The First Contractor and a Sister’s Tragedy

#3

The man lay quietly, eyes closed, seemingly lost in slumber, though it was possible he was merely unconscious.

When Jeha had first encountered him after the summoning, the man’s limbs had dangled precariously, as if threatening to detach, and his entire body had been a gruesome tableau of blood and wounds. Yet now, he appeared miraculously pristine, without a single blemish. The abundant divine power emanating from his entire being suggested he had been meticulously healed through its sacred touch.

Jeha cautiously extended a hand into the mirror’s surface, his fingers brushing against the man’s cheek. Unlike the previous day, a distinct warmth emanated from the man’s skin. Jeha lingered, gently stroking the man’s cheek. The skin was soft, supple, and warm to the touch. Above all, it was undeniably human flesh. This realization stirred a peculiar, profound emotion within him.

“…A human.”

Jeha continued to caress the man’s cheek, his voice a somber murmur.

Only a short while ago, Jeha himself had been human. He had lived among other mortals. Were it not for that accursed previous Bellarossa, his life would have unfolded uneventfully. By now, he would likely be buried under a mountain of reports, blissfully unaware of such grotesque absurdities as Demon Kings or demonic races.

Regardless, the presence of a human before him evoked a strange sensation.

Since transforming into Bellarossa, he had never imagined he would encounter humans again. While he could, in theory, seek out humans if he wished, what purpose would such an encounter serve, given that he was no longer one of them?

As his thoughts persistently veered towards melancholy, Jeha deliberately forced his attention back to the man before him. He gently brushed the man’s silver-white hair and delicately traced the curve of his quietly lowered eyelashes. While the demonic races boasted fur colors that were equally rich, diverse, and even fantastical, this particular shade of bright, pure white was entirely new to him. Perhaps his status as a priest accounted for such a luminous and pristine hue.

“Why did a priest summon me?”

Jeha murmured, his fingers idly coiling strands of the man’s hair.

The man possessed strikingly beautiful and refined features. His pristine silver-white hair harmonized perfectly with his white priestly robes. An aura of immaculate beauty surrounded him. He was notably tall, and even in repose, his physique was one that Jeha, as a fellow man, found enviable. Given his apparent status as a high priest, he had clearly ascended to a significant position at a remarkably young age. Why would such a man, of all people, summon the Demon King? Why had he so brutally slain his fellow priests? Why had he laughed in such a manner? And why had he uttered those words?

“O, Demon King, please… defile me.”

As he replayed the man’s words in his mind, a peculiar itchiness spread through Jeha’s body. He scratched his arm vigorously. “Defile me,” the man had said. At the time, caught off guard, he hadn’t fully grasped it, but reflecting on it now, something about it felt… peculiar.

Jeha sighed, his gaze unwavering on the man.

Had he expended all his vital energy in summoning the Demon King? Or was he simply too weak to awaken, having narrowly escaped death? The silver-haired man had remained unresponsive for days. He had been transported elsewhere by the Holy Knights, and had since merely remained in a profound slumber.

Jeha had worried the man might face an ecclesiastical trial for summoning the Demon King, but it seemed the others were operating under a significant misunderstanding. They believed that the Demon King Bellarossa had wantonly appeared amidst a congregation of high priests and brutally massacred them. Consequently, instead of being confined to a dungeon to await an ecclesiastical trial, the silver-haired man was receiving meticulous care, resting comfortably on a pristine white bed within the temple. The chamber where he lay, lavish and exceedingly comfortable, spoke volumes of his elevated status.

Jeha harbored countless questions for the man. Yet, Jeha found himself torn: part of him yearned for the man to awaken swiftly, while another part wished he would remain asleep. He dreaded anticipating the awakened man’s reaction, the words he might utter. A tremor of fear also ran through him.

In Jeha’s current vicinity, only demons resided.

They worshipped Bellarossa, the vessel embodying a fragment of the Demon God’s power, the very embodiment of Sloth and Corruption. However, the man was human. From a human perspective, Jeha would undoubtedly represent the very axis of evil. While Jeha had accepted his new identity as Bellarossa, he knew that being rejected by a human, especially face-to-face, would inflict an immense psychological blow. For no matter what anyone might claim, Jeha had been born and raised as a human.

“Wake up soon. …No, you can wake up a little later, Hereis.”

Jeha softly whispered to his first contractor. He then gazed at the mirror in the air, reflecting Hereis, before closing his eyes. Though Hereis was not physically beside him, Jeha felt a profound sense of relief, as if the mere presence of another human being was comforting.

****

“Hereis.”

“Sister Anais.”

She was a sister who typically favored bright and elaborate attire. However, on that particular day, she wore a somber, unadorned black dress, as though intent on obscuring her own beauty.

“Is something the matter?”

At Hereis’s gentle inquiry, she flinched imperceptibly, her hands clasped tightly together. A moment later, a subtle tremor began to ripple through her body. It was readily apparent, even without a spoken word, that something was profoundly amiss.

His sister, her lowered eyelashes fluttering, finally spoke, her voice trembling.

“Hereis, no, Your Grace, I don’t know what I should do.”

Recognizing that she sought a priest, not merely a brother, Hereis nodded gravely. He then guided his sister into his private chambers.

Seated in the chair, his sister remained silent for a prolonged period. Hereis offered no urging to his sister, who appeared profoundly unsettled. It was only as the sun began its slow descent that his sister finally broke her silence, her voice hoarse and strained.

“…Count Astin forcibly violated me, Your Grace.”

At her shocking confession, Hereis sprang to his feet. However, the subsequent address, “Your Grace,” compelled him to temper his emotions and reluctantly resume his seat. What his sister desperately needed in that moment was not a brother, but a priest who would listen to her plight.

His sister’s narrative unfolded slowly, softly, in a hushed tone.

“After that horrific event, I found myself utterly lost. All I could manage was to confide in our parents. They, in turn, insisted we treat the matter as if it had never happened.”

“…Both of them?”

His sister nodded silently. Hereis clenched his fists, resting them on his knees.

“I comprehend. I understand the repercussions of revealing that I, a woman, endured such an ordeal…. My honor would be shattered, I would be condemned to a lifetime within a convent, and our family’s good name would be irrevocably sullied. I tried, truly, to forget it. But…”

His sister paused, then exhaled a ragged, tear-choked breath.

“I simply could not bring myself to deceive my fiancé. I lacked the courage to marry him while concealing the truth. So, therefore… I told him.”

“To Sir Albert?”

His sister nodded in confirmation.

Hereis’s mind conjured an image of his sister’s fiancé, Sir Albert. He was a boisterous, good-hearted knight. His nature simply wouldn’t allow him to tolerate injustice. Hereis closed his eyes, already anticipating the words that would follow from his sister’s lips.

“He… he immediately confronted Count Astin. I tried to dissuade him, but it was futile. The very next day, I received word that he had fallen during a duel. He had indeed slain Count Astin, but he too succumbed to severe blood loss.”

“…Lady Anais.”

“I am returning from his funeral.”

“Sister.”

Hereis reached out and took his sister’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold.

“Your Grace. No, Hereis.”

His sister slowly lifted her bowed head. Her eyes were glistening, yet no tears fell. Hereis recognized the stark truth reflected in his sister’s gaze. It was an abyss of despair, agony, and utter emptiness. It was the very same desolation commonly observed in those who, having fallen into the deepest chasm, sought final refuge within the temple walls.

“What should I do?”

His sister’s voice was dry, devoid of emotion. It sounded less like a question directed at him and more like a desolate murmur to herself.

Not long after, his sister departed from the temple.

Hereis found himself unable to detain her. His sister, declaring her intent to return home, wore an expression of resolute finality.

After bidding farewell to his receding sister, Hereis immediately penned a letter to their father. His sister’s state was deeply troubling. She required protection.

The night he dispatched the letter, Hereis found no sleep. The image of his sister, her figure frail and clad in a black dress, walking away listlessly, haunted his mind.

He offered fervent prayers to God. May punishment befall the souls of the guilty. May solace embrace the souls of the righteous. And may tranquility descend upon his sister, who was submerged in anguish.

The following morning, after enduring such a long and dreadful night, word arrived from the main household. It was the devastating news of his sister’s passing.

It was suicide. She had hanged herself, they reported.

His sister, who had once delighted in such lavish and beautiful attire, was said to have been found in nothing but a simple black dress.

His pitiable sister was denied even a proper grave.

God regarded suicide as the gravest sin. His sister, having committed an unforgivable transgression, was stripped of even the black dress she wore in death and cast naked into the pit for suicides. She tumbled, unclothed, onto a heap of rotting corpses. In accordance with divine law, not a single handful of earth was permitted to cover her remains. She lay there, exposed, to be scavenged by beasts and to grotesquely decay.

Hereis pleaded incessantly.

He ceaselessly petitioned to at least be allowed to bury his sister properly. He petitioned until he coughed blood, and he prayed to God. But it was all in vain. The blessings and love of God he had received since birth, his high status within the temple—none of it mattered before divine law.

Hereis descended into the pit of suicides.

He gathered and stole what remained of his sister’s body, her flesh long gone. Then, he buried her deep within the earth, in the heart of the mountains. He could not erect a tombstone, for her grave must never be discovered. The temple would undoubtedly use any means to find her remains and cast them back into the pit.