Chapter 2: The Contract of the Evil God

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After waiting in bated breath for the patrolling butcher to walk away, Salser directed his summoned creature to absorb energy from other fresh corpses while responding to Jeanne’s inquiries. The inquisitor had too many questions, which hung an impatient expression on his face by the brazier.

With a trembling right hand, he flicked a lighter, sizing up the young girl before him with eyes devoid of admiration, only a cold scrutiny. The Scorcher, like a hunter’s trophy, was suspended at the top of the room. The orange light from the brazier illuminated her scar-laden limbs and the body that kept swaying slightly, as if moving in gentle waves.

If my observation is correct, she is quite knowledgeable about the contract made with Outer Gods. However, it’s curious why an inquisitor would be versed in such matters.

Salser surveyed the other's expression. "Are you done?" he asked.

"Done, checked everything off, grilled about every trap imaginable. Now, all that’s left is this surreal nauseating act—signing a contract with a Dark Wizard for some Evil God." Jeanne's face twisted in open revulsion. With her eyes half-closed, Salser could clearly see the flickering murderous intent within, "Please, can someone pour a bucket of cold water over my head? It’s a mess, a real mess. The urge to torch this vile parchment is uncontrollable, I’m losing my mind."

"Shh—quiet," he revealed a mocking smile in the darkness, "Meeting me, your savior, before being fed to the dungeon hounds? Consider yourself fortunate."

Her expression surprisingly synchronized with the Dark wizard's, "A sickening fortune, this is. Were I not the lead in this ludicrous play, I’d be cackling myself to death over the sheer absurdity."

Forget it, you will never see the end bickering with this woman. He shook his head, commanding the black mass to crawl out from the dark corner, up the walls, across the ceiling, and towards the shackles binding Jeanne's arms. Now, the prison cell is nothing but blanket of black ash—the things that were fresh corpses just minutes ago. The mossy walls were originally damp and eerie, but now they emit a dry, decaying stench, like an attic untouched for years, where a single step could stir up clouds of dust.

Then he saw Jeanne glaring at him with fiery eyes, her eyes expressing a fervent faith, as if white-hot flames were burning inside, "Don't let the minion of evil gods approach me, or I'll take you down with me."

All you can do is threatening to pull me down to hell.

Salser impatiently raised his eyelids, tapping his fingers louder. "Why must you be such a bother? Do you need your mom to come and give you a little kiss and cuddle before you’ll agree to come down?”

“I’ve been wondering the same—what’s with this convoluted contract of yours?” Jeanne taunted, her tongue briefly darting out to moisten her dry lips. “Just follow my orders, will you? You Evil Gods’ followers are all alike—mesmerized at the sight of a fair maiden, frozen in your tracks. It’s only the holy fire that can make you regret the day you were born into this wretched world.”

"First, I am not an Evil God’s follower."

Salser's right hand condensed energy into a long sword—a black-red sword that seemed to be burning, one could even see dancing sparks on the blade, as if it was just taken out from a blacksmith's furnace, "Secondly, whence comes your audacity to lay claim to the title of a fair maiden? You are naught but an illiterate peasant girl." He said, stabbing the sword at the shackles binding Jeanne, then forcefully flicked it, "Finally, to resign oneself to a docile compliance, only to be treacherously turned over to the Church as a condemned prisoner? I’ve always harbor skepticism regarding the existence of any bit of gratitude within a Scorcher."

Snap, the shackles broke. In the embracement of silence, the breaking sound was clear.

Salser took a step back, watching her fall to the ground like a tattered sack, raising surrounding black ash half a leg high.

He watched Jeanne prop up her upper body and slowly lean against the wall. From the Inquisitor's movements, it was clear that she was currently unable to move normally, let alone kill monsters and heretics.

"Ouch, that really hurts…" she grumbled, sitting up and blinking into the firelight. For a moment, a lively young girl’s spirit peeked through her tough exterior. “Got any healing to spare? I can’t tap into my Lord’s power here.”

“The intricate mazes of the dungeon's lower floors do scarcely provide passage to the Warren leading to the Temple of Light. Might this imply… that your presence here is, in essence, useless?”

“I don’t need any fancy enhancement spells to crush your neck with one hand, heretic,” Jeanne glared at him, seemingly angry at being called useless, “Inquisitors don’t live off spells. The heretics I’ve beheaded with my sword could fill a city.”

The raised black ash gradually settled, the flames danced, flickering, as if cunningly blinking their eyes. Salser's gaze swept over her waist, then over the dark corners of the room.

After scanning around, he frowned, "And your sword? Has it become a feast for the dungeon’s hounds?"

"..."

Jeanne did not answer, only showing an annoyed expression.

Very nice, I understand. If fate hadn’t guided my reincarnation into this body, you’d be naught but food for the dungeon’s hounds or mere ingredients to construct my spells.”

"Sign your name on this paper with your blood," he approached Jeanne, squatting down in front of her, handing over the ancient, gloomy parchment, "And in return, I shall furnish you with both healing and weapons."

"I've already said I can't read." She glared at Salser with a piercing gaze.

And beyond the obvious lack of literacy, there likely exists an innate repugnance towards the evil contract of heretics.

"This is truly delightful news," he said sarcastically without changing his expression, "Is it possible that you find yourself unable to write your very own name?"

"Ahhh, what's the problem with that? You're so annoying, are you some kind of buzzing fly?" She rolled her eyes impatiently, "Do I need to know how to read to uproot a heretic's den? To send heretics to the nail chair? To burn the followers of evil gods?"

"Very well, then I shall assist you in writing."

He said in a low voice and glanced at the cell door on the other side. The sound of footsteps echoed in the darkness again—this time, it was many small, crisp sounds, like finger bones tapping on a drum made of human skin, a dense and terrifying noise. He could imagine countless giant arthropods passing through the corridor—then, the tapping sound gradually moved away.

After a while, Salser held the girl's bony, wounded right hand and dragged it to the parchment—the feeling of the touch was like holding a piece of worn rag.

“What’s this rubbish? Why on earth do I have to hold hands with a heretic? What do I look like, a nursemaid from an orphanage? Are you craving a mother’s touch, or are you just desperate for a girlfriend? If I were your mother, I’d drag you to the Inquisition myself to be burned,” Jeanne frowned

"I, too, have no desire to hold hands with a Scorcher," he ignored the Inquisitor's weak resistance, "The souls wailing in your hands far exceed the materials I consume when casting spells."

Salser raised his long sword and made a small cut on her index finger. He noticed that Jeanne didn't even blink. Clearly, such wounds were as natural to her as breathing.

Jeanne lowered her head and began to examine the heretic's contract. Beside her hand, she saw several strange letters, glowing with blood under the firelight, imprinted on the parchment.

At this moment, a low echo sounded in Salser's mind—a sound that was definitely not made by human, and he felt an intangible bone-chilling cold rushing towards him like countless dull blades scraping over his body.

He knew very well that the Scorcher in front of him had heard the same thing.

"Accept it," Salser said in a low voice.

He saw her lowered her head even more, possibly trying to suppress the surging disgust—the disgust towards the Evil God whispering in her mind.

"Can you fucking hurry up?"

She seemed to make one last effort, nodding extremely reluctantly.

In that instant, Salser saw himself as a crow, a blood-red moon rising in the fog, countless rotten fingers sprouting from the ground like weeds. On the white limestone slope, a huge human silhouette crouched at the top of the cliff, with thousands and thousands of deformed demons swirling around it like black rotten leaves swirling in the late autumn wind; he saw dancing evil spirits with huge coal-black bodies, sometimes crawling sluggishly, sometimes running madly, sometimes mixing together like dough, sometimes scattering abruptly...

The elongated evil spirit played a morbid tune with a shepherd's flute made of human bones, its end connected to a squirming fat white mass, the skinned victims beat a rhythmless thumping sound on a drum made of their own skin, the spines pierced through the bloody flesh, with cheeks and limbs hanging from the top, waving like military flags in the cold wind...

No beginning, no end.

The manifestation of the Outer God...

The scene cut off, he lowered his head, and when their eyes met, he saw extreme confusion in the Scorcher's eyes. He also noticed the fingers on the ground—the broken fingers she had twisted herself, the pain from which had interrupted what Salser saw, and also what she saw.

Salser no longer paid attention to her, turned to retrieve the parchment, and stabbed a pitch-black long sword into the ground.

"......I've been defiled."

"The evil god would not deign to defile an illiterate peasant girl," Salser said indifferently, "Though, your self-perception is indeed commendable."

"I mean my faith has been defiled."

"Your great Lord will forgive you, Scorcher," Salser said without lifting his eyelids, "Besides, my mana reserves are presently meager, and the portion I can dedicate to healing spells is equally constrained. If you dare to mutilate yourself again, I'll break your limbs and pack you in a sack to carry you out."

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