Why hadn’t she truly died back then? Why had fate arranged for her soul to enter this chaotic, unfamiliar, and phantasmagorical world once more? She could feel it—night after night of eerie dreams, along with the growing multitude of figures crowding her consciousness. Their hollow, hungry eyes were fixed upon her, and under their insistent whispers, the last vestiges of her humanity withered away with time. She became increasingly aware of a deep-seated fear of falling; in comparison, even the pale hue of death seemed less dreadful.

  Had it been Ulysses, he would surely not have been so discomposed by the temptations of her dreamscape.

  That was what Yvette thought. Yet when she voiced this, Ulysses did not immediately respond. Was he judging the truthfulness of her words, or was he genuinely considering her proposal?

  A tottering soul.

  That was what Ulysses thought.

  Anxiety and despair had encircled her, inflicting constant torment, while the inescapable sense of alienation—common to those who transcended the mundane—plunged her into boundless solitude. Her spirit was dying.

  Helpless beauty in a woman often stirred a man’s pride and protective instincts. But Ulysses lacked such impulses. He could discern beauty—yet this was a rational judgment, not an emotional response, much like how humans knew the number 100 was greater than 99. As for which number was more sensual—well, only a few deranged minds possessed such discernment.

  In the Greco-Roman era, people admired women robust as youths. Carried by the tide, he, too, considered them beautiful.

  In the present age, the preference shifted to fragile women with waists so slender they seemed barely graspable. Nodding along, he now deemed them the standard.

  Yet all this merely served as a veil over his alien and detached nature. More often than not, he donned these disguises to blend in.

  Ugliness and beauty were concepts he lacked subjective opinions about, but that did not mean he had no standards at all. There were certain individuals who stood out from the rest of humanity—people worthy of notice.

  History was rife with heroes and wise rulers crowned with glorious titles, exalted in poetry, wielding power far beyond the ordinary. Yet they fell to corruption faster than most. Compared to them, the obscure, forgotten "Fate" who had dissolved into bubbling fat in a great fire left a far deeper impression. Now, this girl before him evoked the same feeling.

  Strong will? No, compared to that one, she was undoubtedly fragile.

  Torn between despair and timidity, she wavered. Unlike others who lusted for power, wealth, or immortality, her suffering stemmed from self-loathing. She often delivered scathing critiques and merciless mockery with haughty elegance, her sharpened words making her revised writings provoke strong reactions—yet she never excluded herself from the targets of her scorn. If anything, deep down, the person she despised and negated most was herself.

  She deemed herself weak, cowardly, and unworthy of trust—yet, against all odds, she had persisted this long. Like a fruit dangling precariously from a tree, seemingly ready to drop at any moment, only to cling on stubbornly even after a hurricane.

  A paradoxical and fascinating creature. One could hardly resist watching, wondering when she might finally fall.

  Yet, in such a state of disarray, she had somehow arrived at the correct conclusion—which even Ulysses had not anticipated.

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  Indeed, every gift came with a price. But she was a unique merchant, and thus the gods would be especially generous with her.

  She was worth the cost.

  Ulysses had seen others—transcendents who embraced grotesque Outer Gods. Once they obtained what they desired, they were overcome with joy, believing their earlier resistance had been foolish, cursing themselves for not surrendering sooner as the monsters’ thralls.

  And what He offered was bountiful. The price? Merely something she could never reclaim—something she had already lost. Would she, like the others, rejoice over the riches gained from this transaction?

  Or would she regret it? Would she spend eternity drowning in self-inflicted hatred, malice, and remorse?

  This time, it was Ulysses who hesitated.

  He was not human. He did not understand human thoughts. In the end, he resolved to leave the choice to her. Though this seemed neutral, from his perspective, inaction was tantamount to betrayal.

  But that hardly mattered. Just as the protein shell surrounding genetic code could betray the instincts etched within, he had defied the will of the Sleeper more than once.

  Having made his decision, Ulysses exhaled slowly and spoke: "I’ve been thinking just now. About how to handle this matter…"

  "And?"

  "I admit that, at one point, certain thoughts did cross my mind. Such as killing you here, disguising it as a misfortune in the line of duty—then no one would know what I gained from you." His tone was steady; this was no empty threat. "For me, it would be easy. I can fabricate a cause of death effortlessly. The higher-ups owe me, and I could easily bargain for reduced scrutiny."

  Yvette’s lips parted slightly in surprise.

  "Shocked? Then why aren’t you afraid?"

  "I never doubted I’d meet a violent end someday. The strange space within my soul is hardly simple. When I proposed this, I already accepted every possible means of separating from it—and all the consequences that might follow. In fact, I’ve made some arrangements for my afterlife. Like packing for a trip, ready to depart at any time..." She spoke of her death with eerie calm. "I’m just surprised. Sir Ulysses, you’ve always seemed so unaffected, so effortlessly in control of the side effects of supernatural forces. It’s hard to believe..."

  "That even I could fall under its sway, left powerless?"

  Yvette nodded. "I’ve considered similar things before. Whether you might expose my secrets, wishing you’d never speak... Now..."

  She left the rest unsaid, but she knew—somehow, learning Ulysses had contemplated killing her brought her an odd sense of relief. If he had entertained such dark thoughts, then perhaps she wasn’t irredeemably vile herself.

  But she quickly recognized this as just another layer of her own wretched nature, and silence reclaimed her.

  "Shall we call it even? There may never again be another conversation so peacefully discussing I once thought of killing you." Ulysses joked dryly. "I’m glad you trust my rationality so much. But here, I must concede defeat. I admit I cannot resist its temptation. Even the mere thought nearly led me into an irreversible disaster."

  "Is there really no one else—?"

  "If you hate someone enough, by all means, try this method. I guarantee they’ll swiftly surrender and become an Old God’s puppet." His words carried weight. "Do not underestimate the lure of immortality. Even Bishop Lorenzo—a man of iron faith—fell to it. You’ve done well enough. At least you have no interest in eternal life. That is the sturdiest shield against it."

  No interest? More like exuding an aura of self-annihilation.

  Ulysses added inwardly.

  After a pause, Yvette hesitantly stretched out her hand. "I can’t promise anything... But if you think I’m capable—I’m willing to try. Just... watch over me. If you see even the slightest sign of it changing me... before the point of no return..." She swallowed. "Kill me."

  Ridiculous humans. Mistaking duckweed for a life-saving raft.

  No, perhaps worse—not even duckweed, for duckweed at least existed, whereas he was but a fleeting illusion.

  So Ulysses mused—but her outstretched hand defied his resolve.

  [My heart belongs only to you.] [I swear upon my soul to pledge you my loyalty.]

  He had heard too many oaths. Humans believed in vows, yet broke them just the same. If promises were meant to be broken, what harm was there in false ones?

  She ought to know another’s words weren’t always trustworthy, so—

  Thought moved faster than anything, yet before his sluggish mind could finish deliberating, his hand had already clasped hers.

  "I promise."

  A kind lie.

  Yvette thought.

  I am untrustworthy—a coward. If that day ever comes, I’ll die where you can’t see me. Spare you the guilt.

  Until then, I must live. I must live gladly.

  The warmth in her palm steadied her. For now, at least, the watching eyes in her dreamscape no longer chilled her to the bone.