Yvette froze. Faced with Ulysses' retort, she found herself unable to refute him.

  Previously, due to the incident involving Bishop Lorenzo, she had been sent to the Sacred Penitentiary once. The psychic supernatural responsible for her "treatment" there had given her an extremely unpleasant impression—not because of any personal grievances or conflicts of interest, but because the man seemed to radiate a pure, unfathomable "evil," as if he simply delighted in tormenting others and inflicting pain without reason.

  After her release, Winslow had inquired about her condition with genuine concern. It was clear that he harbored no favorable opinion of the Sacred Penitentiary either, and Yvette had discussed it with him briefly. According to Winslow, psychic supernatural—especially those specializing in immersive memory-reading or mental connections—were highly susceptible to contamination of consciousness. By temporarily merging with another’s identity and experiencing their memories, the line between self and other could blur dangerously.

  To maintain a safe psychological distance from those they examined, such individuals often resorted to mental abuse, positioning themselves as dominant and in control. This was their defense against slipping into the personalities and memories of strangers.

  Hearing Winslow’s explanation, Yvette finally understood the source of that inexplicable malice she had sensed. To that man, she had simply been a source of contamination—someone he had every reason to despise.

  That said, Yvette didn’t believe she deserved to be mistreated under the guise of authority. She merely understood the reason behind his hostility. Their positions were inherently opposed. Next time, she wouldn’t be so quick to trust, even within the same organization.

  Now, Ulysses seemed to be implying that their organization wasn’t lacking individuals like that pallid-faced man from the Sacred Penitentiary?

  "If they were truly senior members of the organization, they should..." she began hesitantly.

  "If everyone were as selfless as you imagine, you wouldn’t have been sent to the Sacred Penitentiary in the first place," Ulysses replied. "I had been treating Spinster on behalf of His Eminence—Spinster, who is a junior of our leader, the Holy See. Out of gratitude, His Eminence could have issued orders to keep you out of that place. But for obvious reasons, the Council of Bishops made an extraordinarily rare decision that contradicted his wishes."

  Yvette was stunned. "What ulterior motive was there? What purpose did sending me there serve?"

  "Bishop Lorenzo lived over three hundred years ago. He was assassinated by a mortal during the Reformation. The Church at the time suspected foul play, and upon examining his effects, they discovered manuscripts he had been studying—works dealing with forbidden subjects that challenged the Church's official interpretation of the 'Messiah' in the Scriptures."

  That word—so familiar it was almost haunting. After defeating Lorenzo’s psyche, Yvette had dreamed of shredded paper scraps—perhaps the last remnants of his fragmented soul. Pieced together, they would have formed a short poem, one stanza of which read:

  ["■■■, have mercy on us! Grant us your grace, deliver us from the bonds of darkness, open the gates to your presence. We see that death does not touch you—save us, ■■■!"]

  The missing words—words she had once spoken in the dream, words the spectral dead in that nightmare house had called her, over and over.

  Messiah…

  "If I heard correctly," Ulysses murmured, glancing at Martha, who still sat weakly on the floor, "she just called you 'Messiah.'"

  "Koff… Heh… Outdated beliefs are like dust, like the froth of the sea. But I have found bliss beyond measure, for soon I shall enter my master’s radiant garden, freed in silent ecstasy." Martha met his gaze defiantly. "If you recognize her glory, then I will gladly testify—"

  "Quiet," Yvette cut in coldly—then stiffened, realizing she had just revealed that icy authority in front of Ulysses for the first time.

  A silence stretched between them, tense and heavy.

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  Ulysses knew exactly what she was thinking. And Yvette was equally certain he had noticed her abnormality…

  After a long pause, Ulysses finally spoke again.

  "…Ancient prophets left behind countless ambiguous prophecies, many of which spoke of a Messiah to come—a chosen one who would save the world. More than that, certain texts explicitly declare: The Son of Man shall sit upon His glorious throne, or The Son of Man descends amid thunder and lightning, and all angels kneel before Him. Such writings have been interpreted—deliberately—as something else entirely. Some among the supernatural even believe they describe a path to godhood."

  He exhaled slowly. "Such theories have long held a dangerous allure. From its very inception, the Church compiled unified doctrines to counter these heresies. The New Testament asserts that the Messiah has already come as the Son of God and ascended to Heaven—but among heretical and pagan texts, one can still find alternate accounts of the Messiah and other bizarre figures. In the Middle Ages, advocating such beliefs would’ve gotten you burned at the stake—publicly, at least. But whether clergy secretly studied them in private remains unknown. Ironically, many of the forbidden texts we’ve confiscated were authored by early monks—implying that while they destroyed pagan knowledge, they often kept copies for themselves."

  Yvette was stunned. After the Lorenzo incident, she had been interrogated repeatedly. Looking back, those questions had all subtly probed for details about the Messiah and those cryptic manuscripts. In other words, someone within the organization was deeply interested in Lorenzo’s research—even though it had once corrupted a high-ranking member. They still sought that secret.

  When she first joined, she had been warned: Knowledge of the Old Gods and primordial truths is dangerous. The overly curious do not live long. Never had she imagined that the organization’s own leadership—those who should have known best—would succumb to the same temptation.

  "They... they must know what this means—"

  "They do. Far better than you," Ulysses said coolly. "Because the higher one climbs, the clearer the view becomes. They’ve also witnessed countless predecessors struggle—and fail. Imagine: by the time they were your age, they had already seen their mentors lose the battle against the beast within. And then, ten years later, twenty years later—it happened again and again. It was inevitable they’d follow the same path. Since before recorded history, mankind has sought to crawl out of the abyss. And even now, after millennia, we’re still trying—for who could refuse immortality?"

  He met her gaze. "So even if you confessed to the esteemed elders pulling the strings behind the scenes, the outcome would likely be worse. They will not overlook even the faintest lead—and they’d prefer no one else learns of their pursuit. You’d suffer unjust accusations, even punishment—all to serve someone’s selfish ends, with no regard for truth or the greater good. And in the end, your sacrifice wouldn’t bury the secret. More likely, it would deliver that knowledge into the worst possible hands." His voice was low, deliberate. "Knowing this… do you still believe your initial plan was the right choice?"

  She would be exploited. Someone would use her to uncover the secret of the Messiah…

  The thought made Yvette recall the deranged Lorenzo—who, in the dreamscape, had butchered descendants of the families that imprisoned his soul with unspeakable cruelty. Yet history remembered him as a benevolent, idealistic man.

  She herself had ventured into that nightmare realm, steeped in its aberrant essence more than once. Each time, its taint had left her altered.

  The souls of those she killed were shackled within her dreams, and those chains had become her own bindings in turn. She and they were locked together by this bloody covenant, dragging one another deeper with every step.

  Perhaps madness had no end—only an endless downward spiral, layer after layer.

  And if… someone tried to take it from her?

  A jolt went through her. The mere thought was unbearable; even considering it made her skin crawl.

  It’s not that I want it for myself. I just can’t let them misuse it for evil…

  She tried to rationalize, but reason offered no certainty.

  Then she thought of Ulysses.

  "You said no one could resist such temptation," she ventured cautiously. "But… what about you, sir?"

  He knew she carried a forbidden truth—one that might lead to immortality. Did he, too, desire it?

  Or was all this merely a ploy to dissuade her from confessing… so he alone could claim the secret?

  "Good. Keep that suspicion. You should be wary." Ulysses almost smiled, as if he’d read her thoughts—but rather than taking offense, he seemed to approve of her wariness.

  "No, I didn’t mean—" Yvette shook her head. "If you want it… then take it. Just tell me how."

  The answer visibly caught him off guard. For once, the unflappable Ulysses looked genuinely perplexed. "…What brought this on? I thought I made myself clear—if the legends hold any truth, what you possess now is far more plausible than Lorenzo’s secondhand theories. It offers the promise of immortality."

  "I know. But just now, when I imagined someone taking it from me… I was afraid," she admitted, her voice unsteady. "How can something so nightmarish feel like something I need? It makes me wonder—is this truly a blessing? Or does it merely pretend to be a gift, while secretly demanding a price I can’t pay?" Her eyes flickered with unease. "I don’t trust myself to resist forever. So if it’s truly dangerous—if it’s that important—wouldn’t the world be better off if it belonged to someone stronger? Someone who can bear it?"