Chapter 9: What is Your Wish?

Bel made a disgusted face.

“Ugh, those things look so f*cking unappetizing.”

“…”

Lema unconsciously touched his chest.
At least it was a relief she didn’t just eat anyone.

…No, wait—that’s not the problem!

“Master! Didn’t you say we were looking for the women?”

“Ah, that’s right. We have to go quickly. Baby, is it over there?”

Baby?
Did she just call him baby?

Lema Valkite’s body had grown rapidly since childhood.
At any age, he was bigger than his peers—his growth, strength, and stature had been a source of pride for his noble family.

The reason he hadn’t broken even after being enslaved…
The reason they’d had to cut his tendons, overdose him with drugs, even carve sealing patterns into him…
The reason his auction price had skyrocketed…
All of it stemmed from Lema’s massive build and battle-hardened frame.

He might’ve looked a little slimmer now from muscle loss, but damn it, he was not at the level where someone could call him baby.

What’s more, Lema had never even been called ‘baby’ as a child.
So for this small woman—a woman who didn’t even look older than him—to suddenly say that?

It was just baffling.

“…It’s Lema. You can give me a new name if you wish, Master.”

“Lema.”

“Yes.”

“You need to gain some weight.”

“…”

Something inside Lema twitched every time this woman opened her mouth.
It wasn’t quite the rage he’d felt toward the bastards who’d enslaved him…
No, this was something else entirely.

Is that really important right now?

He had that thought for a fleeting moment.

But looking at his master’s expression… it seemed like nothing in the world was important to her.

Not the men surrounding them.
Not the risk of being caught.
Not even the very real possibility of death.

That calm, blank expression of hers didn’t change.
No fear. No urgency.

Her tone when pointing out that he needed to “gain weight” carried the same weight as the men closing in with weapons.

It was eerie.

Her face showed no emotion.
Her eyes were flat, bored—like nothing in the world could impress her.

Only once had she shown any reaction.

When she looked at Lema and said he looked delicious—she smiled.

That rare expression was beautiful.
So much so that the contrast to her usual self made Lema stare without realizing it.

Thwack!

“Guhk!”

By the time he’d reached that thought, a third man had rushed Bel—and was instantly sent flying.

The crack of bones and the splatter of something bursting echoed from a single kick.

Lema had known he’d just be a burden in battle.
He’d planned to ask her to put him down when the time came.

But… he couldn’t.

She’s not human.

That was the chilling realization that froze him.
She was still holding him as she effortlessly dealt with these armed men.
It wasn’t just her superhuman strength.

It was the way she fought.

Lema Valkite had spent his whole life training to fight humans.
From noble knight training to life on the run after his family’s fall…
From street brawls to deadly encounters with slavers—he knew what it meant to kill.

He also knew how hard it actually was to take a life.

Even when your own life is on the line…
Even with a sword drawn…
Even in situations where killing was justified…

People still hesitate.
Killing someone—truly meaning it—requires a kind of decision most people can’t make easily.

But this woman—no, this thing—was different.

She didn’t just lack hesitation.
She had no concept of human life being something worth considering.

A cold-blooded assassin trained to kill?
No—it was worse than that.

She treated human lives like f*cking insects.

No… worse than insects.
Even bugs aren’t killed so casually.

Thud! Clang!

The men who had charged in blindly at first were now hesitating.
They had started to realize it.

The people she kicked? They stayed down.
They weren’t just hurt. They weren’t getting up again.

“U-uaaaagh!”

But of course, there’s always that one idiot.

Whether he hadn’t grasped the situation or just refused to believe it, one man charged forward in a fit of denial.

Bel, still holding Lema, jumped—lightly.

She spun midair and kicked the man with a drawn sword straight in the face.

Clang!

The sword didn’t even pierce her skin.
It shattered on impact.

The broken blade snapped up, dragged by her momentum, and sliced clean through the man’s neck.

Unlike before—when she’d just knocked people flying—this time his head actually came off.

Splaash!

Blood gushed from the stump.

The sharp metallic stench filled the narrow space.

“Hmm…”

Bel suddenly stopped.
And gently put Lema down on the ground.

Her posture was oddly… defenseless. Relaxed.

As if the show was over.

As if all that blood, gore, and death hadn’t been anything worth getting worked up about.

No one approached anymore.
Those who had been standing back, watching the bloodbath unfold, were now too busy running away to even scream.

Bel’s hand suddenly reached for Lema’s cheek.
She wiped away a splatter of blood with her fingers—then brought them to her lips.

“…As expected, not tasty.”

“…”

Lema froze.

It was only when her cold, snake-like hand touched his skin that he realized—he’d been trembling in fear all along.

At first, he’d simply thought she was slow.
Someone who wandered into dangerous places without realizing it.
Someone unaware of her own peril.

But that wasn’t it.

Whatever she was… she wasn’t afraid.
She wasn’t capable of fear.
And she sure as hell wasn’t something you could understand with human logic.

“Oh… you can’t leave.”

Bel’s tone was mildly annoyed as she raised one hand and made a beckoning gesture toward the fleeing men.

Whoosh—

An invisible blade shot out like a gust of wind.
Lema could barely sense it. A flicker, a presence—not even that.

“Guh!”

“Aack!”

Slice. Slice.

The wind-blade tore through them—clean and silent, like death with a whisper.

Men who had shown their backs were cut down with casual precision.

Bel strode forward, slaughtering them effortlessly.
As if fighting them hand-to-hand earlier had just been a warm-up. A game.

Lema couldn’t look away.
He should’ve, but he couldn’t.

It didn’t even feel real.

Especially when she walked up to a fallen man, cracked open his ribcage, dug out his heart—and bit into it.

Only to spit it out.

Ptoo.

The sound was oddly calm. Like she was tasting soup that wasn’t quite right.

Then, she turned to Lema and extended her hand.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

He couldn’t refuse.
Trembling, he reached out and placed his hand in hers.

But she paused.

“Ah. Before that.”

She grabbed his arm.

Gently, almost affectionately, she touched his severed fingertips… the jagged scars where tendons had been sliced… and the engraved holy patterns that glowed faintly beneath the skin.

“What’s this?”

“…That is…”

Lema swallowed hard.

Even if it hadn’t been Bel, anyone would be tense touching that cursed brand.

It was the mark of heresy.

The Holy Empire, twisted and self-righteous, didn’t always kill heretics outright.
No. That was too merciful.

Instead, they branded people like this—marked them, mutilated them, restrained them.

They forced them to live in pain until they finally killed themselves.

Indirect murder dressed up as righteousness.

“It’s… proof of heresy.”

“Aha. So Lema is a heretic.”

Bel nodded, as if that explained something obvious.

She didn’t sound judgmental.
More like she’d just learned a new vocabulary word.

‘She doesn’t know a damn thing,’ Lema realized.

That casual attitude stirred something strange in him.

“…Just because something’s widely believed doesn’t mean it’s true,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Even if the ones spreading it claim to be the absolute good.”

As soon as he said it, he flinched.
f*ck. Shut up, shut up!

But instead of anger, curiosity flickered across her face.

“Absolute good,” she echoed, as if testing the phrase.

Then she tilted her head.

“So, is what you want… to clear up that misunderstanding?”

She had heard him.
Every word.

Lema hesitated. He was about to speak—then stopped cold.

Her eyes—those pitch-black voids, so dark even the pupils disappeared—were staring straight at him.

And she said:

“Tell me.”

A chill shot down his spine.
Every hair on his body stood on end.

This being…
The one who had just eviscerated a dozen people like they were ants…
This disaster in human form was looking at him and asking.

“Lema,” she said again.

“What is your wish?”

It wasn’t a joke.
It wasn’t rhetorical.

She was offering.

Like a god.
Or a devil.

“…I-I once wished for it,” he said, his voice shaking. “But it’s impossible. My body’s already… like this.”

“Then… is what you want to return that body to its original state?”

“…Yes.”

“Good.”

And then—something impossible happened.

Her expression changed.

Those expressionless eyes curved ever so slightly.
She smiled.
A small, soft, terrifying smile.

And just like that—his entire body relaxed.
The fear that had been coiled around his bones vanished like fog under sunlight.

But in its place… something else stirred.

An emotion he didn’t recognize.
Not hope.
Not relief.
Something far more dangerous.

She held his hand for a while longer.

Then let it go, like a mother releasing her child’s hand after helping them stand.

She spoke again, gently:

“Then, let’s go.”

Lema stared at her back.

Her long silver hair shimmered, flowing like a silken cloak behind her.

He almost laughed.

That strange, stilted way she spoke that he’d thought was awkward?
Now it sounded kind.
Holy, even.

“What the hell is this…”

Lema looked down at his hand.

He didn’t understand.
He clenched his fist—then opened it.
Again. And again.

The tendons were healed.
His fingers were whole.
The cursed patterns—gone.

In the past, he would have fallen to his knees and called the name of the Supreme God his family had worshipped for generations.

But now?

Now he didn’t know what to believe in.

So he did the only thing left.

He followed his new master, silently, into whatever came next.