The Star Sea and a Twisted Reunion

Allen’s consciousness drifted, suspended within an boundless sea of stars.

The night sky, untouched by light pollution, was of a breathtaking, pristine clarity.

Against a backdrop of velvet-deep blue, billions of stars, like a god’s spilled casket of diamonds, pulsed with a cold, eternal luminescence.

Allen floated, or perhaps lay, upon a subtly cool, almost ethereal “grassland,” gazing up at this utterly alien firmament.

There was no Big Dipper, no Orion, none of the familiar constellations etched into his memories from a previous life.

A peculiar tranquility, imbued with a sense of eternal solitude, enveloped him, his soul seeming to dissolve and scatter within this vastness, synchronizing with the very breath of the cosmos.

‘Was this the world after death?’

‘It seemed… rather beautiful.’

After countless cycles of death and rebirth, this tranquil world, uniquely his own, felt like a long-sought-after haven of rest.

****

At that moment, a figure materialized silently beside him.

A pure black gown draped a form so slender it seemed not of this mortal coil, while long, dark hair almost melted into the night, save for a pair of purple eyes, profound as captive nebulae, which shimmered with an inhumanly cold luster under the starlight.

She spoke to Allen, her voice as ethereal as the static of cosmic background radiation, indistinct yet like tiny hooks, gently plucking a hidden, forgotten chord deep within his soul.

The tremor was faint and distant, as though originating from billions of light-years away…

A sudden, bone-chilling coldness descended, freezing the starlight’s glimmer and Allen’s very thoughts.

“Go back… Your mission… is not yet complete…”

Finally, he distinctly heard her words.

‘A mission? What mission? Who are you?!’

‘Could this long-haired, dark-clad beauty be the legendary deity?’

Before his questions could escape his lips, a colossal force abruptly yanked him away from the sea of stars!

****

Allen’s eyes snapped open, his rapid gasps piercing the profound silence.

The biting scent of disinfectant replaced the cosmic chill, his gaze focusing on a coolly gleaming metal ceiling, where a soft, shadowless lamp served as the sole source of light.

He was clad in a blue-and-white striped hospital gown, an IV stand beside him holding a half-empty bag of dark red liquid, a clear tube connecting it to his arm.

‘A blood transfusion?!’

Allen instantly became mostly lucid.

‘This aesthetic is all wrong!’

‘Metal walls, a shadowless lamp, an IV bag… This was an entirely different dimension from the candlelit, herb-scented, flea-ridden medieval clinic!’

‘Could it be… had he finally died and returned to his old home, Earth?!’

“Ma… Master?”

A voice, weary yet filled with surprise, drifted from the bedside.

Allen turned his somewhat stiff neck.

Smooth black bob, a familiar maid’s lace headband, and those crimson eyes, now bloodshot and streaked with unshed tears—

Marianne.

She was slumped by the bed, clearly startled awake, with the creases of her sleeve still imprinted on her cheek.

‘Oh, still on the set of “Stellar Love Song,” not yet wrapped.’

‘But this scene… wasn’t it beyond the scope?’

“How… how long have I been lying here? Where is this? Has Livia visited?” Allen’s throat felt as dry as sandpaper when he spoke.

Marianne straightened up, rubbing her swollen eyes with somewhat sluggish movements, yet her gaze remained fixed on Allen, as if fearing he might close his eyes again the next second.

“You… you’ve been asleep for three days.” Her voice was flat, but a barely perceptible tremor laced its end.

“I thought… you wouldn’t wake up. This is the infirmary of the Heretical Inquisition. As for Miss Livia…” She paused, her gaze flickering for a moment. “She wanted to visit after hearing of your attack, but the Inquisitors… ‘politely’ prevented her.”

‘Excellent work!’ Allen nearly blurted out, forcibly suppressing the upward curve of his lips.

‘As expected of the Heretical Inquisition, capable of chasing the Phoenix Empress all over the map; this was truly fantastic news!’

Temporarily spared from Livia’s death stare, Allen’s spirit, which had been weighed down by the strange dream, instantly felt considerably lighter.

“So, we’re currently under the Inquisition’s ‘protective custody’?”

Allen’s eyes questioned Marianne—’You haven’t been exposed, have you?’

Marianne gave a barely perceptible nod.

“The Inquisitors said they need to question you once you’re awake. During this time, you cannot have contact with outsiders.”

She paused, then added, “I… requested to stay here on the grounds that I was the last to be with you and could provide clues and testimony.”

Allen raised an eyebrow.

Honestly, Marianne’s decision surprised him, even moving him somewhat.

Logically, Marianne didn’t need to get involved in this mess; the suspicions surrounding her were far fewer than those on Allen.

By staying, she would instead become a prime target for investigation.

As a former member of the Scarlet Spiral Cult, she might be recognized by many cultists.

If the Heretical Inquisition were to extract any information from captured cultists, Marianne would be in grave danger.

However, Allen understood those fanatics.

They viewed the world as a prison and death as liberation; they would never give the Heretical Inquisition the chance to capture them alive.

The only reason they remained in the mortal realm was to “liberate” more people from their cages, and to achieve this, they had to endure suffering while alive, striving for the “liberation” of all humanity.

This sentiment of “killing them, yet truly loving them” was likely something only these cult fanatics, who held no regard for human life, would utter.

The doctrines of the Scarlet Spiral Cult readily attracted individuals with deep-seated trauma and self-destructive tendencies.

Allen had once been such a person.

In one particular timeline, he was utterly consumed by the desire for revenge, which propelled him to the rank of “Abyssal Walker” within the cult at rocket speed.

Yet, even then, he was still defeated by Livia.

Awakening from his madness, he discovered that the cult’s leader, a Star Listener, intended to blood-sacrifice the entire capital city to gain the power needed to defeat Livia.

Allen’s lingering humanity triumphed over his thirst for revenge, leading him to betray the leader, purge the cult, and ultimately achieve a gratifying death.

After that, Allen had no desire to be involved with the cult ever again.

He would rather face death honorably as a mortal than cling to life through indiscriminate slaughter.

He was a villain, not a madman.

‘How bad could the worst of cannon fodder really be?’

Allen’s relationship with Marianne was not yet so profound that they would sacrifice their lives for each other.

Her willingness to brave the lion’s den for Allen, disregarding her own safety, could only indicate that a self-destructive impulse still lurked within her.

Stepping out of the shadows of the past was never an easy feat.

Allen understood Marianne, but understanding did not equate to approval.

“Marianne,” Allen said, his voice softening immensely as he looked into the black-haired maid’s weary yet unusually focused eyes.

“Thank you for staying here. I know how difficult it must be for you to remain by the side of a scoundrel like me.”

“But following me will only lead to endless despair and darkness. I hope I can bear the weight of that darkness for you, giving you the chance to return to the sunlight, to find Livia, and to live the happy life you deserve.”

“Therefore, please leave my side. The Inquisitors shouldn’t trouble you. I can handle things here alone.”

‘Sever! I must sever ties immediately! Marianne needs to go find Livia, recognize her, and elope, leaving me a path to survival!’

However—

“No!”

Marianne’s reaction far exceeded Allen’s expectations.

She lunged towards the bedside, her hands gripping the sleeve of Allen’s hospital gown with desperate force.

She looked up, her crimson eyes swirling with an intensity Allen had never witnessed before—

Not hatred, not revulsion, but a vortex mingling fear, despair, and a twisted attachment.

“You said!” She appeared utterly broken, yet was somehow forcibly pieced together by a peculiar obsession into a semblance of pleading.

“You said we were destined to be entangled, ’til death do us part! You must keep your word!”

Clutching him like a lifeline, Marianne’s trembling fingers almost dug into Allen’s arm.

“All the pain, all the torment, don’t you dare try to bear it alone! You’re not allowed to leave me! And you’re absolutely not allowed to die! If you dare to die…”

She leaned close to Allen’s ear, her warm breath caressing his skin, yet her words were bone-chillingly cold.

“I’ll die with you! I mean it!”

Allen: ‘???’

‘Sweat, it instantly poured down! Physically, he was drenched in cold sweat!’

‘What was happening?! Had he picked up the wrong script? What happened to the mutual hatred, mutual exploitation?’

‘What was with this overwhelming Yandere vibe?!’

‘Was this the legendary Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Had his previous psychological attacks been too forceful, directly burning out her CPU?’

‘It’s over, it’s over! If the player lords saw the official childhood sweetheart saying lines like “If you die, I die with you” to the villain, wouldn’t the game’s rating instantly plummet through the earth’s core?’

‘This wasn’t just a plot hole; the very nature of the game had changed! Pure love turned into NTR, who could possibly endure that?’

‘Pulling off this level of deception, the production team of “Stellar Love Song” would likely be nailed to a pillar of shame, never to rise again!’

‘This was definitely the world’s malice!’

‘This wasn’t just Marianne becoming a Yandere; this was her dragging him down for a mutual destruction!’

‘If Livia were to see her pure, innocent love interest become like this…’

Allen could almost visualize himself being blasted to dust by Livia, his save point vaporized along with him.

‘Calm down! Allen de Laval!’

‘The chasm of an initial negative one thousand favorability was an objective reality!’

‘The possibility of Marianne developing positive feelings for me was absolutely zero!’

‘This was just a trauma response, an illusion!’

‘Yes, it must be!’

‘The immediate priority was still to bring her and Livia together!’

Allen forcibly suppressed the turbulent waves in his heart, forcing a bright, sunny smile onto his face, even giving a thumbs-up, his voice deliberately loud.

“Don’t worry! Until I personally witness you and Livia achieve your destined union and reach your perfect ending, my life is tough; I absolutely won’t die! I’m your guardian angel of love, after all!”

“…”

Marianne did not respond to his grand words; she simply loosened her tight grip silently and sat back in the chair.

Her head was bowed, her wispy black hair obscuring her eyes, making her expression unreadable.

Yet Allen could sense that the intense emotions radiating from her had not dissipated; they had merely settled, transforming into something thicker and heavier, permeating the space between them.

****

Allen, however, was unaware that during his three days of unconsciousness, Marianne had actually seen Livia.

It was a brief encounter, right at the heavily guarded entrance of the Heretical Inquisition.

The golden-haired, blue-eyed maiden was even more radiant than Marianne remembered.

Clad in a luxurious gown, her demeanor noble and confident, she was a stark contrast to the country girl Marianne remembered, who had once fought thugs for her on the borderland grasslands.

Blocked by the Inquisitors, she could only communicate with Marianne, who was hidden in the shadows behind the door, speaking against the bright sunlight.

“Are you Master Allen de Laval’s maid?” Livia’s voice was gentle and polite, carrying just the right degree of detachment.

“It’s our first meeting. I am Livia von Stern. Thank you for looking after my fiancé.”

‘First meeting?’

In that moment, Marianne’s heart felt as though it were clutched by an icy hand, the pain so intense she could barely breathe.

‘She… didn’t recognize me?’

‘Or had she simply forgotten me?’

Allen’s words thundered in Marianne’s mind—”She might deliberately pretend not to know you; please don’t expose her, she has reasons for doing so.”

Allen’s prediction had come true, yet Marianne still found it hard to believe.

Livia’s gaze and tone were so unfamiliar that they sent a shiver down her spine.

Marianne lowered her head, looking at her own sufficiently elegant and beautiful maid’s uniform.

This attire represented not only the dignity of the nobility but also her own class and status.

As a child, she had only worn rags discarded by adults, but now, she possessed such a beautiful dress, one that was truly hers.

The maid’s life, which Marianne resented and considered miserable, was in fact something her past self, and countless impoverished people struggling on the brink of destitution, had only dreamed of.

‘Why had she forgotten this?’

Marianne had served nobles for so long that she had developed a pride that should not have been hers—

Though a maid, she was also a part of high society.

In reality, however, she was no different from the impoverished village girl she had once been.

As a commoner in the eyes of the nobility, she was ungrateful, blind to her own status, and even more despicable than her scoundrel master.

The sunlight was too dazzling; Livia’s exquisite face became so blurry, so distant in her vision.

Marianne suddenly recalled that even when she was still wearing rags, Livia had never lacked proper attire.

It turned out that, even then, a pitiful, thick barrier had already stood between her and Livia.

The countless anticipated reunions had brought not joy, but a numbness akin to a definitive death sentence.

Insecurity, pain, and self-doubt engulfed her like a relentless tide.

She didn’t even dare to meet Livia’s gaze, her eyes darting away in shame.

Livia was a hero with an intense sense of justice; her eyes could tolerate not the slightest hint of evil.

No matter how formidable the enemy, she would unhesitatingly step forward to save those who needed saving.

But Marianne was not worthy of being saved.

She was a genuine former cultist, her hands stained with filth (though ultimately, not literally).

That future, where she stood side-by-side with Livia, living openly and honorably, had long vanished without a trace.

She had lost the courage to walk towards the light.

This scoundrel master, whom she had once utterly detested, this man who had seen through all her disgraces yet still offered her a twisted path to survival, had become the only driftwood she could grasp while drowning.

She loathed him, loathed this mutually tormenting relationship, loathed the darkness he brought.

Yet, ironically, it was precisely this darkness and torment that provided her with a morbid sense of “safety.”

As a fellow sinner, Marianne did not need to pretend to be pure and innocent in front of Allen.

It was precisely because of their mutual torment that this unredeemed pain would be replaced by other pains.

This was precisely what Marianne needed.

In this boundless darkness, she was not alone.

She could no longer leave Allen.

Allen did not notice the complex emotions churning in Marianne’s eyes, almost threatening to swallow him whole.

Having successfully established his “guardian of love” Flag, and believing he had narrowly escaped a predicament, his attention quickly returned to the abnormal details of the hospital room.

‘Blood bags… shadowless lamps… metal walls… sterile environment…’

A sense of incongruity slithered up his spine like a cold snake.

Undoubtedly, he had lost a significant amount of blood, and the Heretical Inquisition had saved him with a transfusion.

In this medieval society, which still adhered to bloodletting and was dominated by old Western medicine, how could such modern blood transfusion therapy exist?

The prerequisite technologies for blood transfusions—blood compatibility and blood types—were discoveries of the early 20th century!

As for the plastic bags, IV tubes, sterile techniques, and electric lighting that Allen was familiar with, none of these should exist in this era!

The Heretical Inquisition… or rather, the Church behind them… was definitely hiding something!

Clearly, their scientific technology had actually reached near-modern levels!

‘Was this right?’

Allen’s transmigrator brain worked at high speed.

If the various settings in the original “Stellar Love Song” that surpassed the medieval background were merely a reflection of the creators’ lack of historical knowledge.

Yet Allen had endured countless cycles in this so-called game world, and he knew very well that while this world had highly fantastical elements like crests, on a societal level, it still followed the most basic laws of historical development.

Crests weren’t so magical as to allow the underlying technology tree to leap forward out of thin air!

The secrets hidden beneath the Church’s veil of mystery were likely even more astonishing than he imagined.

He suddenly looked up, his sharp gaze piercing the mirror-smooth metal wall opposite him.

‘Were eyes watching him from behind that wall?’

According to classic tropes, the answer was usually—Yes.

From the moment Allen notified the Heretical Inquisition, there was no turning back.

He had unhesitatingly made the perilous choice, one with only a slim chance of survival, to stay and fight the cultists to the death, rather than attempting to escape.

Only by doing so could he truly draw the Church’s serious attention.

This was a risky move.

‘How could Allen know about a cult stronghold that even the Church was unaware of?’

This point alone made Allen sufficiently suspicious, and he had no reasonable explanation to offer.

The only thing he could do was solidify his claim of receiving divine revelation.

However, doing so would only make his situation more dangerous.

Compared to openly rebellious cultists, he, who paraded under the banner of God to deceive and swindle, was undoubtedly a far more dangerous heretic.

The probability of him leaving the Heretical Inquisition alive was minuscule.

Even so, he had to seize this slender thread of hope.

Minuscule did not mean zero.

To be a charlatan, the most important thing was psychological fortitude.

To fool others, one must first fool oneself.

‘That’s right! Allen’s countless cycles of reincarnation must be a test from God!’

‘This was a true miracle that even the Church couldn’t explain!’

‘He prayed to God, and God granted him a temporary cheat—wasn’t that enough to show God’s favoritism towards him?’

Those who are favored always act with impunity.

‘What right did the Heretical Inquisition have to condemn someone like him, who constantly experienced miracles and received divine grace?’

Allen stopped pretending entirely.

A smile, best described as that of a “sunny and cheerful boy,” spread across his lips, and he raised his non-IV arm, vigorously and energetically waving it towards the empty wall, as if greeting an old friend.

“Yo! My dear friends, you’ve worked hard! Thank you for saving my life!”