The white devil's smile sharpened at Cecilus's question, as though the very idea amused him.
"Names," he said, "are gifts bestowed by one's mother and father. How could a monster like me—someone who doesn't even know the origins of his own parents—have a word to call himself?"
"So you really don't have a name?" Cecilus asked, tilting his head. "I just thought… it would be convenient if I could call you something other than 'devil.' Even though it's fun treating the word like an insult, it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?"
The devil gave him a long, unimpressed stare.
"After witnessing the atrocity you called 'naming' when you bought that horse, there is no universe in which I would allow you the honor of naming me."
"It wasn't bad at all!" Cecilus protested. "Names don't need that much thought. Especially for a summon that doesn't feel anything like Xena."
"You do realize you are the one suppressing her emotions, right?" the devil countered, his tone clipped. "Your old self didn't enjoy stripping his summons of their sense of self. And his naming ability was considerably better than yours."
Cecilus shrugged, though a sliver of discomfort slid beneath his ribs.
"Well… people are a product of circumstance. I've only been around you. So it makes sense my life feels dreary."
For a moment, the devil actually looked shocked—an expression Cecilus wasn't accustomed to seeing.
"Wow… hearing that from you of all people. Development I never expected."
As they walked, Cecilus passed a row of wanted posters fluttering on a bulletin board. The lantern above them flickered, washing the sketches in uneven gold light.
"Whoa. These pay out a lot," he said. "Think we could catch one before we leave?"
"The one you're catching," the devil replied smugly, "is all of them. Or most, at least."
"Huh?"
The devil's smirk deepened, as though he had been waiting for this.
"Almost every wanted poster on the demonic continent is for the same person. He's like a skin walker—someone who steals lives, commits crimes, and vanishes. I still haven't identified the magic type that enables his ability."
Cecilus scanned the posters more slowly now, noticing the subtle similarities.
"Wait… so all these faces are wrong? Then what does the real skin walker look like?"
"I have no idea," the devil admitted. "The only hint linking the bodies he's taken is the light scar above the eye. Centuries ago, every victim he possessed bore that same mark. A kind of calling card. As you can see, most of these show a similar scar… though with these crude drawings, you shouldn't assume they captured every detail."
"That's terrifying," Cecilus murmured. "Good to know about the scar, though. That'll stick with me."
"Yes… you'll likely meet that man one day," the devil said, voice lowering. "Actually, likely is too soft a word. The probability is high. From these posters, one can deduce he stopped committing crimes openly about fourteen years ago."
"Maybe he quit?"
"No." The devil's eyes narrowed. "Far more probable that he's preparing something."
Cecilus swallowed. "Before we continue… what exactly is a skin walker? I know how you described him taking over bodies, but what is a skin walker?"
"You will never encounter a natural one in your lifetime," the devil replied. "Most monsters have a connection to a magic type. Whatever magic our criminal uses is likely related to true skin walkers. I don't know what their original bodies look like—they almost always wear stolen skin. They live in a land far from here. A world called the mythical realm. Mythrend."
Cecilus slowed his pace.
"So that's where you lived? Mythrend?"
"Yes," the devil said. "That's where I lived."
"Was it… a nice place?"
"No." His answer came instantly. Too instantly. "It was horrible."
But then he lifted his face to the sky, as though comparing it to something only he could see.
"But even so… it was better than the hell I reside in now."
Cecilus hesitated, then asked quietly, "Then… was my home a nice place to be?"
"Your home is burnt down."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It was an awful place," the devil replied flatly. "You hated it. What you're doing now—traveling, exploring—it's what you actually wanted."
"How am I supposed to believe that?"
"You've believed everything else I've told you," he said with a shrug. "Treat it the same way. Believe it or don't. I don't care. My only choice is to guide you."
As they walked, Cecilus sank deeper into his thoughts.
If the devil betrays me… could I really fight back? He knows so much more than I do. And I still haven't seen what he's capable of…
***
Celtis stared at the mirror, bracing himself.
The reflection staring back was pitiful—flesh peeling from the cheek, bone visible beneath, skin mottled with rot. He grimaced.
"Trey… you bastard." His voice rasped with equal parts rage and disbelief. "Good thing I spent fourteen years refining this body. Otherwise, the poison might've done me in."
He forced a laugh, shaky but genuine.
"Hopefully that fiend doesn't have enough brains to check the corpse. That fake should fool him…"
His expression twisted into irritation.
"This damn man's personality is rubbing off on me," he muttered. "Ramon must have lost his mind saying my path required me to settle down. This coward wasn't worth taking over in the first place!"
But then his eyes sharpened, and the anger solidified into something colder.
"Sorry, old man… but nothing tastes better than vengeance. Trey—your time is up."
Celtis inhaled deeply. His skin reknit itself, smoothing over rapidly until he looked pristine again—except for the tiny scar above his eye.
A tremor ran through him. Then his entire form collapsed, melting into a thick pool of blood.
A heartbeat later, he materialized beside an elderly woman and tapped her shoulder.
She didn't even flinch.
"Fourteen years without a single word," she said dryly, "and the first thing you do is try to scare me?"
"Complicated matters," Celtis replied, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "Old folk like us should enjoy the small pleasures in life. Isn't seeing me alive enough joy to last until your peaceful death?"
She rolled her eyes.
"So? What name will I be calling you by now?"
"Celtis," he said without hesitation. "If you call me by my original name… I don't think I'd respond."
"You've forgotten it?" Her expression softened with a touch of melancholy. "You must've grown attached to this life. Did you enjoy it?"
He smiled faintly. "I wouldn't say enjoyed. But… it was nice."
"Then what brings you here? Judging by your tone, it isn't to flirt with your wife."
"Hey! This is flirting. It's just that this body resonates with nothing but money now." He tapped his temple. "But we share one feeling clearly…"
"Oh?" She leaned forward. "And that is?"
"Revenge."
"Ha." She shook her head. "Abusing my sympathy… that should be a crime."
"If it were, I'd probably break it anyway." He knelt slightly, taking her hand. "So please, Lira."
She let out a tired sigh.
"You ask as if this is some grand quest. What did the poor soul do to anger you? Or anger the other you, technically."
"He bribed me to stay silent," Celtis hissed, "then tried poisoning me anyway."
"You sound more like a child every year." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I honestly don't know how you survived thousands of years before meeting me."
"Please."
"Fine, fine," she relented. "Go infiltrate the Curteis estate. Trey will appear at some point—but be careful. That man isn't called a knight of the council for nothing."
Celtis smirked. "Don't worry. Next time you see me, I'll be wearing a new skin."
He lifted a hand to wave—
"No! Don't teleport—!"
—and dissolved into blood before she could finish.
"—it wastes your lifespan…" she muttered, arms crossing. "Fine. Leave for another decade for all I care."
***
Trey stood stiffly as Celtis approached with deliberate calm, a flower in hand.
"It's a beautiful flower, isn't it?" Celtis said gently.
Trey's heart hammered violently in his chest.
Why am I afraid? He's just a village doctor… but how is he alive? Did he cure the poison? No—no, that's impossible…
"Why do you look tense, Sir Trey?" Oriel asked, puzzled.
"It's… nothing."
"Oh!" Celtis bowed politely. "You must be the well-renowned Sir Trey. It's an honor to finally meet you."
"Likewise…" Trey managed.
"But I can't shake the feeling you're afraid of me," Celtis continued cheerfully. "Do I remind you of someone?"
"Maybe," Trey muttered.
Is he Celtis? Could he have a twin? But that scar… both of them have that same scar…
Celtis walked past him slowly. As he passed behind Trey, he whispered:
"The poison tasted wonderful, you know. Maybe you should try it yourself."
A soft chuckle followed.
Trey didn't move.
He couldn't.
Fear held him rigid, rooted to the earth.