“But she didn’t…” Yvette didn’t know how to respond.

  Had Martha posed a threat to her? She had merely been mentally unstable, not amnesic. She clearly remembered strangling Martha’s neck, feeling an overwhelming desire to utterly destroy the helpless girl.

  Her actions could at most be classified as an interrupted crime. But the Special Missions Bureau was not an organization that dealt in legal facts. What this represented was her humanity teetering on the edge, enough to send her back to the Sanctum for personality correction or judgment.

  “This individual refused to cooperate with your investigation and even cursed you with her venomous gaze. These facts are fully within my knowledge. Facing a descendant of an extremely malevolent entity responsible for the collective death of an entire village, it’s understandable that you would experience psychological strain. I suggest you take a walk nearby to relax. Once I’ve handled matters here, everything will return to normal…”

  The words “everything will return to normal” felt like a spell, reminding Yvette of what another version of herself had said in her dreams.

  [Did you truly believe you’ve never been here before? Yet you’ve forgotten it all. This time will likely be no different… Forget this place, forget me, and return to where you belong—continue being the gentle, kind, and beloved child you are.]

  Was it truly just that she had forgotten? Or had she stubbornly deceived herself into ignoring the claw marks on the tree trunks and the animal bones bearing teeth marks, pretending there were no beasts in the forest?

  With so many signs pointing directly at her—those strange dreams that wandered night after night, the inexplicably rising essence after each kill—why had she been able to act as if nothing had happened?

  Perhaps the real her had long been devoured by nightmares, sinking into the deepest recesses of memory. What now remained was but an amalgamation of countless dead souls, a twisted, monstrous patched-up creature.

  Even this very thought should not have been something a normal mind could conceive, yet she couldn’t help but entertain it.

  “You know that’s not the truth!” Yvette mustered all her strength, intending to unleash a scream of unbearable agony. But when the words escaped her lips, she scarcely recognized the hoarse, weak voice as her own—pale and frail, like the creak of an old, rotten wooden door.

  “Sir… The happiness of Eden is upheld through ignorance. But now that I know, even if incompletely, I can never return to how things were before. Like when you shatter a cup—no matter how meticulously you glue it back together, you can never again trust it to hold water…”

  Ulysses let the false smile fade from his face and listened in silence.

  “I apologize for concealing certain… oddities about myself for so long. The truth is, I’ve been plagued by dreams for a long time. They are often memories of those I’ve killed… and sometimes other things. Many of the leads I’ve followed in supernatural cases were guided by these dreams. For example, the earliest clue about the Hydra-affiliated secret society—I saw through Duran’s memories how he communicated with its members in that secondhand bookstore. Other dreams have also been verified, matching the experiences of those who died by my hand. Though the exact mechanism is unclear, I suspect I might possess some undiscovered soul-devouring phenomenon. Whenever I come into contact with their blood, it likely triggers it.”

  “Other possibilities exist. Your deduction alone isn’t conclusive. To my knowledge, a genetic condition among vampires bears symptoms strikingly similar to what you’ve described.”

  “You mean ‘Haemomancy Perversion’?” Yvette recalled Randall taking her to meet that elder vampire.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “I didn’t expect you to know the term. That bloodline should have gone extinct… Hmm. There’s a surviving descendant under Albion’s protection—I’m surprised they’re still alive. You met them? Your social connections are more fascinating than I imagined.”

  Yvette didn’t acknowledge his jest. Compared to what she had just confessed, this was trivial—akin to a serial murderer admitting to drunk driving in passing.

  “...It’s more than just the dreams. After experiencing their memories, my essence pathways expand in ways characteristic of soul-devourers. Even my own blood, mutated, carries strange properties.” She sighed, then turned to Martha.

  “You’ve always misunderstood me. I’m neither great nor divine—not the savior you imagined. I’m just like you—a life disrupted by extraordinary forces… Beyond that, I’m merely an ordinary, weak mortal.”

  Martha stared in horrified disbelief, as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “No! Why would you say such things? This blasphemes your dignity! Even if you claim it, I won’t believe it!” She clutched her head, muttering incoherently. “I understand! This is a test, isn’t it? You’ve clothed your divine essence in flesh so we may comprehend. You are the Messiah who brings us salvation—your words are truth. ‘Ordinary weak mortal’ does not contradict reality, for you sanctified me with your holy blood, making me white as snow and wool! Isn’t that proof enough of your grace?”

  “But you’ve seen it, haven’t you? The shadows of those you knew around me. Their souls should have returned to nature, yet they’re trapped within me—like prisoners of a demon. Knowing that, do you still believe I’ll save you?”

  “Of course!” Martha’s voice soared with manic fervor. “You are like the sin-eaters of Scottish lore—those who placed bread and ale upon the dying, praying before consuming them to bear their sins, cleansing their souls for heaven. Pathetic imitation! How naive—guilty mortals cannot absolve guilt, just as the penniless cannot repay debts! Only the flawless possess such power. I trust you utterly—as lambs trust their shepherd!”

  Martha gazed at her with rabid adoration. Any rational observer would see how profoundly unhinged she was—a mind lost to eldritch influence.

  “As you can see… She never threatened me. She is merely a victim of the aberrations within me. Nothing more.” Yvette’s voice was bitter.

  Ulysses studied her impassively before posing an unrelated question:

  “What are your thoughts on our organization? How do you assess the current state of affairs?”

  He made no effort to exclude Martha. To him, the deranged half-blood might as well have been a corpse—not because she deserved death, but because she was already, functionally, dead.

  Yvette sensed nothing amiss. Subconsciously, she treated Martha like the shades in her dreams—non-threatening, incapable of betrayal—though she refused to admit this consciously.

  Thus, she answered candidly:

  “I believe it upholds peace and justice, albeit concealing certain truths. But this is necessary—the power of the Old Ones is too perilous for human minds. Unleashing forbidden knowledge would arm the unstable and the malevolent, inviting catastrophe.

  As for the present… While supernatural incidents harming civilians occur, their scale remains controlled and largely undiscovered by the public. Truthfully, compared to threats like poverty, disease, or crime, the risk posed by the paranormal is minimal.”

  For a fleeting moment, an inscrutable aura flickered around Ulysses—particularly as she spoke those final words.

  “‘Threat posed by the paranormal’?” he echoed. “Do you consider yourself part of that category?”

  Yvette hesitated before answering:

  “...Yes. Once, I believed I was in control—that the dreams were mere hurdles in essence elevation. But now I realize I was wrong.”

  “So, by confessing, do you intend to surrender yourself to the organization?”

  “Before I lose myself entirely, it’s better than causing greater harm.” She bowed her head. “You’ve been kind to me, Sir. I apologize for failing your expectations… I hope this doesn’t burden you with negligence.”

  “What if your choice leads to consequences far worse than you can imagine—even irreversible catastrophe?” he pressed, each word deliberate.

  Ulysses’ piercing stare unnerved her. Finally, she muttered with bitter irony:

  “Worse than this? I can’t fathom it… It’s like handing a world-ending trigger to a madman—what happens next is left to fate.”

  “At least you’ve no delusions of grandeur—no dreams of godhood or dominion.”

  “Wouldn’t that hasten madness? No rational person could be so na?ve.”

  “Hmm?” Ulysses smirked. “I’d argue that you’re the na?ve one for believing that.”

  “...Perhaps my wording was imprecise. There may be weaker or more malevolent individuals in the organization, so it’s best left to seasoned, trustworthy professionals.”

  She thought of the Spindle in the Spire—a man of wisdom and foresight. Surely the higher echelons were like him, capable of mitigating the danger within her.

  “Such as the Sanctum’s sadistic voyeurs?”