate the day of the coup while serving Rome's Senate? Heretic, your life is a string of misfortunes. Perhaps it would be simpler to end it here than risk greater calamity."
Sarthel returned her gaze calmly, silently thinking, Try stabbing me if you can. He noticed the Burner had ceased attempts at betrayal after failing her contract. Her personality had also moderated upon entering the corridor… more or less. Occasionally, her words betrayed her natural malice. Understandable—without a sense of timing, she would never have led knight-guards to exterminate heretics.
"If we encounter those Hounds, shall we kill them?" he asked.
"My Lord's hatred of the Hounds is not as deep as the heretics'," Jeanne replied. "If I had the choice… no, I wish to cooperate with no one. You should all be reduced to ashes. This place is far too dangerous; dealing with Hounds is your responsibility alone. I will not complicate matters."
"Tch… fine. I do not wish to complicate things either. I am a knight beloved by the Cross-Church, with no ties to the Hounds."
He muttered to himself, placing his fingers on the ground and reciting a spell, discerning how recently the creature had passed.
"You do not even know this body's name," Jeanne said, her tone serious. Despite the sharpness, Sarthel could see she restrained unnecessary emotion. Her subtle movements reflected the discipline of a seasoned slaughterer.
"I will know once we return to the Church. Then you may claim that the name 'Sarthel' was bestowed upon me as a Church name," he recalled the timing of the footprint owner's patrols and the intervals between the gates. "As for the reason, you may claim gratitude to the knight who saved your life."
"Disgusting… I feel like vomiting. Is everything you think this vile?"
Try vomiting on me then. He turned his bearded face toward her. "Simple, effective, and conceals much. Or do you have a better idea?"
"..."
Sarthel snorted quietly, eyes scanning beyond Jeanne. "This level of the dungeon is circular. We should follow these footprints," he said. "Check if the patrols' route leads to a door to the next layer… but if we stumble upon them…"
"Then purge those disgusting things." Jeanne's gaze met his.
"I am the mage. I should stay behind," he said.
"Don't joke. Is that sword in your hand a decoration? How many have died by your enchanted cold weapons? If you dare stay behind, I will behead you before your soul falls into the lower warren."
"Impressive," Sarthel shrugged, motioning for her to follow.
The corridor was a shadowy tunnel lined with rusted iron doors, most firmly shut, occasionally revealing a half-opened cell. Through the cracks, skinned corpses lay on the floor or hung from the ceiling. Small rooms held braziers, their red glow pooling along exposed bones like creeping mold.
At the end of the circular corridor, firelight flickered. Footsteps, furry and alive-sounding, mingled with the crunching of raw meat. The vaulted ceilings loomed high; blood-red gemstones in infernal reliefs watched Sarthel and Jeanne with rat-like eyes. Shadows cast tall, elongated silhouettes across his dark-haired gaze and her golden locks, tinted by the life force of companions.
The firelight stopped—the creature froze.
They paused, hidden in the corner shadows.
"Why do you think it stopped?"
"Death," Sarthel said, eyes glinting strangely. "That is the Butcher guarding the deep dungeon. I sense its death."
"Are you certain?"
Jeanne stared into his eyes, lips colored by the damp air, throat refreshed, her voice no longer dry and hoarse.
"Who else would be here besides us?" Sarthel tested her.
"The heretic Empress's Hounds," she twisted a grin. "Those pests have lingered in the Holy City for long. We tracked them here—to capture and deliver them to the torture chambers. If malicious, burn them; if not, hang them."
Sarthel pressed firmly on her shoulder.
"What for?"
"To kill the patrolling Hound beside the Butcher corpse," he said. "I need some souls to construct more spells, and to extract information on the Hounds from the Butcher."
"How does this help me leave here?" Jeanne retorted, uncooperative.
Damn, this woman is impossible.
"Since the Hounds voluntarily came to the dungeon, they must know what's here and how to exit—correct?" He thought, If not, I'll knock you out and use you as bait.
"—A logical enough reason," she replied, expression calm as ever. "Also, I will not tolerate you shirking in the upcoming fight."
"Speak as you will. I am the Cross-Church knight protecting you; how could I shirk?"
"I despise your sarcastic tone, but you'd suit the theater perfectly, heretic."