The man stood with his hands folded in prayer, eyes closed in serene contemplation—though the scattered remains around him were grotesquely incongruous with such a gesture. Five heads. Seven arms. More than thirteen legs. He hadn't arrived all that long ago... yet a surprising number of people had died in that time.
"Mister Azazel."
When Saraka called out to him, his quietly closed eyelids flew open. Azazel Astaroth was not a member of Gabriel's knightly order, but served as Bishop Marik's personal bodyguard. He regarded Saraka with gentle reproach.
"You're late, Saraka. I grew bored, so I had a little fun with the servants of the imperial palace."
"I had to verify the authenticity of my discovery. It seems I have found what Bishop Marik lost."
When she spoke of *the lost thing*, she meant, of course, Gabriel.
Azazel exhaled softly, and the room—which only moments before had resembled the aftermath of a slaughter—instantly cleared. Only the heavy, coppery scent of blood lingered in the air, a visceral reminder of the brutal massacre that had unfolded here.
"Saraka, you try far too hard for a woman who is nearly dead."
He spoke without the slightest trace of irony. Rising, Azazel approached her and unfastened the scarf concealing the lower half of her face. Beneath it, her skin was a landscape of distinct burns—ridged, discolored, *wrong*. He didn't stop there. Taking Saraka's hand, he removed her glove. The flesh beneath bore the same ugly scars, as though the skin had melted and reformed imperfectly. Azazel traced his fingers slowly over the burn marks.
"I wonder what it is about her that makes you remain loyal to the one who left these scars on you."
Bishop Marik herself had inflicted Saraka's burns—yet Saraka had never once felt resentment toward her. Not in her entire life. That was simply how she had been raised. Recognizing the futility of further commentary, Azazel swiftly changed the subject.
"So. Have you tried using holy water?"
"Yes. The holy water had no effect on Evangeline Rohanson. She doesn't appear to be a demon. As strange as it sounds, perhaps her nature is simply... *cursed*."
"Do you truly consider her human?"
Azazel asked as though the very notion were unthinkable. Could a being capable of subjugating demons—of forcing them to bow their heads—be considered *human*?
Saraka pulled a vial of holy water from her apron, wet her palm, and splashed it onto Azazel. Where the droplets landed, his flesh melted and charred, molding itself into the shape of each splash.
"I made her drink holy water. I even sprinkled it directly on her skin. No reaction whatsoever. If she were a demon like you, Lord Azazel, a single drop would have dissolved her flesh."
"It's rather difficult for me to recover afterward, so could you please refrain from experimenting on me?"
Azazel understood the reason for her pointed demonstration. Saraka was likely expressing displeasure at his indiscreet remarks about Bishop Marik—the woman she admired so intensely she longed to *become* her.
Slowly, almost painfully so, the burned flesh knitted itself back together. The rate of recovery was noticeably slower than before. Azazel suffered from prolonged hunger; he had only managed to sustain himself this long thanks to the satiation he'd experienced twenty years earlier, during the massacre of the heretics.
"Then what *is* she?"
A deity? Impossible. Azazel recalled that snow-white silhouette—whose mere fleeting appearance had been enough to send shivers crawling down his spine.
"Saraka, are you certain we can successfully frame Evangeline Rohanson as the criminal?"
"On the contrary—it's *precisely* because it's Evangeline Rohanson that this will succeed."
Saraka nodded without the slightest hesitation. Azazel wanted to eliminate Evangeline entirely, believing she couldn't be controlled. But Saraka thought the exact opposite.
All of this had been set in motion for one purpose: to revive the era of the heretic massacres—the most glorious age of the temple's flourishing, when Bishop Marik had led the persecutions.
Bishop Marik had taught Saraka, *while burning her hands*, that nothing was more important than firsthand experience. It wasn't enough to simply bear the same scars. Only by experiencing the slaughter of dissidents that Bishop Marik so vividly remembered—and so desperately longed to see repeated—could Saraka truly *become* her.
_A being that commands demons yet remains unaffected by holy water—isn't she the perfect target to rally the faithful against?_
Azazel suddenly buried his nose in Saraka's neck and inhaled deeply. Beneath the sweet, cloying human scent, he detected a nauseating undercurrent.
"This is Flauros."
Since the scent still clung to her, Flauros must have infiltrated the reception area. He had likely brushed against Saraka somewhere in the crowd. Which meant Flauros would have detected Azazel's scent as well—and would come investigating.
Azazel, suppressing the rising nausea, urged Saraka to change her clothes. Respecting the demon's sensitivity, she stripped off the maid's dress without protest.
"Will this cause problems with the plan?"
"None. Deceiving Flauros is remarkably simple. He possesses no exceptional abilities beyond keen eyesight."
In truth, it was merely a matter of their fundamental incompatibility. Azazel exhaled softly—and at that precise moment, every light in the reception hall should have extinguished. He could hear the commotion of confused guests, but Flauros was undoubtedly the most disoriented of all. Having lost his sight, he was probably stumbling about helplessly.
It would be unforgivable to miss such an amusing spectacle.
---
Azazel vanished from Saraka's sight in an instant, reappearing atop the great chandelier in the reception hall. Below, only chaotic murmuring filled the darkness. He looked down and spotted Flauros—his angelic face scrunched in disgust, one hand pressed firmly over his nose.
Due to their fundamental incompatibility, Azazel and Flauros perceived each other's scent as particularly repulsive. Blinded and with his sense of smell rendered nearly useless, Flauros was thoroughly confused—but even so, sensing Azazel's presence, he lunged upward.
Azazel drew his attention deliberately, acting as bait. While he kept Flauros occupied, the girl in the elegant dress began to move.
Now, besides Azazel, only one person in the hall could see what was happening. The one Saraka had chosen as the ideal instrument for assassinating the Crown Prince was none other than one of his own twin daughters.
Azazel watched as the princess exploited the chaos, plunging a blade into her father's heart. Then he hoisted the Crown Prince's body by the collar, hanging it from the chandelier so the corpse would be clearly visible to everyone once the lights returned.
As Saraka had instructed, a modified summoning circle—the kind mages used to call forth demons—had been drawn on the floor. Azazel had intentionally distorted its shape; if everyone in the hall actually began summoning demons, even the temple would be unable to contain the chaos.
The false summoning circle was designed merely to *suggest* demon worship, not to function. But that suggestion alone would be enough to incite anyone who saw it.
This pattern would spread among the aristocracy, gradually becoming a hidden fashion. Among the deceived, there would inevitably be those who investigated further, discovered the *true* circle, and attempted to summon a demon. And even if they failed, they would have betrayed the goddess Rachel by believing in a counterfeit—and would therefore deserve punishment.
Then the time would come to truly resume the slaughter of heretics.
---
"Preparation is complete."
Having finished staging the scene as Saraka requested, Azazel materialized before her. By now, she had already changed into the garments he had prepared.
She donned a black robe, buttoned it to the throat, and draped a heavy veil over herself. She was covered from head to toe; the only visible parts of her body were her hands, which resembled those of an old woman—gnarled and scarred. And since the lower half of her face, occasionally glimpsed during tea parties, was covered in burns, everyone who saw Saraka would naturally mistake her for Bishop Marik.
Saraka's voice, having become completely indistinguishable from the Bishop's over the years, emerged from beneath the veil.
"Captain Astaroth. Let us proceed."
"Yes, Bishop."
From beneath the dark fabric came the majestic voice of a middle-aged woman. Her intonation, word choice, mannerisms—all were perfectly aligned with Bishop Marik's. Even a demon might have marveled at such flawless imitation, as though the Bishop herself had possessed her.
Azazel quietly expressed his admiration.
---
## — Evangeline —
"Lady Rohanson..."
Madame Toten called out to me in a strangled voice. _I'm on the verge of tears myself, Madame Toten..._
Villains always end the same way: prison and execution. That was precisely why I had tried so desperately to avoid death—even going so far as to cultivate an affair with Gabriel!
I had been *incredibly* kind to the main character, Kanna. I was ready to do anything for her! Gabriel was utterly devoted to me! And I, having grown comfortable and complacent, had eventually let my guard down...
After all, a villain isn't imprisoned solely for bullying the heroine. Treason is often punished too.
_But isn't it cruel to suddenly accuse me and arrest me on the very day of my debutante ball?_ All my previous efforts, all my frantic attempts to avoid the death sentence—rendered utterly meaningless!
What was the point of winning Gabriel's heart if I'd been framed in his absence? The secret of his origins hadn't even been revealed yet. What if he *changed* after learning he was accused of murdering his own brother?
"Captain Musetta, witness testimony confirms that the weapon used to stab His Highness the Crown Prince is identical to the dagger Lady Rohanson presented. The Emperor's grandchildren, who were nearby, have also corroborated this."
Captain Musetta—the knight who had been guarding the Crown Prince—stared at me with bloodshot eyes, looking ready to tear me apart where I stood.
_This is not the same blade. The dagger I brought had no edge!_
But this couldn't be proven. The Crown Prince had never drawn it from its sheath. Only Gabriel, the knights who had inspected belongings before entry, and Madame Toten could attest to the blade's absence.
However, Gabriel, it seemed, was occupied with medical treatment and had not returned.
"Lady Rohanson. Is what they say true?"
"Yes, I brought a dagger. But the blade I gave His Highness was purely decorative—*bladeless*. This must be a different weapon entirely. Someone prepared an identical dagger to frame me."
"So you're suggesting that a criminal, wanting to implicate Lady Rohanson, prepared an exact replica in advance?" Captain Musetta's voice dripped with skepticism. "And that the stains on your dress are wine rather than blood?"
_Yes, that's exactly right..._ But I wouldn't believe it either if I were him. To frame me, the criminal would have needed advance knowledge of what gift I planned to bring—and two identical daggers prepared beforehand.
But *I* hadn't been the one to select it! The dagger had been provided by the Count, who claimed it would make a perfect gift for the Crown Prince. Since it was something the Count had obtained, I hadn't questioned it—but now its origin seemed deeply suspicious. Perhaps the criminal had prepared two daggers in advance, slipped one to the Count without his knowledge, and orchestrated the entire scheme.
And the Count, having dragged me into this catastrophe, was now pretending he knew nothing at all. Not that I had ever counted on him for support. Hadn't I always known he was the sort of man who would abandon his own daughter and flee if given the chance?
That was *exactly* what had happened.
"I don't know the full circumstances. However, the knight who searched my belongings before I entered can confirm that the blade was decorative."
"A knight." Captain Musetta's eyes narrowed. "May I clarify—this knight wouldn't happen to be from the Order of Pharos? I'm concerned he might offer false testimony in an attempt to protect the lady with whom his superior, Captain Gabriel, is romantically involved."
_Ugh... this is bad._
"How *fortunate*." His voice was acidic with contempt. "Everyone capable of testifying happens to be connected to you in one way or another."
I felt Captain Musetta's gaze—already furious—intensify to the point where his eyes seemed about to rupture with rage.
It looked like he was preparing to drag Gabriel into this as well.