Yvette saw the young girl gazing at her with expectant eyes. Martha's expression was foolishly devout and pious. Anyone who met such eyes would not doubt their sincerity. Moreover, connected through blood as a medium, some bond had formed between their souls. After the disappearance of her other self in the dream home, Yvette could already sense this connection. She did not believe Martha was lying, just as a sane person never deludes themselves into thinking a piece of furniture wants to murder them.

  But this was wrong.

  Martha’s heart pounded wildly as her eyes greedily devoured every detail of her generous benefactor. Nothing enthralled her more than that faintly melancholic, distant gaze—those long, beautiful fingers resting idly on the trigger, as if they might pull it at any moment. Then, a sacred seed, personally loaded by him, would be planted in her skull—like the union of sperm and egg—granting her a brand-new life.

  The mere thought of such an exhilarating possibility made her dizzy with excitement.

  After enduring the longest few seconds of her life in anxious anticipation, the barrel of the gun above her head was finally lowered. Her master asked lightly, with a hint of mockery:

  “You think you came to me… of your own free will?”

  Martha’s eyes widened in disbelief. Yet Yvette did not look at her, nor did she expect an answer.

  This puppet, enthralled by the unholy force within her, had already had her mind twisted beyond repair. There was no point in questioning her. Yvette was only interrogating herself. The signs Martha displayed were excessive even for a follower of the eldritch. What exactly was she now?

  Human? Or a monster?

  “Of course!” Martha answered eagerly. “Never in my life have I felt such happiness! My soul has cracked open like a pod, and from within it blooms a flower—enlightenment brought by your words, the sprout of your divine grace! Through my shattered mind, love for you has emerged!”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “Killed? Do you mean people from the village or outsiders?” Martha seemed momentarily confused, unable to grasp the intent behind the question, but she quickly settled on a likely meaning. “If we go by the commandments, then I have broken the first, second, and seventh—disrespecting the true God, worshipping idols, and adultery. But the sixth, killing, I have not committed… Ah, I see! Someone as sinful as me, coming empty-handed to beg for your protection, is beyond shameless. I should offer you a gift! And what better gift than the other sinners from the village—just as fallen as I once was? A pure, sinless heart is the finest altar for a god. I will find one, cleanse his sins with blood, sacrifice his limbs, his head, his eyes, his liver, his entrails… until his debts are repaid, and then present his flawless heart to you. Though… I don’t know if anyone is left alive in the village. Would someone else suffice?” Martha giggled, stroking her scissors, her innocent lips speaking horrific words that sent chills down the spine.

  Suppressing her nausea, Yvette pressed on: “What happened in the village?”

  “Ah… that is our original sin, stretching back to our ancient ancestors. A disguised demon controls us, shackling our flesh and souls with filthy chains. We reincarnate in this tiny prison, trapped in an endless nightmare without beginning or end…” Martha’s answer was incoherent, and she soon broke into tears. “But destruction will come. And before it did, you saved me—shattered the iron bars, melted the shackles, and opened the sealed door for me. I swear to you, I am pure now…”

  She lifted her tattered skirt above her navel, revealing her body—her inner thighs bore dried bloodstains and clumps of flesh, as if something had torn at her organs from within, spilling fragments down her legs. It was a miracle she had managed to walk here at all. No wonder she had swayed unsteadily the whole way.

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  “The false god altered my womb and ovaries, turning me into a breeding ground for corruption. Only your miracle could rescue me from that abyss…” Martha’s voice trembled. “Do you wish me to slay the false god, to prove my devotion? But… its power is too great. I’m afraid… It’s not that I cling to this false flesh, but I only just found you. I don’t want to risk losing you and being imprisoned again…”

  “That wasn’t my intention. You mentioned earlier that no one in the village might be left alive. Does that mean the false god is killing them?”

  “Yes. We are born tainted by its foul blood. When we die, it devours us, then dresses us in new skins to be born again… In this cycle, it steals our memories and emotions, making them part of itself. Little by little, it gathers strength this way. I don’t know if your arrival startled it, but now it means to slaughter everyone at once—like a starving herdsman killing all his livestock in winter.”

  “You say it will devour everyone? Then what are those illusions in the fog?” From what little Yvette knew of the occult, the figures and voices resembled ghosts—like those said to linger in ancient battlefields where countless soldiers had fallen, or near reefs where ships had sunk.

  “After we die, the insects that live inside us consume our flesh. Our shattered souls remain in their bellies until they return to the false god for digestion. But this time, it woke them while we were still alive. Everyone except me has been eaten from the inside out, I suppose.” Martha explained with a sweet, girlish voice, utterly indifferent to the gruesome fate of her kin. “I don’t know why, but many insects died, floating up from the water. So the souls of the eaten linger there for now. But I imagine they’ll follow instinct and return to the false god eventually. On my way here, the dead called out to me, trying to lure me to join them. But I belong to you now—no deception can sway me. And so, I found you, my savior.”

  “If they’re calling for you, they won’t spare any living soul, will they? Do you know that man?” Yvette turned toward a shallow creek branching off the lake. A middle-aged man with wet hair plastered to his face was walking through the water with the mechanical steps of a sleepwalker. The uneven creekbed made him rise and sink—sometimes only half his face was visible, other times his waist.

  She hadn’t seen him during her stay; he likely wasn’t from the village. Moreover, unlike the spectral figures in the mist, his form was more solid—a complete spirit.

  “I’ve never seen him before, my honored master.” Martha’s pitiful eyes, like a puppy’s, pleaded with Yvette. “What must I do to earn your acceptance?”

  “Not today, and not here. You must live, if only to atone for your sins. There is no place for you in my abode.”

  At these words, Martha’s face fell into despondency.

  Yet another victim of this world’s omnipresent horrors… Yvette thought. Martha and her village had been tainted by an eldritch lineage from birth. What she called "salvation" was merely another aberration in human guise further warping her fragile mind. Yet even knowing she was mad, Yvette couldn’t bring herself to kill her—or let her die. Not just because she deserved no death, but because loosening the reins of her own humanity might cause her ethics to erode, step by step… leading to more casualties.

  Her dream home had no room for new additions.

  “I am… ashamed. But if even you cast me aside, where in this rotten world can I go?” Martha sobbed.

  “There’s a tent in a camp deep in the woods. Food for two weeks, money, and a horse tied nearby.” Yvette glanced at her bloodied legs. “Rest and recover your strength. Then ride to town and deliver a letter for me.”

  Edwin had left ample supplies. Leading Martha to the camp, Yvette penned a report for the Order, detailing these events. She herself had to stay behind—to prevent the ghosts spreading from the lake from luring more victims.

  Seeing a chance at redemption—and to serve her master—Martha perked up. “I’ll make haste!” She rifled through Edwin’s belongings, searching for suitable clothes.

  “…Shouldn’t you rest for your wounds?”

  “Hm? I feel wonderful! You may not understand, but losing my tainted womb and ovaries has left me lighter than ever. There’s a force flickering in my belly—like the sweet sting of holy fire. Surely your grace has replaced the rot inside me, turning this wretched vessel into a treasure chest.” Martha blissfully rubbed her stomach. Her face was paler than during their night in the wilderness—likely not just from blood loss.

  Yvette watched her silently. That smile was a blade to her conscience.

  She remembered the dream from her ascension—the slave who placed a crown of thorns on the Roman Imperator’s head.

  Perhaps it was for the best.

  My victim, my captive, my bait, my sacrifice… At least you can remind me not to err again.

  "Remember, you are but a mortal!"

  In the dream, the scarred slave had used the thorns and those stern words to pull the general back from the brink.

  But what of me? Do I still have the right to call myself human?

  “Use your judgment—but ensure my letter arrives safely. I won’t tolerate recklessness that jeopardizes my plans.”