Chapter 1.1

Arc 1. A Possession Gone Wrong

“The world is in ruins!”

Rain poured down like madness beyond the cracked windowpane. The dark interior of the parlor was eerily silent.

Only the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the low rumble of thunder broke the heavy silence.

Scratch, scratch.

As everyone stared at the archbishop with fear on their faces, a massive, scarred hand the size of a pot lid continued working incessantly.

“And?”

The man asked without lifting his head, his face hidden by the shadows. His voice was strangely relaxed and mesmerizing, starkly out of place for their current situation.

The archbishop, who had arrived moments earlier with dying horses in tow, flared his wide nostrils.

“It’s precisely as foretold in the ‘Book of Lavalé’! ‘Thousands of pillars of fire shall erupt from the earth, filling the entire world with smoke and ash! The wrathful Lavalé shall bring sinful humanity to its end!’”

Right on cue, a bolt of blue lightning struck behind the archbishop, who looked like he weighed over 300 pounds.

KABOOM! CRAAASH!

The thunder crashed like an explosion in their ears.

A little girl playing with a rag doll by the fireplace jumped and clung to the old man who was trimming his herbs.

Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“I-I’m scared! Grandpa Eugene!”

“Do not fret, Miss Rita. Even if the world has ended, we remain alive and well, do we not?”

The old man smiled kindly, but my patience had already reached its limit.

I quietly closed the diary and stood up.

“Enough with the prophecies and nonsense. You’re scaring the child.”

The archbishop glared at me with his beady eyes that were buried in his puffy cheeks. It was as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“Ha! A child? Where do you see a child? In a mere two to three years, she’ll likely start her monthly courses.”

Did he just say what I think he said? I broke out into a cold sweat trying to suppress the overwhelming urge to kick him out then and there.

Completely unaware of my struggle, the archbishop jabbed one of his sausage fingers at me.

“Mari, was it? Even your name is plucked from the scriptures.”

Then he puckered his fat lips, like two sausages stacked on top of each other.

“You are the last woman on earth. It is your sacred duty to bear new life for the sake of humanity—”

“No thanks.”

“What? You dare ignore the counsel of me, Archbishop Sandro? The faithful servant of Lavalé?!”

A sigh escaped me. Why did I let this fool in?

If I could go back in time, I’d slap myself for believing I had a duty to help any survivor, no matter who.

I should’ve listened to Killian.

Meanwhile, the archbishop kept going on with his sermon.

“Your face is passable enough to be worthy of warming my bed. Well? Will you join me in forging a new chapter in Lavale’s history toni— GAHK!”

Right in the middle of his pompous speech, a perfectly polished silver knife landed in the center of his greasy forehead. Thump. He collapsed instantly.

“Oh, sorry. What was that? I couldn’t hear you over your hideous face.”

And then, silence.

The little girl clinging to the old man began to tremble, holding back her sobs.

The man who had been quietly slicing a bright red apple into tiny bunny shapes finally looked up, completely at ease. A gray cat was curled up on one of his sturdy thighs.

“Mari, want an apple?”

He asked with a smooth smile, red eyes curving gently. From the look on his relaxed face, you’d think he’d already forgotten he killed someone just a minute ago.

“Uh… sure. An apple sounds good.”

I awkwardly accepted the bunny-shaped apple slice. He handed a piece to the sniffling girl and the old man too, then retreated back into the shadows to peel a peach next.

“…”

Domestic. He looked so incredibly domestic.

But knowing the truth about him made the sight feel nothing short of chilling.

The man pretending to be all calm and wholesome over there was, in fact, the secret villain of this story.

Well, he would have been the villain.

As that holy fatso currently bleeding out on the floor said—if this world hadn’t ended.

Or more accurately, if the author hadn’t abandoned the story.

Or to be even more precise, if only I hadn’t abandoned the novel I was writing.

He probably would’ve gone on to conquer over half the continent.

Yet here he was, in my house, wearing a frilly apron and peeling fruit.

I sat there holding the apple Killian gave me, staring blankly into the fireplace.

I didn’t need to think that far back into the past.

This all happened just three days ago.