"Satan… No—perhaps it would be more accurate to call you Duke Kashchey."
W stood tensely, clutching the detonator in her hand.
"I've planted explosives in several parts of your domain. If you don't want your grand celebration to turn into a disaster of fire and rubble—"
Her voice cracked, rising into near hysteria.
"—then tell me! Tell me what you truly know about Her Highness's death!"
Her eyes, burning with desperate need, locked on Satan.
What she longed to hear—what she prayed for—was his denial. That he had nothing to do with Theresa's death.
"Why not ask the Doctor instead?" Satan replied smoothly, savoring a sip of Victorian black tea.
"He knows far more than I ever could."
He could feel the turmoil inside her—the doubt, the confusion. He knew full well that if he lied, she might cling to it like a drowning woman clutching at a piece of driftwood.
After all, most people only believe what they want to believe.
When she had been weak and helpless, Satan was the one who saved her.
Theresa, however, was the one W had sworn her loyalty to.
The thought that the two might have slain each other was tearing her heart in two.
Ever since she began to suspect that Theresa had fallen by Satan's hand, she had felt as though her soul was being ripped apart.
And yet—Kashchey had not spoken the lie she yearned for.
If Theresa was truly dead, he would not have minded weaving a "harmless little falsehood."
---
Time turned back—
To when Satan, after immense effort, had wrested only scraps from the inheritance of the Sarkaz King.
"Damn it! Theresa, you conniving witch—you set me up, didn't you?!"
In the depths of a cavern, the red-haired Sarkaz clutched his head in agony, his top hat fallen and forgotten on the ground.
Satan felt the sting of betrayal.
In the moment he had seized the Sarkaz King's authority, Theresa had poisoned the very inheritance itself!
"Uh… I don't understand it either."
Her voice echoed in his mind: the weary tone of a pink-haired Sarkaz woman.
Theresa herself hadn't expected this. Instead of returning to the Sarkaz sea of consciousness as she should have, her soul had been trapped inside Satan's body.
"You dare try to wrest this vessel from me?"
Black Snake materialized within Satan's inner world, lashing out to devour her—but each one was cut down by the black blade in her hand, a sword forged from pure negative emotion.
Seeing this, Satan's suspicions hardened.
Yes. He had been played.
Back when he fought her directly, she had been far less formidable.
Now he understood.
Theresa must have been preparing a grand gambit: a false death, a stolen body, biding her time within him, waiting to strike when Theresis grew complacent. Then she would rise again, rally followers, and deal a killing blow.
No wonder his scheme against her had gone so "smoothly."
He hadn't gained much, true—but he had taken little real damage either.
So this was her plan all along.
Ever since Kashchey's open break with Theresis, his credibility in Kazdel had plummeted to nearly nothing.
If he failed in this contest and declared, "Theresa lives on," no one would believe him. They would only sneer: "The Black Snake schemes again."
But Kashchey was never one to surrender.
He summoned his serpents from every corner, reinforcements to tilt the balance and secure Satan's vessel.
Theresa, with casual precision, severed the snakes that dared to creep upon her.
After all—how could the Sarkaz King be slain so easily?
The only reason she had fallen before was the burden of the inheritance ritual, her power split, her focus divided. Against Kashchey, she had not been at her full strength.
And though Satan's body was now only a "false Sarkaz King," Theresa's grasp of the Sarkaz King's authority far surpassed his.
Kashchey only had a broad understanding of the Sarkaz King's nature, layered with his own interpretations.
It was only after Satan stole a portion of the Sarkaz King's authority that he began to truly comprehend what the Sarkaz King was.
But precisely because of this theft, the inheritance ritual was disrupted in unforeseen ways. Instead of returning to the sea of Sarkaz consciousness, Theresa's soul had become bound to the stolen, false kingly authority now carried by Satan.
Kashchey had no perfect solution for this problem.
Certainly, if he transferred some of his Black Snake into the vessel, they could suppress Theresa's soul.
Yet the [Sarkaz King] ultimately belonged to the Sarkaz, not to an outsider like Kashchey.
Theresa's mastery over the Sarkaz King's power was far greater than anything the Black Snake could achieve.
If pushed too far, she could forcefully wield the stolen authority against him, turning their struggle into a mutual ruin.
That was something Kashchey could not afford.
Thus, the best course was to persuade Theresa to leave of her own accord.
"Theresa, you know as well as I do—your fragmented authority cannot possibly win this vessel from me."
Within Satan's mind, a hazy silhouette fixed its gaze on her.
"But I can help you find a new vessel, a body in which you may be reborn… Tell me, what do you prefer? A Wendigo, a Blood Demon, a Banshee? Or perhaps a body not of the Sarkaz at all—say, a Feline or Kuranta?"
Kashchey had no desire for a direct clash. Satan's body was far too fragile.
If they fought in earnest, the vessel could easily break apart, and the stolen authority might well return to that chimera child.
Of course, Theresa would never accept being dismissed so lightly.
Though she had been dragged into Satan's vessel in such a bewildering way, she would never allow the Black Snake to seize control of the Sarkaz King's power.
To entrust such authority to Ursus's Eternal Duke? Impossible.
But if Kashchey continued to lurk and bide his time, she had little recourse.
A single hand cannot clap.
Only if they clashed directly might they shatter Satan's vessel.
"Then we wait."
The indistinct shadow remained locked in a stalemate with Theresa.
With countless Black Snake at his disposal, Satan could afford mistake after mistake.
But for Theresa, a single misstep would mean her annihilation—her power stolen, her place usurped.
And yet, because both the Black Snake and Theresa existed only as consciousness, their skirmishes inevitably produced memory collisions.
---
"Black Snake, don't assume the worst of people's hearts…"
"Heh."
"You really do have… unusual tastes."
"Thank you for the compliment."
"Aren't you being too paranoid? I think your 'Serpents' are actually good children at heart…"
"People change, Theresa. No—what business of yours is that?"
"So… after Kazdel's civil war, Babel was destroyed…"
"What? Do you feel regret? If you want, I can form a contract with you. You know how binding a contract is for me. As long as you—"
"No!"
"…"
'Why won't this woman just die already!!!'