Chapter 10: The Nun and the Blood Pact

“Before we start… how about I tell you a story?”

Evelyn lit a cigarette, shedding the gentle façade she’d worn until now. That gesture alone meant she was officially on the clock.

“I’m listening.” Cyril didn’t quite understand her sudden shift in demeanor, but he still nodded politely.

“I wonder… where should I begin?” Evelyn tapped her index finger lightly against her lips, feigning troubled thought. “Let’s start from the very beginning.”

“Once upon a time, there was a noble family wielding overwhelming power. They had a branch of royal blood, and even held a high position in the line of succession. For a time, they shone brighter than all the rest.”

“Until the wheel of history crushed them under its passing. The rise of technology, the changing power structures, and the emergence of new nobles slowly devoured the space this old house had to survive. Without realizing it, their royal-blooded line was already walking the path of ruin.”

Evelyn leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Their heirs grew weaker by the generation. By the time it reached the previous lord, the family’s decline was already irreversible.”

“So, that lord took a desperate gamble. He sacrificed his beloved wife to summon a demon from the depths of hell, naïvely hoping it would restore the family’s former glory.”

“But guilt gnawed at him… and he feared anyone might find out where he’d summoned the demon. So he sealed his wife’s cherished conservatory, forbidding anyone from entering it again.”

“Unfortunately for him, the demon he called forth didn’t revive his house. Instead, it cursed him, and he fell to a wasting illness.”

“After his death, that demon inherited his place as the head of the family — for it was also his only son. Pretending to be frail and sickly, the demon-spawned heir hid himself from society, and dismissed all the loyal servants who had served the household for years — all so he could conceal his true identity.”

Evelyn’s lips curved in a dangerously sweet smile. “Not only that, he secretly bred demons, not just in his mansion, but throughout Ingrey City — forcing them to possess humans and expand his influence. Am I right, young master demon?”

She paused deliberately. “Of course, that’s just my baseless speculation. If anything sounds wrong… please correct me.”

As she snubbed the cigarette out on the coffee table, a gleam of steel flashed into existence in her hand — a silver-barreled revolver, twin barrels aimed directly at Cyril. From those dark, hollow muzzles, the destructive power seemed primed and waiting, mere seconds from eruption.

“…Ah.” Cyril sighed and shook his head lightly. “Vivienne… she was a very pitiful girl.”

A strange response, seemingly unrelated.

“She was only thirteen when she came here.” Cyril spoke slowly. “Hardworking, always smiling… though timid. Every evening she would sneak away a dessert, saving it to nibble on during her night watch.”

“My father liked her very much. Unfortunately… it was the dirtiest kind of ‘like.’”

“After that night, she never smiled again.”

He pushed himself forward in his wheelchair, rolling to the edge of the coffee table. “I don’t know where she learned how to summon a demon. But she did. And she killed my father. In return, her soul was devoured by the demon, and her body became that demon’s vessel. She turned into what you saw earlier today.”

“I dismissed the servants not to hide my identity, but… to help her clean up the scene. To cover up her crime. I never expected she would choose to stay.”

Cyril’s black-obsidian eyes lifted to meet Evelyn’s. “Don’t look at me like that. I hated my father too.”

“As for everything else… some of what you said is true.”

He continued, “I didn’t raise demons. In fact, I don’t even like those things. The only reason they’re attracted to me is because of what flows in my veins.”

“My father did summon a demon to restore the Grien family… but the one he summoned wasn’t me. It possessed my mother instead. She was pregnant at the time.”

“The demon soon completely took over her body.”

Cyril’s fingers gripped the armrests. He began pushing himself upward — slowly, painfully — as if breaking chains no one else could see. Evelyn could even see thorn-like growths snapping and falling away from his limbs as he stood.

“The conservatory was sealed, yes. But not to hide the summoning ritual… and not because of guilt. That old monster was never capable of feeling guilt.” Cyril finally stood tall — and suddenly taller — his frail boyish image transforming into that of a pale-skinned youth with white hair and midnight eyes. “It was sealed because… that is where I was born. My mother died shortly after giving birth. And I… am a thing born from demon and human. Neither demon nor man.”

A blast of wild, storming air exploded from him, swirling outward in a violent shockwave. Curtains whipped like banners, windows rattled and slammed, and loose papers took flight like a storm of white feathers.

“This feels much better.” Cyril rolled his neck, bones cracking like snapping twigs. “Serra watched me grow up. All she ever wanted was to protect my secret.”

“But since you insist on uncovering it… I’ll just have to kill you here and now, Miss Nun.”

A flash of cold steel lunged toward Evelyn’s throat — a paper cutter blade, thin and ordinary enough to be overlooked. Clearly, he had hidden it in his sleeve before she even stepped inside.

Now, that mundane office tool had become a deadly weapon.

Clang!

Sparks burst in the dim room as the paper cutter was intercepted, its edge cracking jagged like broken teeth against the gleaming revolver’s barrel.

“Ahh. I get it now.” Evelyn hadn’t moved much — she simply raised her gun and blocked the slash that would have decapitated her.

“How about we play a game?”

She flicked Cyril’s blade away lightly. “If I win, you die. If I lose, I’ll leave you alone — and take your secret to my grave.”

“Hardly a fair deal.” Cyril smiled coldly. “Why should I accept it?”

“Because you have no choice.” Evelyn replied calmly. “The Church’s people are almost here. Don’t tell me you think you can kill me and walk away unscathed afterward.”

“Hahaha… interesting.” Cyril sat back down, crossing one leg over the other. “No one has ever dared talk to me like that. So… what shall we play?”

“These guns were custom-made for me by the underground gunsmith, Leonard. Neither demons nor humans can withstand their power.” Evelyn drew a second revolver and set both guns on opposite sides of the coffee table — one muzzle pointed at her, and the other at Cyril.

“She called them ‘Final Confession’ — weapons to physically end demons and spiritually absolve the corrupted. But personally, I just call them ‘Shut Up.’”

“You stood up earlier, and your strength and speed skyrocketed to the level of a high-class demon.” Evelyn rested her elbow on the table. “So we’re going to arm-wrestle. A mighty demon like you wouldn’t be afraid of a little contest with a mere human, right?”

“I am not a demon,” Cyril grumbled, but he placed his elbow on the table as well.

To anyone else, it looked like an ordinary arm-wrestling match. But both of them understood — the winner would seize the closer gun. And the loser… would be silenced forever.

His large, warm hand closed over Evelyn’s deceptively delicate fingers.

“Three…” Evelyn smiled.

“Two…” Cyril bared his teeth.

“One!”

The table groaned under the impact of inhuman strength.

As expected, Cyril’s power now matched that of a high-tier demon. Even with Evelyn’s body permanently enhanced by prayer — enough to easily handle the Shut Up revolvers — she could only barely hold a slight advantage.

“Tell me… aren’t you curious?” Cyril suddenly asked. “You look like you almost recognize me, but you can’t remember where you saw me before.”

“I suppose I did wonder,” Evelyn replied, maintaining her grip.

The stalemate stretched tight like a wire.

“Evelyn Níðhöggr,” Cyril sneered. “The firstborn daughter of House Níðhöggr. But since your mother was just a sickly commoner, your father’s house never acknowledged you. That old bastard planned to use you as a sacrifice — marrying you off to me to raise his standing among nobles, and maybe even gain a shot at the royal succession. We met long ago, before your mother died.”

Evelyn’s brow tightened, but she didn’t speak.

“Surprised, Sister Evelyn? You and your mother look alike… especially those eyes.” Cyril licked his lips like a serpent tasting air. “She used to visit with your father. She always stared at me… full of pity. Or was it fear? Did she never tell you? The young heir of House Grien — the monster?”

“Done talking?” Evelyn’s tone was flat.

“No shock? No outrage?”

“Why should I be?” Evelyn pressed his wrist a fraction downward. “You made two fatal mistakes.”

“One, the look in my mother’s eyes wasn’t pity or fear — it was disgust.”

“Two, maybe ‘Evelyn’ once cared about that woman’s opinion… but I’m not her anymore. Try all the little tricks you like — dredging up my past, my family — they’re useless on me. You want to distract me by calling me a monster? Pathetic.”

Cyril’s tactic was something she herself might have used — a psychological feint. But he had no idea: the “Evelyn” he thought he knew had died with her head inside a noose. This Evelyn had already left the old one behind.

Her eyes seemed to penetrate straight through him, down to the fragile soul hiding behind his fierce exterior.

Her smile held equal parts pity… and cruelty.

“You lash out with words like a frightened hedgehog flashing its tiny needles. Not because you’re angry… but because you’re scared, right?”

Her voice pierced his heart like an icicle. “You’re not afraid of losing. You’re afraid of winning. Because if you win — you’ll have to stand up again. You’ll have to leave this mansion-tomb and face a world you don’t understand.”

“You lock yourself in here, pretending to be weak, not because you’re frail… but because you’re cowardly.”

Each of her sentences hit like a bullet. “You’d rather play the sickly young master than dare become a real demon. You can’t even imagine what comes after winning… because your life has been reduced to one thing — hiding. Isn’t that right, Lord Cyril?”

She looked at him as though he were a trembling insect.

“Shut up!” Cyril roared, voice shaking with false strength. “Don’t look at me like that!”

Her words had hit the one part of him he had never dared face — fear of his blood, fear of destiny… fear of freedom.

Bang!

He lost focus for a fraction of a second — and in that instant Evelyn slammed his hand onto the table with explosive force.

“I win.”

A crack ran through the center of the thick wooden table — then split violently apart. The broken halves flipped like a seesaw, launching both guns into the air.

“I haven’t lost!” Cyril snarled, snatching one gun mid-fall and aiming it at her. “I’m not afraid to win!”

Two guns. Two barrels aimed at each other.

Cyril pulled the trigger first.

Click.

The empty hammer’s fall echoed like a mallet smashing his heart.

“I told you — if I win, you die. If you win, I walk away,” Evelyn smiled. The gun in his hand was the one Vivian had stolen earlier. Its two bullets had already been spent — she’d never reloaded it since.

Cyril had never had a chance.

Then her shot rang out — fire and thunder that shook the Grien mansion to its core. Two silver bullets tore through his revolver, and through his chest, shredding heart and bone into a gaping void.

The half-demon lord of Grien fell backward, his expression twisted into a comically betrayed “you tricked me” look.

“Well… that’s finally over.”

Evelyn hopped over the broken table and landed beside Cyril’s body, frowning as she plucked the damaged Shut Up from his limp hand.

“Now I’ll have to pay to get this fixed.”

She dabbed at the blood on the gun with her handkerchief, then grew irritated and kicked him.

“Look what you did — making my already-thin wallet even thinner!”

Pfft!

The corpse wheezed comically — then came the wet sound of flesh shifting.

“You’re kidding me!”

The “dead as dead gets” Cyril slowly sat back up. The cavernous wound in his chest was healing — skin re-forming in seconds, leaving him pristine as though nothing had ever happened.

“…Huh?”

She raised her gun again. “So hard to kill?”

BOOM! Two more shots tore through his chest — and one through his head for good measure. Yet again, he got back up.

“That hurts!” he whined.

“Tch. Regeneration,” Evelyn muttered, loading fresh rounds. “High-class demons do tend to have that… annoying immortality trick.”

There were ways to kill such creatures — but each method was unique to the demon. Without knowing the right one, death was impossible.

“I said it hurts!”

“And you’re loud,” Evelyn replied, firing another bullet into him.

Their standoff broke when a small winged creature flapped onto the windowsill. “Seventh Hall is here!” Pipjee chirped.

“Great timing — of course it’s now,” Evelyn cursed. This would complicate everything.

If the Church learned Cyril was a half-demon and the mastermind behind the possession cases, someone from the Seventh Hall could steal her credit — and her promotion to the Choir would vanish. Many in the Church already hated her and wanted her gone.

She could not let them learn this secret.

She had to hide what he was — and keep him under control.

Engines rumbled outside — the sound of old cars shutting off. They had arrived.

No more time.

“This might hurt… bear with it!” Evelyn hissed.

With no better option, she rushed to Cyril’s side, snatched the paper cutter, and slashed her wrist — then his — without hesitation. Cyril yelped at the sloppy cut.

Their blood dripped together and spread on the floor, forming a complex sigil.

A Blood Pact — a contract that forcibly binds a demon as a familiar.

Fast, convenient, and completely ignoring the demon’s consent.

But temporary — only seven commands before it dissolved.

And the price… was always steep.

Terrible deal. Always.

Binding Pipjee, a worthless familiar, had cost Evelyn the ability to ever cut her hair again — a “small” sacrifice that, to her, had felt like the world collapsing.

And now she was binding a half-demon of high-class strength with an emergency pact… who knew what price she’d pay?

A red burst of light flashed.

The price began.