NOVEL WEB Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The Eldritch Contract
After holding his breath and waiting for the patrolling butcher to pass, Cesar directed his summoned creature to siphon energy from other fresh corpses while responding to Jeanne's incessant questions. The inquisitor's barrage of inquiries made him display a look of impatience by the brazier.
With a trembling right hand, he snapped his fingers, scrutinizing the girl before him—not with appreciation, but with cold indifference. This burner was suspended from the ceiling like a hunter's trophy. The orange glow from the brazier illuminated her scarred limbs and her body, which swayed gently as if moving through soft waves.
If my observations are correct, she's quite knowledgeable about contracts with outer gods. But why would an inquisitor be familiar with such matters?
Cesar examined her expression. "Are you done confirming?" he asked.
xszj.org
"Finished. I've asked about all the traps I could think of. What's left is just the disgust of signing an eldritch contract with a black magician—it's too surreal," Jeanne replied, her face openly displaying revulsion. Her half-squinted eyes gleamed with a murderous frenzy, as if white-hot flames were burning within. "Please, can someone pour a bucket of cold water over my head? This is terrible, absolutely dreadful. I can hardly suppress the urge to burn this evil parchment; I'm on the verge of madness."
"Shh—quiet," he sneered in the darkness. "Encountering me, your savior, before being fed to the dungeon's hounds is already a stroke of luck for you."
Her expression oddly synchronized with the black magician's. "What a disgusting stroke of luck. If I weren't the main character in this absurd scenario, I'd probably die laughing."
Forget it; engaging in a war of words with this woman is endless. He shook his head and commanded the black mass to emerge from the dark corner, crawl along the wall to the ceiling, and move toward the shackles binding Jeanne's arms. The cell was now littered with black ash—just moments ago, these were fresh corpses. The moss-covered walls, once damp and eerie, now exuded a dry, decaying odor, like an attic untouched for years, where a single step could stir up a cloud of dust.
Then he noticed Jeanne glaring at him furiously, her eyes reflecting a fervent faith, as if white-hot flames were burning within. "Don't let the minions of the evil god approach me, or I'll perish with you."
You only have the power to drag me to hell.
Cesar impatiently raised his eyelids, snapping his fingers louder. "Why are you so troublesome? Do you need your mother to come over and coddle you before you'll come down?"
"I'd like to ask—why is your contract so troublesome?" Jeanne retorted, licking her dry, chapped lips. "Why not just obediently follow my orders? After all, you cultists are all the same—unable to resist the sight of a beautiful maiden. Only the holy flames can make you regret ever being born into this world."
"First, I'm not a cultist."
Cesar's right hand conjured a longsword—a black and red blade that seemed to burn, with sparks dancing along its edge, as if freshly drawn from a blacksmith's forge. "Second, how do you have the face to call yourself a beautiful maiden? Illiterate village girl." As he spoke, he thrust the sword at the shackles binding Jeanne, then forcefully pried them open. "Lastly, the outcome of obediently following your orders would be being handed over to the church as a death row inmate, right? I never believed burners possessed any emotion that could be called gratitude."
Crack—the shackles broke. In the enveloping silence, the sound was crisp and clear.
Cesar took a step back, watching without sympathy as she fell to the ground like a ragged sack, stirring up a cloud of ash knee-high.
He observed Jeanne prop herself up, slowly leaning against the wall. From the inquisitor's movements, it was evident she could hardly move properly, let alone kill monsters and heretics.
"Tch, that really hurt..." She sat up, blinking at the firelight. In that moment, a glimpse of a lively girl could be seen. "Can you provide me some healing? I can't connect to my lord's power here."
"The lower dungeon labyrinth does make it difficult to connect to the Light Temple's paths. Does this mean... you're basically useless here?"
"I can crush your neck with one hand without enhancement spells, heretic," Jeanne glared at him, clearly angered by the word 'useless.' "Inquisitors don't rely on spells to get by. The corpses of heretics I've beheaded could fill a city."
The settling ash gradually fell, the flames flickered, dimming and brightening, as if winking slyly. Cesar's gaze swept over her waist, then the dark corners of the room.
After scanning the area, he frowned. "So where's your sword? Already fed to the dungeon hounds?"
"..."
Jeanne didn't answer, merely displaying an annoyed expression.
Great, I understand. If I hadn't reincarnated into this body, you'd either be fodder for the dungeon hounds or material for my spellcasting.
"Sign your name on this paper with your blood," he approached Jeanne, crouching before her and handing over the ancient, sinister parchment. "Then, I'll provide you with healing and weapons."
"...I told you I can't read." She stared at Cesar with needle-like eyes.
Besides illiteracy, there's probably an instinctive aversion to the heretic's evil contract, right?
"That's wonderful news," he replied sarcastically, maintaining his composure. "Are you saying you can't even write your own name?"
"Ah, what's the problem with that? You're annoying. Are you a buzzing fly?" She rolled her eyes impatiently. "Does eradicating heretic nests require literacy? Does sending heretics to the rack require literacy? Does burning cultists require literacy?"
"Fine, I'll write it for you."
He spoke softly, glancing at the cell door. In the darkness, a series of clicking footsteps echoed—this time, numerous rapid sounds, like finger bones tapping on a drum made of human skin, creating an unsettling rhythm. He could imagine countless giant arthropods scurrying through the corridor—then, the tapping gradually faded away.
After some time, Cesar grasped the girl's wounded, emaciated right hand, placing it onto the parchment—it felt like holding a piece of tattered cloth.
"What's this? Why am I holding hands with a heretic? Am I some matron from an orphanage? Are you lacking maternal love, or perhaps a girlfriend? If I were your mother, I'd personally hand you over to the inquisition to be burned." Jeanne frowned in evident discomfort.
"I don't wish to hold hands with a burner either," he ignored the inquisitor's feeble resistance, "the wailing souls on your hands outnumber the materials I've consumed in my spells."
Cesar raised the longsword, making a small cut on her index finger. He noticed Jeanne didn't even blink; clearly, such wounds were as natural to her as breathing.
Jeanne lowered her head, examining the heretic's contract. Beside her hand, she saw peculiar letters glowing with a bloody sheen under the firelight, branded onto the parchment.
At that moment, a deep echo resonated in Cesar's mind—a sound no human could produce. He felt an intangible, bone-chilling cold envelop him, as if countless dull blades were scraping against his body.
He knew the burner before him heard the same thing.
"Accept it," Cesar whispered.
He saw her lower her head further, possibly trying to suppress an overwhelming sense of revulsion—revulsion toward the evil god whispering in her mind.
"Can you hurry the hell up?"
She seemed to make one last effort, reluctantly nodding in agreement.
In that instant, Cesar felt as if he had transformed into a raven, with a blood-red moon rising amidst the fog, and countless rotting fingers sprouting from the ground like weeds. On the snowy white limestone slope, a massive humanoid silhouette crouched atop a cliff, surrounded by thousands of deformed demons swirling around it, like blackened autumn leaves spinning in the wind; he saw dancing eldritch spirits with coal-black massive bodies, sometimes crawling sluggishly, sometimes running madly, sometimes entangling like dough, and sometimes suddenly dispersing...
Elongated spirits played morbid tunes on flutes made from human bones, their ends connected to writhing, pale masses; flayed victims beat drums covered with their own skin, producing arrhythmic thumping sounds; spines protruded gruesomely outside their bodies, with faces and limbs hanging from the ends, swaying like battle flags in the cold wind...
No beginning, no end.
The projection of an outer god...
The vision abruptly ceased. Lowering his head, as their gazes met, he saw extreme bewilderment in the burner's eyes. He also noticed her fingers pressing against the ground—fingers she had broken herself. The pain inflicted by that entity had interrupted what Cesar was witnessing—and had also interrupted what she was seeing.
Cesar shifted his attention away from her, retrieving the parchment and stabbing a pitch-black longsword into the ground.
"...I've been defiled."
"An evil god wouldn't bother defiling an illiterate village girl," Cesar responded impassively, "your self-perception is quite impressive."
"I mean my faith has been defiled."
"Your great lord will forgive you, burner." Cesar didn't even lift his eyelids. "Besides, my current magical power is extremely limited; the amount I can allocate for healing is also extremely limited. If you dare to self-harm again, I'll break your limbs, stuff you into a sack, and carry you out."