Black Sorcerer and Inquisitor of Heresy

The flames in the metal brazier flickered weakly, casting a dim red glow that barely illuminated the eerie dungeon. Everything else was shrouded in darkness. Through a small, palm-sized window in the metal door, a butcher wearing a burlap sack mask could be seen passing through the corridor.

His torn skin burned as if on fire, his ankles were chafed, and dislocated joints caused every muscle to twitch. At first, he didn't realize he had awakened; the face before him had become a severed head rolling on the ground—its neck was mangled, with congealed blood clinging to the torn flesh, and even the protruding ends of the throat bone were visible.

Either I've gone mad, or this reincarnation has landed me in the worst possible situation.

He slightly turned his head, attempting to avert his gaze from the deceased's head to observe his surroundings, but was immediately met with excruciating pain.

I despise these unmodified bodies! he cursed inwardly.

The pursuers hadn't given him much time to prepare, making this hasty reincarnation a complete disaster. If he could escape this dungeon, he would first need to undergo surgery to control neural signals with his consciousness.

After calming his breathing for a moment, he began to extend his mental tendrils inward, barely igniting the last remnants of the original owner's soul—without any gratitude, he burned this dim flame to ashes. Using it as a sacrifice, he connected to the labyrinth of Tsathoggua.

At the faint glow resembling decayed matter's end lay unimaginable darkness. The dungeon's corners were eerie and deathly silent, filled with a damp stench. Rustling sounds emerged from the darkness, and amidst the hair-raising murmurs, a bizarre, ink-black viscous fluid seeped through the cracks, pooling into a wrinkled black spheroid resembling an old woman's shriveled skin.

It was about the length of a human arm in diameter, with its moist surface constantly wriggling, slowly changing shape like black sludge from a sewer. Moments later, more than a dozen underdeveloped slender limbs extended from its amorphous body, resembling the withered appendages of deformed infant corpses, which it waved about somewhat frantically.

As he watched the summoned entity coalesce without expression, a weak female voice came from behind.

"Are you a black magician?"

...Is there actually someone alive here?

He didn't attempt to turn around; his body was too damaged.

The female voice continued, her hoarse tone gradually recovering, seemingly unafraid of their current predicament.

"This—must be what's called a lower species, right? A servant of the evil god; I've heard of it while burning heretical texts."

Her words gave him a sense of foreboding.

"Are you an inquisitor of the Church?"

"Of course I am, reincarnated one," she replied, her voice suddenly tinged with delight. "The body you're occupying belonged to one of my knight guards. I advise you not to harbor any ulterior motives; otherwise, the Church's restraints will cast your soul into the sacred flames, burning it to the world's end."

His premonition came true—damn this accursed Church.

A worsening mood enveloped him—aside from Her Majesty, who issued the extermination order, the Church was the most zealous in hunting down black magicians.

"You're just a prisoner yourself," his voice was low and hoarse, like sandpaper scraping a wall, "Church burner."

"Oh, so 'burner' is the nickname you've given us—were you turned to ashes by us as a family member of heretics, or were you turned to ashes as a friend or mentor of heretics? Did you weep with joy after they became ashes, pray to our supreme deity, repent for your sins of attempting to contact evil gods, and offer up those other unrepentant friends?"

This woman sure talks a lot—has she been holding it in too long? He spat, "Are you talkative because you've been confined too long, or are you naturally this chatty?"

At that moment, the raspy footsteps gradually approached, then slowly faded away.

The butcher dragged a large axe through the damp corridor, the blade scraping against the stone with a grating sound, mixed with the echo of a human body rubbing against the rough ground. The noise seeped into the cell, and he could almost envision himself being cleaved by the giant axe.

A silence fell; the woman behind him also temporarily shut her mouth.

Perhaps the sound evoked some unpleasant memories for her. After the butcher walked away, the woman restrained her tone.

"...Never mind, let's discuss escape, heretic. I don't want to die in this alien lair. But before that, out of courtesy, shouldn't we exchange names?" She didn't adopt a gentle tone; perhaps she didn't even understand what gentleness meant.

"You can address me by this body's original name." As if—who would discuss courtesy with a burner?

"Apologies, this knight was working under me a few days ago; I hadn't had time to remember his name. Ah—how unfortunate, it seems I won't be able to pray for his miserable soul. So be it; may his corpse not be fed to the dungeon's guard dogs." She paused for a moment—not too long, not too short—he thought she lacked any sincerity. Moments later, she spoke again, "Alright, that's settled. So, what's your name, heretic?"

"Mind your words; I'm currently using his body."

"Ah, you're so particular—shouldn't we be praying for them together at a time like this? Even I rarely use my sympathy, or do you, as a black magician, lack any sympathy?"

"Sather Betraffio." When he uttered this name, his voice carried a feeble annoyance. A peculiar spell had bound this body, preventing him from uttering any of the carefully fabricated fictitious names.

"Never heard of it; probably some obscure little magician from somewhere. This is truly terrible—I have to rely on a black magician reincarnated into a death row inmate's body to save the day," she said gleefully, "You can call me Jeanne."

Her words didn't elicit an awkward expression from him; after all, he'd been fleeing like a rat for over seven years. Thus, he merely responded in a mocking tone, "I've never heard of you either; probably some unknown inquisitor promoted from a country village, the kind who knows nothing but burning heretics like a fanatic."

"Heh, how does the restraint feel? After all—in matters of importance, you're unable to utter lies. And your life is tied to mine," Jeanne retorted mockingly, "This is the power from my Lord; does it make you happy? Unlucky heretic—fool reincarnated into an alien death row inmate's body."

"That's truly remarkable," Sather replied expressionlessly, proceeding with his next move.

He directed the Invisible One to crawl toward the still-intact corpse, inserting its deformed appendages into the subcutaneous blood vessels, beginning to siphon life.

The woman calling herself Jeanne remained silent; Sather surmised she might be psychologically discomforted by the scene—not physically, as she was an inquisitor who had personally burned countless heretics and wouldn't be nauseated by such a trivial matter.

He extended his mental tendrils, finding a foothold along the summoned creature's extension, and grasped it. In an instant, he felt an 'energy' mixed with countless illusory black vapors flowing slowly, converging into waves invisible to ordinary people, surging into his body, and beginning to mend these broken wounds.

This was forbidden; it was a contamination of the soul, but he had long ceased to be human.

The darkness felt comforting, like returning to a mother's embrace. Under the gaze of the female inquisitor behind him, his wounds gradually healed, and his withered muscles became plump again. Correspondingly, the corpse on that side shriveled into a cracked mass, crumbling with a snap into black ash.

"I take back what I said earlier; you're the most disgusting heretic I've ever seen. Your soul has long lost the semblance a human should have. If I had caught you on the battlefield, I would have sent you and everyone you know to the tribunal, torturing you until you confessed your sins," Jeanne spoke again.

"Don't be stubborn while hanging from the ceiling."

He turned around and saw his reflection in the young woman's golden pupils—a more burly figure than he had imagined, with coarse and smooth black straight hair, though stained with much ash; a short beard, and a pair of peculiar black eyes—not because the eyes themselves were unusual, but because his soul exhibited rather complex emotions: ever-changing, calm yet tinged with a hint of morbidity, sometimes giving off a sense of madness.

Then, he began to scrutinize the inquisitor who called herself Jeanne:

She had short, pale-gold hair, similarly light-gold eyes, and fair skin. Despite not having eaten for a long time, her figure and facial contours still appeared quite gentle. In terms of appearance alone, she seemed like a light and serene young woman. However, what left a deep impression was her expression that oscillated between indifference and frenzy. Even someone not adept at observation could conclude that this person was extremely difficult to get along with.

At this moment, Jeanne was dressed in black clothes covered in dust, her arms bound by iron chains, hanging from the ceiling, her lips half-closed, appearing dry due to dehydration. However, the tight line of her lips indicated just how foul her mood was.

My mood is just as foul, Sather shook his head; cooperating with a burner... utterly absurd.

"Have you seen enough? Can you let me down now? How many years has it been since you've touched a woman? Do you need me to behead a few heretics to relieve your physical needs?"

He ignored the venomous curses of the inquisitor.

"Letting you down is certainly possible," he snapped his fingers and connected to another ancient labyrinth. Jeanne then saw a phantom scroll of parchment unfold in the heretic's hand—without a pen. He walked up to Jeanne, expressionless, and said, "I have always cherished life, and I'm not very comfortable with unilateral restraints, so please sign this contract as a guarantee that we can establish a friendship."

"...I can't read."