Chapter 28

Mariax may not have thought so, but so far, she had been treated quite politely. That was because she had proven to be highly effective as a painkiller. With no way to identify the cause of the curse’s calming, the plan was to keep her nearby and gradually uncover the truth. But Gart was saying he would tear her apart right now, painkiller or not, to see what was inside. It would result in losing the painkiller with nothing gained. A very high probability.

It was the first lead in a long time. No one would understand better than Gart just how valuable this opportunity was—yet he had judged that letting Mariax die would be preferable. Three Thousandth couldn’t even begin to guess the reason behind such an extreme conclusion that had appeared out of nowhere. No matter the excuse, it felt no less foolish and idiotic than throwing gold onto the ground.

Why was he acting this way? Was he just insane? That long-held suspicion was now becoming a final, somewhat persuasive justification.

“Anir, don’t decide so hastily. The lady is—”

The sound of Gart’s footsteps in the corridor stopped abruptly. The only thing lighting the dark spiral staircase was a small candlestick in Three Thousandth’s hand, and its light did not reach Gart. The man, blended into the darkness, let out a small chuckle. The fine hairs on Three Thousandth’s arm stood on end.

“‘The lady’?” Gart echoed Three Thousandth’s words. 

Only then did Three Thousandth realize what phrase had escaped his mouth. Normally, Three Thousandth showed no respect or reverence toward the gods of the continent. Whenever he mentioned them, he would refer to them as “that god,” “that monster,” “that job generator that makes my life miserable,” or “a research subject from some region.” The reason Gart picked up on the title wasn’t because it was unfamiliar, but because he sensed a shift in Three Thousandth’s sentiment in the honorific “the lady.”

“Doesn’t seem like I’m the one who’s changed…” Gart trailed off in a low voice. “If I’d returned a month later, you might’ve converted.”

Overwhelmed by his presence, Three Thousandth couldn’t utter a single word. The silence, so thick that even breathing couldn’t be heard, was broken only by the sound of Gart’s footsteps. Step by step, the sound faded into the darkness. Only after it had completely disappeared did Three Thousandth let out a breath.

***

Gart only realized he had put a pipe to his lips when he felt the cold against them. He had pulled it out of habit. A spark from his hand caught on the dried herbs stuffed into the combustion chamber. He inhaled deeply, his cheeks hollowing, and exhaled even longer as he walked.

His thoughts scattered like smoke. As everything blurred, only the pain and Mariax’s face came clearly to mind. Right at this moment—or rather, every moment he suffered from the curse—his entire nervous system was yearning for her. A vexed smile played on Gart’s lips.

He stopped walking. A narrow beam of light stretched down the dark corridor. No one would have lit a candle in an empty room, which meant that Mariax, who had supposedly gone out with the subordinates for some kind of gathering, must have returned. He had been annoyed at the thought of wasting time waiting for her, so this was a welcome development. Gart concealed his presence in the darkness. He had no intention of giving her an opening to escape or provoking any unnecessary resistance.

The door was open. A fleeting memory of Three Thousandth’s voice commenting on the broken doorknob crossed his mind. A draft seemed to have widened the gap even further.

Through it, he saw a pale woman. She was crouching on the floor past the bed, hurriedly stuffing something into her mouth. Her cheeks were puffed out.

Gart’s sharp senses picked up the distant sound of people laughing and chatting. Was it his clouded mind? Other voices began to overlap with that noise.

“O beautiful Paradise, accept this pure offering!”

Amid the fanatics’ cries, Paradise shoved the still-beating heart of a living sacrifice into its mouth with such force that its face distorted. Blood soaked its chin and jaw, streaming down.

Not knowing at whom the surge of disgust was directed, Gart kicked the door open and stormed in. For a moment, his memory went blank. When he came to, he was gripping the woman’s neck and pinning her to the wall.

Coughing, Mariax sputtered. Because she had quickly covered her mouth, he still had no idea what she’d been eating. Gart tightened his grip as he looked down at her. Even in this moment, her expression remained unnervingly calm.

On her doll-like face, the only part that showed emotion or thought was her eyes. But now, Mariax was buried in the shadow that towered over her. Even her pupils were shrouded in darkness, revealing no trace of disturbance. Gart let out a short laugh and brought his hand under Mariax’s mouth. His low voice brushed threateningly against her ear.

“Spit it out.”

Mariax didn’t move a muscle.

“Shall I make you?”

At the sharper tone, her lips opened. With a breathy gasp, something tumbled into his palm.

This is…

It was a hard, yellowish little piece, wet and glistening with saliva. Gart stared at it flatly for a long while. He hadn’t expected anything in particular to be in Mariax’s mouth. Somehow, he had subconsciously assumed it would be a piece of flesh, dripping with blood.

This unexpected twist sliced right through the charged tension in the air. His fury, which had been radiating in all directions, lost steam. His thoughts, which had been drifting like smoke, now converged on this strange little piece.

So, what on earth is this?

Gart tossed it into his mouth. A faint sweetness spread across his tongue. But the moment he chewed, his brow twisted. A foul taste surged up. Ptui. He spat it onto the floor and slowly wiped his mouth.

Rotten root vegetable?

It was probably once a potato. The initial sweetness had masked the foul taste, which was why he hadn’t realized it right away.

Gart looked down at Mariax, raising an eyebrow. Her face was flushed, likely from being choked. When he let go, she coughed lightly. A red mark from his grip remained vividly on her soft skin.

After a brief pause, Mariax leaned against the wall. Her breathing was unstable, her body trembling—but all those responses were subdued. At a glance, one could mistake her for just standing there calmly. She seemed accustomed to forcibly suppressing the body’s natural reactions to pain.

Gart stepped back, crossed his arms, and looked at Mariax. Her eyes, red and wet from pain, shimmered. In them, he saw a faint trace of fear. There was no serene goddess in the face of death—only a frail Mariax, her eyes tinged with red.

Gart realized why he was no longer distorting the situation. That brief contact when he slammed her into the wall had been enough—the pain was gone, his mind clear again. And with clarity, he finally noticed what he hadn’t seen before. Rotting, half-eaten potatoes lay scattered around the bed.

Gart picked up one of the spoiled potatoes. He had clearly seen Mariax eating it frantically, yet the marks left behind didn’t match that desperation. Perhaps because of her small mouth, the bite marks looked more like a rat had nibbled them—clumsy and inadequate.

Gods inherently possessed the ability to maintain existence with divine power alone. Even if they had bodies capable of consuming food, many took pride in avoiding it, or simply lived by instinct, breathing alone. Of course, there were exceptions—those heavily influenced by the “Providence” within them, who devoured everything in sight. These were called evil gods or monsters, and until heroes rose to stop them, they ravaged endlessly. Recently, there were also eccentric gods who enjoyed human gastronomy, and “reversers” had begun to emerge.

But Mariax didn’t fit any of these exceptions. She lacked the intense power or aggression of evil gods or monsters. There wasn’t a trace of their sticky, murky aura either. Nor did she seem like an eccentric with a taste for fine dining. The food she ate was far too suspicious. Maybe she had a strange taste for rotten food. But surely even a god would have some sense of taste.

Then he noticed her clothing. She was bundled up far more heavily than the humans of Olkiedpan. An imperfect god who felt cold. Was it really so strange that she felt hunger? The hypothesis quickly gained weight, thanks to one more recalled clue.

The two spirits imprisoned in the basement. What had they risked everything to steal? A golden carp, rare herbs, venison, and pickled vegetables. If their crimes weren’t mere pranks?

Gart tossed the potato in the air and caught it. Mariax’s eyes followed its arc.

He wanted to be sure, so he asked once more, “This—why?”

After a long pause, Mariax’s lips parted. “I… was hungry.”

Just as he suspected. Because she was hungry. Gart repeated her answer. A creature with a dull, lifeless expression, stripped of all desires—now confessing to the most primal of needs. Could such a perfect creation really say something like that?