Morning arrived like a slap to the soul.
Regret bloomed in every heroic leap, stumble, and crawl I'd performed the night before. I woke with all the grace of a sack of stones hurled down a stairwell, every muscle in my body screaming bloody vengeance. My back felt like I'd spent the night on a bed of bricks, and my thighs—those disloyal, traitorous slabs—trembled just from sitting upright.
Across the room, Ronette was attempting to rise with the solemn nobility of a seasoned knight. Unfortunately, he looked more like a collapsing marionette.
"Ghh—Ow. Gods," he groaned, clutching his side like it might detach. "Did I fight a tree?"
"You fell out of one," I muttered, dragging on a boot with a hiss. "Drunk as a bard in spring. I had to drag your sorry self all the way back here."
"I did?"
"Yup. Thank the gods you were still possessing someone's body. If it had been your original one, I would've left you in the gutter."
Ronette let out a pitiful sob. "Thanks, Louis."
A single tear welled in the corner of his eye—not from sentiment, but from sheer, bone-deep pain. The sacred tears of muscle agony, whispered regrets from every foolish spin and ill-advised heroic sprint.
We shuffled around the room like two ancient goats caught in a winter squall—wincing, limping, cursing, and laughing in pained disbelief. Battered, bruised, and radiant in our shared ache, we were heroes crowned in dust and glory—survivors of trap doors, dusty confessionals, and the thrill of secrets still warm in our pockets.
And despite everything… I wouldn't have traded it for anything.
Huff. Puff.
We somehow managed to drag ourselves into casual outing clothes, but each motion felt like chiseling away another year of our lives.
"Don't you have something like muscle relaxant oil?" I groaned, forcing a buckle closed.
"My Master doesn't let me use it," Ronette grumbled darkly. "He says a man must bear all pain."
"Wow… our Masters are the same. Except mine's a sadist who enjoys watching me suffer."
"…."
Ronette stared, horror mixing with sympathy.
"Look away while you still can see," I muttered, voice dry as dust.
He turned obediently, coughing into his sleeve.
"Let's rest for the day, Louis," he offered.
"I need days, Ronette. Days."
"What do we do in the meantime?"
"Well," I sighed, sinking back onto the bed, "we're still stuck in the story, and we haven't gotten the slightest clue how to escape."
Ronette, wincing with each breath, managed to prop himself upright. "What if we have to fix the superficial events in the story?"
"Superficial things?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "The witch, for example."
I stared at him.
"What?" he asked, blinking innocently.
"…I don't need to get up, right?"
Ronette laughed.
Then instantly froze, clutching his ribs as a spear of pain shot through his chest. "Ouch!" he wheezed, trembling.
"Laughing is also pain. Poor Ronette," I murmured, shaking my head in mock pity.
And so, aching in body and brain, we sprawled out across the battered mattress, recounting the nightmarish events scrawled into existence by the painter's cursed diary.
Ronette fumbled into his inventory, fingers trembling, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen.
"We should start keeping track," he announced, smoothing the sheet across the table between us.
At the top, he scrawled:
The Execution of the Mysterious Lady (The Witch)
"I already killed the witch," I pointed out, tapping the words. "So we can check that off."
"Luckily, Mr. Witson hasn't met her yet," Ronette mumbled.
"What are you talking about?" I squinted at him. "Based on the timeline, he already did."
Ronette gasped, horror dawning. "Then Mr. Witson is going to die… from unrequited love!"
I shrugged. "Meh. Not like she was ever going to accept him."
"Maybe she would've."
"Not in his timeline, she wouldn't."
"Poor Mr. Witson…"
Without warning, Ronette snatched the pen and scribbled beneath the first line:
Mr. Witson's Unrequited Love
"You serious?" I raised a brow.
"I am! I am! And you can't erase it! Hmph!" His cheeks puffed out in sulky determination.
"We're not love consultants."
"But… Mr. Witson is a good guy. He deserves love," Ronette mumbled, fingers twisting in his lap.
I scratched my head. "Fine. Got any ideas?"
"Why not use your minstrel job and introduce a girl to him?"
"Why not dress up as Ronette again and become the woman of his dreams?"
"Ronette is fake."
"It's worth a try."
"We're not replacing a fake with another fake."
"Be grateful I suggested something," I huffed.
Ronette pouted harder, cheeks puffing like a stubborn squirrel.
I sighed, eyes flicking back to the list. "Next problem."
The pact formed between the painter, Mr. Witson, and the demon, using the demonic book.
"I accidentally destroyed the book," I said, tapping the line, "and we killed the Vampire God yesterday. So, that one's done."
Ronette nodded. "Next is…"
Spirit bound to the demon.
I tilted my head at him. "Why should we care whether that spirit suffers or not?"
"But… the spirit was enslaved…" Ronette said quietly.
I picked at my ear. "Who cares? That spirit's evil. Did you forget he killed the butler? And now he's trying to kill you?"
Ronette's shoulders slumped.
I let out a tired breath. "Besides, we probably need to kill the spirit to leave this place."
Ronette flinched. "We do?!"
"Yes, crybaby."
"But we're not exorcists!"
"That's not the main problem."
"It's not?"
"Nope." I leaned back, breath leaving in a ragged sigh. "What kind of employer wants an employee who changes jobs like they change clothes? First we're disciples. Then sacrifices for twisted rituals. Then bait. Then Vampire God slayers. Then minstrels. Then love consultants. And now exorcists?" My tone dripped with weary sarcasm.
Ronette blinked. "…Wait, we're getting jobs?"
"On second thought, no. We aren't."
Ronette sagged in relief. "Anyway, we're not exorcists."
"Let's just skip that for now."
He nodded, scribbling the next point.
Demonic corruption of the town.
"Vampire God's dead. Only problem is the spirit," I muttered.
"So we skip this one too," Ronette echoed.
"Duh."
Arrival of the Exorcists.
"That's not an issue," Ronette said, peering at the list.
"Aside from the old man exorcist dying, it's not."
"But we already killed the Vampire God, so he won't die this time," he reasoned.
"True," I nodded, tapping the paper thoughtfully. "But we still need them to come."
"Why?"
"To get rid of that spirit, what else? Only they can kill it."
Ronette tilted his head, eyes flicking across the scribbled notes. "Hmm… most problems are tied to the spirit."
"It is, isn't it? That's quite the dilemma."
Ronette brightened. "That's why we should solve Mr. Witson's problem."
I groaned. "Give me a break."
"You promised you'd help."
"I didn't say no. I'm just… complaining. That's allowed."
"So how do we help him?" Ronette pressed.
"I thought you had an idea, seeing how eager you were to play matchmaker!"
Ronette scratched his head. "Ah! We could try to gather some information about him first—then go meet him."
I arched a brow. "Err… I doubt there's much to find, but… I guess we can try."
"Yay!" Ronette threw his arms into the air in triumph.
"AAACCCKKKK!" he shrieked as pain crackled through his shoulders like lightning. He froze mid-celebration, trembling, then slowly lowered his arms, eyes shimmering with betrayal. "This… is too… painful…"
I couldn't help it—I snorted, covering my grin with a hand.
A sudden knock rattled the door.
We stiffened like children caught sneaking sweets—panic flashing through our eyes—and then, in unison, collapsed back onto the bed, groaning theatrically.
"Guests?" came a voice—soft, kindly, one of the inn staff.
"Y-Yes?" I croaked, crawling toward the door on all fours as if my joints were made of rusted hinges.
"You must still be hungover from yesterday's festivities," the staff said gently. "The innkeeper asked us to bring breakfast up. We also made some hungover soup."
I glanced back. Ronette gazed at me as if I were a hero braving dragon fire.
Turning back, I cleared my throat. "Ah—how very kind of you. By any chance… do you have any muscle relaxant oil?"
A pause—then a cheerful, "Oh, we do! Please wait a moment."
Footsteps faded, then returned. A gentle knock.
"Here you go," the staff called warmly. "We've left it by your door."
I waited, breath held, then cracked the door open, eyes darting up and down the hall. Coast clear.
In a quick, furtive grab, I hauled both the breakfast tray and the blessed bottle of relief inside, then closed the door with a soft click.
I turned around—only to find Ronette staring, his expression caught between awe and scandal.
"What?" I snapped.
"You look like a suspicious person," he intoned solemnly.
"…."
My brow twitched. "Next time, you're getting the door."
Ronette's entire frame quivered in terror. "N-No… thank you…"