Chapter 83: Echoes of the Seal and the Urgent Summons

Kritiya did not answer my question directly.

Her fingertips, separated from the soft fabric of her clothing, unconsciously rubbed back and forth over the locket pendant at her chest.

I felt that initial chill of the metal, gradually permeated by the warmth of her skin, as if quietly warmed by her steady, persistent heartbeat.

But what could this child possibly hide from me?

Even in her silence, I could read the undercurrents surging in her heart from that faint, uncontrollable tremor.

“I’m just thinking,” Kritiya cast her gaze out the window, her voice soft, as if afraid to disturb the dust motes drifting in the shaft of light, “that this is ultimately the last trace the Saintess left in this world—if it were to be exhausted and forgotten in my hands . . . that would be far too regrettable.”

So what?

Is there truly no other way to replenish it?

I pursued through our mental connection.

“Best if there isn’t.”

She fell silent for a moment before responding.

This answer left me perplexed.

In my view, a power that could be wielded and utilized—naturally, the stronger it was, the better; what reason was there to resist it?

This doubt lingered in my consciousness, tossing and turning until I could not help but touch upon the core:

“Are you afraid?

There’s no need for that.

Since it’s a gift from the Saintess herself, it . . . well, though it may be improper for me to say so, it’s certainly no evil thing.

You can accept it with peace of mind.”

These words of comfort, delayed by five or six full years, felt utterly powerless and hollow even to me as I uttered them now.

They were like tea left overnight—no, not one night, but several nights, dozens of nights—and thus long bereft of their proper warmth and efficacy.

What unsettled me even more was this: I had thought that since my awakening, through the channel left by the Saintess, we had finally built a bridge of communication between us—no longer reduced to the initial fog-shrouded mutual guesswork.

Even if we could not be utterly candid, at least some degree of tacit understanding should have been achieved.

But was that truly the case?

Perhaps all of this was merely my fanciful illusion.

Not only that—in these days, I had even faintly sensed, through our mental connection, that her feelings toward my existence were gradually fading along with the restoration of the Saintess’s channel . . .

or rather, she had finally found another form in which to carry those feelings.

Why was that?

I had tried more than once to press the matter.

Yet whenever I brought it up, she would equivocate, hem and haw, then shift the topic or feign ignorance of my meaning.

This intangible barrier filled me with an inexplicable anxiety.

We remained at this impasse for half a year before I finally, helplessly, gave up the questioning.

She may have grown weary of my persistence, though my surrender was not entirely coerced.

I had my own considerations.

This was because Kritiya had always been the medium for the Saintess’s channel.

From the moment I awoke in the underground chamber, all communication between me and the Saintess’s remnant consciousness had passed through her.

In other words, without her, I could not commune directly with the Saintess’s awareness.

In the past, I might have sacrificed her without hesitation to bear the Saintess’s consciousness directly.

I had been blinded by hatred and the thirst for vengeance, willing to sacrifice anyone to achieve my ends.

But now, I harbored no such intent.

Her existence was no longer merely a medium, no longer just a tool to be discarded at will.

To me, she had long since become an independent, living individual.

I had no reason to sacrifice her.

I was no longer the man I once was.

I glanced at her once more, my gaze lingering briefly on her fingertips before shifting away to settle on the locket pendant.

Was this the relic left by the Saintess?

Submerged in water, the locket clutched tightly in her hand, as if it were her entire faith.

I could not help but wonder—why was that?

And why did I feel this way?

Our mental connection could never fully peer into the other’s complete heart.

I felt weary, even a touch of annoyance.

All my curiosity about this child had transformed into annoyance.

And this annoyance stemmed from the barriers and misunderstandings between us.

I even wished she would vanish from my sight, never to appear before me again.

That way, perhaps I could cease pondering these questions that left me perplexed and anxious.

I slowly closed my eyes, thinking inwardly that it was time to leave.

***

Habitually, humans are skilled at keeping secrets; even in solitude, there are always lapses in vigilance, and even death-sworn spies bearing grave confidences will seize any sudden chance to release their true selves.

But Kritiya?

I could find no outlet for her to vent.

After all, a specter like me, attached to her, was ever at her side without respite— one could say she had never truly had even a single minute or second belonging solely to her independent self.

Hm . . . very well, this is but human nature . . .

I tried to persuade myself in my heart, but upon second thought, had I not been just as evasive as she?

Especially regarding my soul, my past life, and the fate of this world—framed, absurdly, by some third-rate novel that had intruded into my memories—how could I possibly voice such a thing?

Just as Kritiya harbored her unspeakable sorrows, my origins and perceptions were destined to remain eternally sealed secrets in my heart.

Yet . . . whenever I tried to deeply empathize with her plight, to feel as she felt, a suffocating oppression would seize me . . .

If my existence instead burdened her with such a heavy shackle, then why, back then, had Kritiya insisted on awakening me?

Why would she choose to do something that seemed only to bring pain?

Kritiya sensed the turmoil in my heart, but her face showed no reaction; she simply went to bed at the appointed hour, tucked in the covers, and fell into steady sleep.

“Miss— the Lord, the Lord he—!”

The bedroom door burst open with a thunderous crash.

I saw that maid, ever a bit rash, now utterly beside herself as she stumbled into the apartment heiress’s boudoir.

Her wide apron dress trailed behind, swaying wildly from her frantic run, whipping up an untimely gust.

In the next instant, the young girl seemed to slam into an invisible barrier and halted abruptly.

She froze in place, her stunned gaze nailed to me, lips quivering uncontrollably.

And I, with my usual calm, met her stare—brimming with impropriety and disbelief.

“Speaking of which— hasn’t this maid secretly shortened her uniform skirt by a few inches again?”

My thoughts drifted for a moment, recalling the fleeting glimpse from earlier—beneath her panic-flared hem, the delicate flesh of her thigh root, wrapped tightly in black stockings, had flashed by.

Truly wondrous, no matter the worldview—be it fantasy medieval, post-apocalyptic wasteland, or distant alien stage in space—something like the silk fabric, a mere byproduct of my past life’s petrochemical industry, always seemed to find analogous substitutes.

Pity Kritiya seemed indifferent to such hosiery; I’d never seen anything like it in her wardrobe.

Of course, to be fair, even from a normal standing vantage, her hasty posture would never have afforded such a view.

The reason I gained this uniquely privileged perspective was entirely due to my current viewpoint, situated in an exceptional position few could attain—

“M-Miss! Y-You, this . . . doing a handstand on the floor, what are you doing?!”

Her shock-frozen mind finally thawed, words erupting forth with a tremor.

And I, nonchalantly, began to move.

My waist bent flexibly, legs descending like in a high-difficulty dance, landing lightly one after the other on the carpet; then, core engaged, my body extended fluidly upward, coming to rest steadily before her—as if I’d merely completed a routine stretch.

“You’re the one who burst in so rashly . . . into my bedroom, aren’t you?”

I arched a brow, a hint of irritation at the interruption as I eyed the still-shaken maid, while casually tucking the few strands of long hair that had fallen to my ear back into place.

“Why are you the one shouting like that?”

“S-Sorry, Miss! But you just now, in that pose . . .”

The maid’s wide-eyed, soul-shaken expression was so comical I almost couldn’t tease her further.

As for the reason for my handstand—simple enough.

Kritiya’s consciousness had not yet awakened; at this moment, it was only I who controlled this body.

I was merely seizing the morning’s brief tranquility.

After all, upon waking, Kritiya had grown from the tender child in my memories into a willowy sixteen-year-old maiden, her figure transformed beyond recognition.

This left my command of the body feeling both familiar and alien.

“Other aspects adapt easily enough . . . it’s just these two lumps at the chest . . . sigh, I really should have anticipated it sooner—no one stays a child forever.”

The maid stood right there, yet my peripheral vision couldn’t help stealing a glance at my own bosom.

Thankfully, Kritiya’s figure was still reasonably balanced and graceful; I could scarcely imagine the daily trials for more voluptuous ladies.

Come to think of it, this maid before me seemed rather generously endowed—could her usual clumsiness stem from that?

“M-Miss,” the maid drew two deep breaths, striving to steady her quavering voice, though her cheeks still flushed from the shock, “I am deeply sorry to interrupt you . . . but please, you must hear me out—the Lord has an utterly urgent matter on his hands!”

I furrowed my brow, a twinge of unease stirring: “What is it?

Is he summoning me again right away?

Didn’t I pay respects just yesterday?

Normally, it takes weeks to even glimpse him . . .”

“N-No— not a regular summons!”

The maid shook her head vigorously, hands twisting anxiously before her, her words tumbling out in near-incoherence:

“The Lord’s decree is an emergency order!

You must pack your belongings at once, immediately—all essentials to be readied by morning, with the carriage already awaiting in the courtyard by command.

The order is . . . no later than this morning, all preparations complete, depart without delay—not a moment’s postponement!”

Her words fell like a hail of ice, each syllable bitten with emphasis.

This sounded nothing like a casual outing—more like some hasty exile.

Flight?

Or banishment?

I cared not to enumerate other possibilities, only felt a faint chill creep up my spine.