Re:Zero - Archbishop of Vainglory : Chapter 13-20

Chapter 13: Becoming a Minor Archbishop

Carlos felt that sort of thing required real feelings—and besides, she looked so young that he couldn't bring himself to make a move.

Then another thought struck him.

Wait… I’m even younger.

That realization sent his thoughts skidding in a very different direction. If anyone was committing a crime here… who, exactly, would it be?

Nine years old.

She looked twelve. Maybe thirteen.

By that math… neither of them was old enough to be legally guilty of anything.

“What are you thinking about?”

Pandora truly hadn’t expected a nine-year-old to spiral into thoughts that complicated. Watching his gaze hover awkwardly, then dart away, she wore an expression she rarely showed.

Confusion.

“N-no! Nothing! I wasn’t thinking anything weird!” Carlos blurted. “I was just… thinking about what you said.”

“I was referring to aura,” she said calmly. “A witch’s aura.”

“Uh… rubbing against you? Borrowing your scent?” He hesitated. “That’s how you get it?”

“…You may be even dumber than I thought.”

“…I feel like I’m approaching this logically.”

He really did feel wronged. Yes, she was dangerously beautiful, but she was still a child, apparently. He wasn’t harboring strange thoughts. He was applying common sense.

“Common sense?” Pandora tilted her head. “Ah… you grew up in a village, didn’t you? Then I suppose that’s my fault for explaining it oddly.”

She placed a hand over her chest, fingers curling as if grasping something unseen. A moment later, she pulled out a tiny black speck, hovering in midair, and held it out to him.

“This is a Witch Factor,” she said gently. “It grants power far beyond magic, an Authority.”

She clarified immediately that this wasn’t a natural Witch Factor. It was something she had created herself, using her Authority to twist reality.

The principle was vaguely similar to how the Witch of Envy could lend power to others, but the difference was crucial. Envy was sealed, supporting her Authority from afar and reclaiming it at will.

Pandora wasn’t sealed.

And she needed her power.

So instead of lending it, she was giving him the Simulated Factor itself.

Because her Authority couldn’t deny its own existence, once it left her hands, it could never be retrieved. To her, this was a one-time, irreversible expenditure.

The Simulated Factor was precious. But hoarding something forever was its own kind of waste. Giving it to someone she found promising felt… reasonable.

At least, to her.

"Go on," Pandora said with a soft smile. "Press it to your chest. From today on, you'll be an Archbishop. It can't compare to my Authority, and it doesn't count as a Great Sin—but a minor sin still counts."

“Minor…?”

So everyone else is a Sin Archbishop, and I'm a Minor Sin Archbishop?

What, they're master criminals and I'm just a pickpocket?

“I know it doesn’t sound flattering,” Pandora said, as if reading his mind. “But once you grow up, you’ll become a true Sin Archbishop.”

She nudged the black speck closer.

“Consider this my early investment. And a gesture of sincerity.”

“…Thank you?” he said uncertainly.

He wasn’t sure whether gratitude was appropriate, but he swallowed and accepted it anyway.

Somewhere deep down, he knew that the moment he used this thing, he’d be stepping fully onto the Witch Cult’s ship, no turning back. But looking at the girl smiling sweetly in front of him, he understood he had no choice.

Reality was cruelly simple.

He couldn’t beat her.

So, bracing himself, Carlos slapped the glowing speck against his chest.

And just like that, he was honored to become a Witch Cult Archbishop.

A Sin Archbishop.

…Well.

A Minor Sin Archbishop.

……

……

From that moment on, Carlos truly belonged to the Witch Cult. Pandora’s “aura” clung to him, a faint contamination in his mana that only those with unnaturally sharp senses could detect.

Some called it a lingering fragrance.

Others, a stench.

Either way, denying his ties to the Witch Cult would be pointless.

In exchange, the Simulated Factor granted him the Authority of Vainglory.

It allowed him to warp powerless beings or objects, slightly, temporarily, but the ability was almost useless in combat. Its true value lay elsewhere.

As long as he wasn’t killed twice in quick succession, or personally acknowledged his own death, Vainglory would resurrect him.

He wouldn’t age, either. His body would mature to its physical prime and stop there.

Immortality, with conditions.

Trading freedom for something that felt… off made him question whether it was worth it. He even tried testing the limits.

That very night, he fled.

A Dragon Carriage carried him over a hundred kilometers away before dawn. Convinced the Witch Cult couldn’t possibly track him, he checked into an inn and collapsed onto the bed, and the world flipped.

The ceiling vanished, replaced by towering stone arches. Painted murals spread across unfamiliar walls. He lay sprawled on a plush carpet in a grand bedroom.

“This is…?”

“What’s wrong?” a familiar voice chimed. “My little Carlos, are you really that surprised to be in my room?”

Pandora sat on the bed, silver hair gleaming, her smile as unreadable as ever.

“…Um. What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t find you,” she said lightly. “So I let you come to me instead.”

“I-I see… sorry. I just… couldn’t sleep alone. Thought I’d take a walk…”

Is this the Authority’s effect?!

This is absurd! How am I supposed to run from something like this?!

Her gentle, harmless smile made his insides churn. At this point, he was starting to suspect she was halfway to godhood, rewriting reality on a whim.

“I see,” Pandora said softly. “Poor thing. Then… why don’t you sleep with me tonight?”

She beckoned him over, warmth and acceptance in her eyes. No malice. No hidden desire. Just concern.

And somehow, that unsettled him even more.

Carlos froze.

He’d heard stories during his time in the Witch Cult. The witches, those who once stood beside Pandora, were… eccentric. Their morals, their desires, their behavior all diverged wildly from anything normal.

If Pandora had strange interests… well. It wouldn’t be shocking.

Normally, being favored by a girl like her would be cause for celebration. But this wasn’t some harmless crush. This was the hidden boss of a dangerous cult.

He wasn’t some fool willing to die gloriously for a cute face.

So if she really did have strange ideas…

How exactly was an intern villain supposed to resist the boss’s unspoken rules?

Chapter 14: Sharing a Bed with a Witch · Heading North with Sloth

“…Isn’t this a little inappropriate?” Carlos said carefully. “I’m nine, and you look… twelve or thirteen, right?”

After a frantic internal debate, he opted for a tactful refusal.

Pandora only laughed.

“You’re quite the smooth talker.” She tapped her chin. “Hmm. Fine, let’s say I’m thirteen. Either way, no need to be shy. Come on up, little Carlos. In over four hundred years, you’re the first person I’ve ever allowed into my room.”

“…R-really?”

Was she even trying to hide her age anymore?

Complaining felt pointless. With a sigh, Carlos climbed onto the bed, far larger than necessary, while Pandora smiled, ruffled his hair, and lay back down as if nothing unusual had happened.

……

The bed carried a faint, lingering fragrance, soft, intoxicating. Lying beside a silver-haired girl who was far too pretty for her own good made it hard for his thoughts to behave.

Then again… what exactly was he supposed to be restraining himself from?

He was nine.

What could he even do? Worry about wetting the bed and getting scolded? Overpower her?

Even if he somehow could fight her, his body certainly couldn’t.

“What are you thinking about?”

Pandora sensed he was still awake. She rolled onto her side, studying him. His age, deceptively harmless, clearly spared him from any suspicion of inappropriate thoughts.

Panicking that his wandering mind might show, Carlos forced himself to sound like a nervous child.

“I, I was just wondering why… why you’d want to sleep with me.”

“No need to be afraid,” she said softly. “I won’t harm you. In fact, I think very highly of you.”

Her finger brushed his cheek, just as it had the first time they met.

"In all these years, you're the only one who's overturned a fixed 'future' without relying on foresight, and without being summoned from another world by Satella." Her deep blue eyes held a quiet intensity. "Are you this world's hope? Or… mine?"

He didn't understand her words, but the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable.

“…What do you really want from me?”

“You’ll find out someday,” Pandora replied. “For now, be a good boy and sleep.”

She didn’t answer his question. Her hand lingered on his cheek as her lashes lowered, signaling the end of the conversation.

Carlos didn’t dare move, not even to brush her hand away. Wrapped in warmth that was equal parts comforting and unsettling, he lay there trying desperately to fall asleep.

Naturally, he failed.

Even after a night of running, even as dawn crept closer, sleep refused to come. Somewhere in his haze, a thought surfaced.

Maybe staying with the Witch Cult isn’t so bad.

A soft, fragrant, silver-haired girl at his side, even if she was dangerous, she hadn’t harmed him yet. Maybe there was no reason to stay tense. Maybe he should just… enjoy life.

That thought lasted about half a month.

Then Pandora sent him north.

She was expanding the Witch Cult’s branch in the Holy Kingdom of Gusteko, and Carlos was assigned to accompany another Archbishop, taking over the position of the minor official he’d killed and acting as a probationary Sin Archbishop under a veteran.

He’d braced himself for someone strange.

Even so, the man still shocked him.

Standing before a group of black-robed Witch Cultists was a gaunt, green-haired middle-aged man clad in the same black-and-red vestments Carlos wore, a textbook Sin Archbishop. His face was stretched tight over bone, sunken eyes glaring with manic fervor, like a starving corpse that refused to die.

Carlos glanced down at the magic stone Pandora had given him. It showed the man’s younger self, handsome, alive.

Did she retouch this because the real thing was too terrifying?

"…But even with heavy editing, how can the gap be THIS big?"

He wanted nothing more than to back away.

Too late.

The man noticed him first. He grinned wildly, and as the Witch Cultists behind him dropped to one knee, he bent forward in a perfect ninety-degree bow.

“So you’re Vainglory? A pleasure to meet you! So young! Such fresh blood joining us truly moves my heart! Welcome, welcome! Child favored by Lady Pandora~!”

He snapped upright, eyes gleaming.

“I am the Sin Archbishop of Sloth, Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti!”

“Uh… I’m Carlos. Archbishop of Vainglory.”

“Yes, yes! I know! The Oni Clan remnant who killed Fogel, right?”

“…You knew Fogel?”

“He was diligent once! But now! He’s dead!” Petelgeuse clutched his head, laughing. “Your diligence defeated his Sloth! Ahhh, magnificent~! You’re diligent too! Only diligence befits those who are loved! You are splendid!!!”

“….”

Nope. Completely unhinged.

After that, Carlos stopped responding altogether. He quietly labeled the man a deranged uncle and followed him onto the Dragon Carriage once the ranting ended.

……

At first, when Pandora mentioned the Holy Kingdom of Gusteko, Carlos imagined a holy land steeped in religious grandeur.

Reality was… harsher.

After enduring Petelgeuse’s nonstop babbling the entire journey, he finally arrived, only to discover a nation that felt like it had been built at the North Pole.

Snow never stopped falling. The land and lakes were eternally frozen. In this world of endless white, survival alone felt like a trial.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Carlos groaned. “I finally escape the village, and I get exiled to the Arctic?! This is the worst…!”

By the second day, he was huddled in bed, refusing to open the door, endlessly cursing the climate.

Outside, it was a frozen wasteland fit only for polar bears.

Unfortunately, his companion was the opposite of Sloth, an obsessive fanatic who worshipped diligence to a pathological degree.

Before Carlos could sink deeper into misery, the door slammed open.

Petelgeuse stood in the doorway like a ghost, snow and wind pouring in behind him. His head twisted sideways at a grotesque angle, eyes locked onto Carlos.

The sight was straight out of a horror film.

Carlos’ spine went cold. Any remaining sleepiness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate need to pee.

Chapter 15: Northern Street Punk

"You—"

Before he could finish, a shriek cut him off.

"Beloved believer! Archbishop Carlos!"

“Why, why, why are you indulging in Sloth at a time like this?! We must answer love with diligence! With diligence, I say! Aaaaah!!”

The moment the door burst open, the rant began.

“I’m getting up! Right now!” Carlos shouted, throwing back the covers. “Let’s dedicate ourselves diligently to love on this brand-new day!”

Any trace of sleep vanished. Afraid the man might truly snap, he dressed at lightning speed, Archbishop robes, cloak, everything, matching the older man’s fervor with his words while silently cursing him as a child abuser.

He didn’t want to be diligent. Unfortunately, he’d already seen what happened to those who weren’t.

On the way here, a Witch Cultist who lagged behind by a single step had been grabbed by the head and smashed into a wall hard enough to leave him barely alive.

After that, diligence stopped being optional.

His enthusiasm earned him a wide, toothy grin.

“Good! Very good!” Sloth roared. “Love must be repaid with diligence! We cannot betray affection through Sloth!”

“Exactly!” Carlos nodded eagerly. “So to work efficiently, we should split up.”

“Aaah such diligence!” Sloth twisted his lips into a ghastly smile. “But I won’t lose to you in diligence!”

In the blink of an eye, a crowd of Witch Cultists appeared behind him.

They’d changed into plain clothes. It was Carlos’ first time seeing their real faces.

They weren’t hardened soldiers or fanatical elites, just a mismatched group of men and women, young and old, with nothing in common except their expressions.

Blank faces.

Empty eyes.

Something unstable simmering underneath.

Carlos didn’t enjoy being around cultists, but sending a nine-year-old alone into a lawless northern city sounded worse. He took part of the group with him and headed out into the streets, keeping two women who looked relatively harmless as guards.

Snow fell without pause.

Through the white haze, he noticed the stark divide between rich and poor. A few households showed signs of wealth, but most people were thin to the point of fragility. Women especially. Men weren’t much better, gaunt, hollow-eyed, exhausted.

From a recruitment standpoint, it was perfect.

“Pick your own targets and preach,” Carlos said, clapping his numb hands together. “Dismissed.”

He waved most of them away, keeping only the two guards. Losing his usual source of energy meant he needed a new plan, new vitality. So he wandered the streets, abusing the privileges of childhood.

Flipping up heavy polar skirts.

Interrupting couples.

Flirting openly with respectable women.

Brazen. Shameless. Effective.

On the third day, just as shops were opening, he spotted a girl and jogged over, waving enthusiastically.

“Hey! Big sister over there, come here, come here! I’ve got something good to tell you.”

“What?”

She was thin, filthy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, tall for her age, with black hair hanging in tangled strands. But she wasn’t afraid.

Naturally. Being harassed by a nine-year-old wasn’t exactly terrifying.

Carlos didn’t care. He approached with his guards. When her eyes flicked to the two women behind him and she instinctively stepped back, he pressed forward, herding her into an empty alley.

He raised his hand, intending to slam it beside her ear in a dramatic pin, and realized she was too tall. The angle didn’t work.

Awkward.

He lowered his hand and pulled a gold coin from his pocket instead.

Only then did her expression change.

“…What do you want?”

“Nothing special,” he said cheerfully. “Just something that makes us both happy.”

Despite his frozen fingers, he bit off his right glove and lifted her chin, more like propping it up, with a deliberately sleazy grin.

“Let me touch you once, and I’ll give you this. Fair deal, right?”

“…Where?”

“Your chest.”

Silence.

Her eyes filled with pure disgust.

Then, snap.

She bit down hard on his hand and wrenched the coin free in one smooth motion.

“Ow, damn it! Are you a dog?!”

Carlos yelped, more shocked than hurt. She was already sprinting away.

The two Witch Cultists drew their swords without a word, ready to pursue.

“Stop.”

He raised a hand. They halted immediately and stepped back. No hesitation. No questions.

Killing wasn’t necessary.

Most Witch Cultists never questioned orders at all. Sometimes he wondered if they even had self-awareness. It made pretending easy.

Still, watching the girl vanish, his confidence, so inflated after killing a minor official, deflated just as quickly.

She was thin. Frail-looking. And fast.

I didn’t even react when she bit me.

“Was she some special race? A trained fighter?” He scratched his head. “Didn’t look like it…”

Annoyed, he let it go.

Oni Form was exhausting, and bloodline influence made emotions unstable. He wrapped his bleeding hand with bandages instead of healing it and began scouting for his next target.

……

Two months passed in the Holy Kingdom of Gusteko.

Dragged awake daily by Sloth’s manic enthusiasm, Carlos technically worked, others did the real labor while he roamed the streets harassing women and terrorizing cats and dogs for points.

Perfect behavior for a Minor Sin.

Within those two months, he became a well-known street punk. Occasionally, women even approached him, touching him without fear or disgust. Some enjoyed it a little too much.

That alone nearly gave him childhood trauma.

Members of the Oni Clan were exceptional sources of energy. Compared to them, ordinary people barely registered. No matter how hard he tried to make people hate him, two months of effort earned him only about sixty-seven points of negative emotion.

It made sense. He was just a nuisance, not a killer. Fear and hatred stayed shallow.

When he’d killed a Witch Cult minor official, the points had surged several times higher. Even killing ordinary Witch Cultists yielded more.

According to the system, it was because death maximized negative emotion in an instant, and the soul itself was absorbed by the Divine Essence.

The stronger the soul, the greater the reward.

That knowledge planted something ugly in his mind.

A whisper.

A temptation.

Kill them.

It lingered, urging him forward, growing louder with time. Enough that even he felt the pull.

Then he recoiled.

Am I insane? Killing people for points?

But…

Punishing evil instead of rewarding good.

Maybe that was a path, too.

Chapter 16: Prelude to Change

While Carlos wrestled with the demons in his own head, the blizzard outside grew harsher than ever. The cold gnawed deeper than usual, burying the entire city beneath an unforgiving blanket of ice and snow. And yet—

"A blizzard of this level means nothing compared to the Witch's love for me! The Witch loves me! And so we shall repay her with diligence!!"

Despite the bone-deep chill, Petelgeuse barged into the room as he always did, offering not even the slightest courtesy of privacy.

He hugged himself, his body writhing like a twisted worm, lips contorting into that familiar, grotesque grin, his idea of a morning greeting. An alarm clock from hell.

“…I’m a cadre, you know. So why is it that the one waking me up every morning isn’t a beautiful girl, but a crazy, ugly, terrifying old man…?”

That was the truth. Over the past two months, Carlos’ greatest torment hadn’t been the lecherous women harassing him, nor the whispering inner demon gnawing at his mind. It was Petelgeuse, who showed up every single morning without fail, shouting and twisting about outside his door in the name of “diligence.”

It was bad enough that Carlos had started to feel nostalgic for his early days at the Witch Cult’s base. Pandora might have been black-hearted, but at least she looked like a flawless little doll. Easy on the eyes, if nothing else.

Now? Every morning began with a horrifying uncle pulling faces at him. It was enough to ruin his appetite before breakfast.

Still, no matter how heavy his mood, he had no choice but to get up. He trudged into town as usual, stirring up trouble and harvesting the negative energy he needed.

Only today was brutally cold. The streets were nearly empty, and before long, the howling snow had piled onto him until he looked like a walking snowman.

That was when he saw her.

A girl with jet-black hair, so rare in a world of dazzling colors, caught his eye. The same girl who had bitten him a few days ago.

“…Don’t tell me the heavens are rewarding my diligence,” he muttered. “They’re handing me my revenge on a silver platter?”

Shivering violently, Carlos shook the snow from his head and shoulders, a vicious smile spreading across his face as he followed her.

The girl glanced around nervously before slipping into a small shop. Through the window, he watched her keep one eye on the owner while quietly hiding items beneath her clothes.

“Wow… stealing in weather like this? When there isn’t even a single customer?” He clicked his tongue. “Is she that desperate?”

He scanned the street. Aside from the cultists assigned to protect him, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

As he debated whether to wait for her to come out and snatch her loot as payback, the shop door suddenly slammed shut.

A sharp cry rang out from inside, followed by a man’s lewd laughter.

Carlos moved to the display window and looked in.

The girl had been shoved to the floor. A glass bottle of milk, hidden in her clothes, lay shattered beside her.

The man ignored her pleas. Laughing obscenely, he struck her as she struggled and tore at her clothing.

“Quit screaming! No one’s going to hear you in weather like this! If you behave, it’ll be over quick, you won’t suffer!”

“N-No! Please! Help! Someone!!”

No matter what the shopkeeper said, she screamed with everything she had. And that only made him more vicious.

Carlos might have been playing the villain these days, acting on whim more than principle, but there was one thing he couldn’t stand.

Rape.

Enemy or not, that crossed a line.

His foot lashed out.

BANG!

The flimsy wooden door burst open.

“What the hell?!”

The man jerked his head up in shock.

At the same instant, the girl, her upper body stripped down to her underclothes, snatched a shard of broken glass from the floor. She drove it into his stomach and ripped sideways with all her strength.

The man’s scream split the air.

Blood and entrails spilled out, splashing across the girl’s face. Her cheeks, raw with frostbite, flushed as warmth spread over her skin. She stared blankly ahead, almost dazed by it.

Carlos froze for half a second, stunned by the blood-soaked girl and the man collapsing in a heap.

Then he rushed forward and crouched in front of her. She looked at him instinctively, glass still clutched in her hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled off his thick coat and draped it over her trembling shoulders.

“…First things first. Put this on. You’ll freeze otherwise.”

“Huh…? You’re…” Her eyes slowly focused. “The little thug from before?”

Recognition flickered across her face. Panic followed. She tightened her grip on the glass shard.

“Hey, easy, easy. I’m not here to hurt you. I just… yeah, I know that’s hard to explain. But can you drop that? It’s dangerous.”

“…What do you want?”

Her wariness was obvious.

“Nothing. Right now, I think I want to help you?” He scratched his cheek. “Either way, we should get out of here.”

Without waiting for permission, Carlos pried the shard from her hand and tossed it aside. Then, relying on the Oni Clan’s inhuman strength, he scooped her up into his arms.

She was lighter than he’d expected. Alarmingly so. Starvation, plain and simple.

The moment he stepped back outside, the biting wind slammed into him. He shuddered hard. The girl murmured something as she stared at him, but the cold had him too distracted to hear it.

Taking her to the Witch Cult’s base was out of the question, it was far too dangerous. Instead, he rented a room at an inn and settled her inside. After a brief pause, he left his wallet on the table and slipped out.

A rare good deed. Playing the hero for once.

Watching her curl into his coat, face soft with relief, he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.

Which was how he nearly froze solid on the way home.

……

……

More than half a year passed in the Witch Cult's suffocating grip.

Carlos left the northern Holy Kingdom early and was sent drifting across the world on assignment after assignment. By the time he turned ten, nearly a year after joining, he'd failed to meet Pandora's expectations.

She dispatched him south of the Dragon Kingdom, to the Vollachia Empire.

Recently, the empire had suffered a devastating blow. The Archbishop of Greed had conquered the fortress city of Garkla and slain the imperial hero, the Eight-Armed Kurgan. Anti–Witch Cult sentiment had reached unprecedented levels.

But Carlos, newly arrived and isolated, knew none of that.

Focused solely on gathering negative energy, he threw himself eagerly into Witch Cult operations. He led his underlings, played the role of the boss, and drew hatred as usual.

In truth, his ambitions were small. Bully the weak. Coast through life. Grow stronger without risk.

A lazy, Sloth-ridden dream of peaceful days.

And then, one night, that fragile calm shattered completely.

Chapter 17: Prayers Do Not Bring Miracles

"Kill them!!"

"Purge the Witch Cult!!"

"Slaughter every last one!!"

The attack came without warning.

The eastern sky hadn’t even begun to pale when the overlapping cries of slaughter erupted from all sides, tearing Carlos from his dreams.

He barely had time to sit up before the wall of his room exploded inward. Stone and dust filled the air. There was no chance to enter Oni Form.

The world went black.

When consciousness returned, he found himself bound to a wooden cross alongside more than a dozen cultists. Below them, a crowd gathered, cheering. Reveling.

Instinctively, he tried to deny any connection to the Witch Cult.

Then he realized his mouth was stuffed shut.

They’d planned for this. Knowing he belonged to the Oni Clan, they’d cast sealing spells that crippled his strength, locked his transformation, and left his body frail and trembling.

No matter how he struggled, the chains biting into his limbs didn’t budge.

All he could do was watch as the executioner stepped forward.

A thick iron spike was pressed against his palm.

The hammer came down.

“Mmph?!”

White-hot pain ripped through him as the spike punched clean through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed into the air. He couldn’t even scream, only a strangled, broken sound forced its way past the gag.

The crowd roared.

Their excitement fed the executioner’s frenzy. Grinning, he raised the hammer again and drove a second spike into place.

The agony nearly shattered his mind. Any other victim would have passed out long ago, but Carlos was different.

As the ringleader, he’d been cursed with spells that prevented unconsciousness and magnified pain severalfold.

To make it worse, a massive stone had been hung from his legs. His entire body weight, plus the stone’s, pulled relentlessly at the wounds in his hands.

The damage wouldn’t kill him quickly. Not like this.

But the pain never stopped.

It clawed at him every second, stealing his breath, forcing his awareness into a razor-edged clarity that bordered on madness.

Each heartbeat was worse than death.

In what remained of his sanity, a foolish fantasy crept in.

In a situation like this… someone should come. A reliable companion. Someone to save me.

The thought barely formed before a hoarse, silent laugh shook his chest.

Reliable companion?

After a year spent acting like a thug and a villain, even if Ram or Rem stood before him now, they’d pretend not to know him. He didn’t deserve to meet their eyes.

He had no companions.

Only people who hated him. People who would hate him. And people who used him as much as he used them.

The system’s silence drove the point home. He wasn’t indispensable. Just an experiment, something a god tried out of idle curiosity.

If it worked, fine.

If not, no loss.

In pain that surpassed ordinary death, he once prayed for salvation.

Then abandoned the thought the instant it appeared.

Cheap, impulsive prayers didn’t suit him. All he wanted now was for death to come sooner.

But…

No miracle answered.

From the moment he arrived in this world, he’d known he had to change. Yet he never truly acted, clinging to comfort, hoping for a painless transformation.

He’d missed the truth.

Transformation was never gentle. Real change always drew blood.

Blinded by temporary safety, he’d forgotten a simple rule: without protection, rules offered no protection in return.

In this world, survival itself was a luxury.

Regret flooded his mind. Despair filled his lungs. Nailed to the cross, he mourned his Sloth, his stupidity, and endured each agonizing second in bitter clarity.

On the second day, the sky darkened. Cold rain poured down, splashing against his face. His mouth remained blocked. He couldn’t even drink.

On the third, the sun burned his skin raw. Flies swarmed his infected wounds, feeding, laying eggs. His heightened senses ensured he felt everything.

Pain. Itch. Revulsion.

The cross was simple. And cruel.

The longer one endured, the longer one suffered.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that death finally claimed him.

They piled firewood beneath the corpse, ready to burn it to ash.

Then the body vanished.

“W-Where did it go?”

“The corpse, it’s gone?!”

“He was dead!”

“Who stole it?!”

The onlookers searched frantically. Nothing.

Then a murmur spread through the crowd.

The man in black robes stood among them, exactly as he’d looked when first dragged to the execution ground.

“He’s not dead?!”

“That’s impossible!!”

“He's standing! And the wounds on his hands—?!”

“You’re… seeing things, right?”

A voice seeped through the crowd.

Cold. Reeking of blood. Like a whisper from hell.

The eyes that once reflected a cross now held no light. From Carlos’ forehead, a vivid crimson Horn had emerged.

Before anyone could react, two cross-shaped blades materialized in his empty hands, as if projected into reality.

He drove them straight into the bodies beside him.

“Run!!”

“Help!!”

Terror shattered what little courage remained. The crowd broke, scattering in blind panic.

Carlos didn’t stop.

Laughing, screaming, or perhaps neither, he carved through fleeing backs with twin blades, cutting down people who no longer had any will to fight. Hot blood drenched him head to toe.

A beast without reason.

A demon clawing its way back from hell.

By the time the ground ran slick with red, the edges of his weapons had dulled. With no one left nearby, he collapsed onto the corpses he’d made.

The stench of blood and exposed organs filled the air.

He noticed none of it.

He only stared at his hands.

Hands soaked in crimson.

Once, he would never have imagined this, being crucified, executed, or standing atop a pile of bodies.

Wrath. Regret. Sorrow. Hatred, toward others, toward himself.

They twisted together, clouding his eyes until they turned dark and murky.

That was when the people who’d fled returned, this time with fully armed guards.

“Over here!”

“That thing came back to life!”

"Drive it back—"

Before they could finish, a voice erupted behind Carlos, overwhelming in presence.

"Aaaahhh!! My brain… my brain is trembling, trembling, trembling!!"

As the crowd found courage again at the sight of soldiers, believing the demon would finally be purged—

Mad laughter rang out from the shadows.

Chapter 18: I Officially Grant You the Seat of Vainglory

Carlos’ gaze snapped toward the voice.

Petelgeuse stood behind him. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. A cluster of black-robed cultists waited in absolute stillness at his back.

Petelgeuse met his eyes. His lips twisted into that familiar, warped grin, and then the air exploded.

Unseen Hand.

“Gah!”

“Wha?!”

The guards sensed something wrong, a pressure in the air they couldn’t name. It didn’t matter. Invisible forces seized them like chicks in a hawk’s talons, yanking them screaming into the sky.

Power followed.

Their death cries ripped through the air as fragile bodies were crushed with casual ease. Blood rained down, hot and heavy, splattering the ground.

“W-What’s happening?!”

“I, I don’t know…!”

Those who remained stood soaked in their companions’ blood, minds shattered by one impossible turn after another. Terror broke them again. They fled, shrieking.

This time, Carlos didn’t give chase.

The Witch Cult did.

Black shadows surged forward. Monstrous hands spread outward from behind Petelgeuse, while above Carlos' head, a golden halberd bloomed into existence.

The nearby town was erased.

The fleeing crowd had no strength to resist a Witch Cult assault led by Petelgeuse himself. Exploding halberds screamed through the air like missiles, blasting buildings and people alike into fragments.

“Aaaah! Sloth!! Sloth, Sloth, Sloth!! We cannot be Slothful! To repay that love with sincerity, we must be diligent!!”

Petelgeuse strode past him, biting his fingertip, raving as always while his Unseen Hand reduced the surroundings to rubble. It felt less like madness and more like a warning, this is what Sloth leads to.

Carlos didn’t look at him.

He stared at the town.

There was nothing here that could survive the combined onslaught of Unseen Hand and the Light Halberd Matrix. Buildings. People. Everything was torn apart by power that defied reason.

All of it, played with, shredded, erased, like leaves in a storm.

……

……

The battle wasn’t a battle at all.

Within ten minutes, as the sun slanted westward over what had once been sacred ground, the last resistance vanished. The town became ruins.

What remained was a scene beyond human endurance.

Mountains of corpses. Rivers of blood.

Carlos walked through the wreckage. Burning bodies filled the air with the stench of charred flesh. Blood pooled around his boots, mixed with minced meat and scattered organs that reeked even worse than the smoke.

The setting sun, the flames, the blood beneath his feet, together they drowned the world in a violent crimson.

To Carlos, it all felt like mockery.

His thoughts. His dreams. His actions. His pitiful strength. His childish beliefs.

He had joined the Witch Cult. Become a Sin Archbishop. From the moment he took that role, he’d become a bastard by definition, if not the mastermind, then an accomplice.

And yet he’d believed that even if vengeance came, it wouldn’t come for him. That someone else would stand in front. That he could hide behind excuses.

How laughable.

He’d used “I can’t help it” to turn away from every tragedy. Took pride in not saving people, but not killing them either. Convinced himself that saving two children was his limit.

It wasn’t even hypocrisy.

It was filth pretending to be virtue.

Now he understood, viscerally, how irredeemable he was. More than once, he’d thought of simply dying.

His Authority only required him to accept death. If he did, it would be final.

If he wanted to avoid that pain again, maybe dying, forgetting everything, would be mercy.

But he couldn’t accept it.

If he’d died cleanly, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. But no matter what reasons or suffering his executioners claimed, he would never forgive those who tortured him.

That was why, even knowing his weakness might land him on a cross again, he still chose to revive.

Applause echoed beside him.

Bright. Cheerful. A girl’s delighted voice followed, sweet enough to suffocate.

Pandora approached, clapping her hands. Her youthful face, so beautiful it bordered on the unreal, was flushed with excitement, joy, perhaps even emotion.

Even her breathing sounded light as she gazed at him, eyes hazy with feeling.

“I finally understand what it’s like to be a mother,” she said softly. “You really did turn out to be worth raising.”

“…You’re insane.”

“Oh? You look far more insane than I do.”

She appraised his blood-soaked state without the slightest anger.

“…You were here the whole time, weren’t you.”

“Are you blaming me for not saving you?”

“No.” His voice was flat. “I don’t have that right.”

“Mmm~ very good. You’re wonderful like this.”

Pandora reached out, cupping his face with both hands, her smile mesmerizing.

“Given your delightful growth, your resolve, and your will to persist without accepting death… in the name of the Witch of Vainglory, I formally grant you the seat of Vainglory. From now on, stay by my side. Let me savor your future.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t agree.

He had no choice.

So he accepted.

Years followed. He stayed with Pandora as a child became a youth.

To him, those years felt longer than all his previous life combined.

In a world wracked by chaos, Carlos, both a core cause of that chaos and one of its leaders, killed and was killed more times than he could count.

The first two years erased him. He forgot who he was entirely. It wasn’t until the fifth year that he clawed his way back to himself, waking from the endless cycle of slaughter.

“…Does everyone end up becoming what they once hated most?”

He sat beside the corpse of a mercenary who’d come seeking vengeance, staring at the sunset over Oni Village, the same sunset he’d gazed at as a child.

He couldn’t remember what kind of hope he’d once attached to this future.

Arms wrapped around him from behind.

A silver-haired girl pressed close, her smile unchanged. Warm breath brushed his ear as her lips parted.

“Even if it betrays your original intentions, it satisfies reality. Forms may differ, but this is all just growth. You didn’t go astray, you simply grew up.”

“…I hate you.”

“Oh dear? How unfortunate. I like you very much.”

Pandora laughed softly, eyes narrowing as she pressed her cheek against his.

And yet, from her body, from her words, he felt no warmth at all.

Chapter 19: The Objective, Seizing Three Royal Selection Insignias

Eight years had passed since Pandora tore him away from the Oni Village.

Eight years of killing and being killed. Of scraping together points, always just short of purchasing the Pseudo-Scripture Forest Sky Severance, yet early on he had still exchanged for No Passage, stockpiling enough reserves to fabricate all kinds of replicated weapons. Over time, the system gathered most of this world’s intelligence as well, and finally issued his ultimate task.

Three months.

Within that window, he had to obtain three Royal Selection insignias from the Dragon Kingdom.

Any method was acceptable. As long as he possessed three insignias for a full day, the beginner mission would be officially complete.

There were only five insignias in total. Each candidate guarded theirs like a lifeline. In a sense, anyone who could take three of them held power enough to sway an entire nation.

Fail, and he would be sent to another world, one ruled by Ex-Machina and winged races, for a month of “training.”

He didn’t hesitate.

That world was crawling with monsters strong enough to shatter armies, all locked in constant warfare. Survival there wasn’t living. It was a battle royale.

So he set out at once for the Dragon Kingdom, intent on claiming the insignias before the deadline crushed him.

Yet his first stop wasn’t the Royal Capital.

It was home.

The Oni Village.

Eight years ago, it had been a paradise tucked away from the world. Now, it was a true Ghost Village, no, calling it ruins would be kinder.

Charred remains lined both sides of the overgrown road. No one had come to clear the debris. The only thing tended to was the dead. The bodies had been gathered, buried together, a stone monument erected with the villagers’ names carved into its face.

Only two people could have done that.

Ram and Rem.

“…What am I even chasing anymore?” he murmured. “What was all of this for? Was it worth it?”

His fingers brushed across the engraved names. His gaze drifted down, settling on his own hands. Hands soaked through with blood, again and again. Like a child lost at a crossroads, he stood there, directionless.

No answer came.

Only the evening wind howled past him.

It carried the same floral scent from the valley as it always had. The same as eight years ago.

But he wasn’t the same person anymore.

……

……

He left without laying down flowers.

After standing before the grave for a long time, he turned his back on the land where no one remained.

Taking insignias from three different factions alone was reckless, borderline suicidal. The thought crept in unbidden: should he seek help from a Sin Archbishop… or Pandora?

Pandora might have listened. But as a witch hidden even from the Witch Cult, she was taboo to mention, whether to the so-called moderates or the extremists. Calling on her lightly was impossible. As for the other Archbishops…

They were all lunatics. And none of them would take orders from him anyway.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed the silver-haired girl jogging into his field of vision along the busy street.

White clothes trimmed in purple. A rare beauty, unmistakable even at a glance.

But what caught his attention wasn’t her face.

It was her ears.

Long. Pointed.

Half-elf.

“Silver hair… half-elf…” he muttered. “Don’t tell me that’s Emilia. The Royal Selection candidate backed by that clown?”

Looking everywhere and finding nothing, only to stumble over it by accident.

Pandora had mentioned this girl before. The thought barely finished forming before he slipped after her, already planning to drag her somewhere quiet and take the insignia by force.

Then she stopped.

Right before an alley filled with cries of pain.

He peered inside.

Three thugs were beating a boy senseless.

The boy himself wasn’t remarkable, plain enough to vanish into a crowd in seconds. Short black hair, though. Rare in this world.

What mattered was his clothing.

A black short-sleeved T-shirt stamped with muddy footprints. Plain athletic pants. A jacket tossed aside nearby.

None of it belonged in this world.

Isekai, he realized at once.

One of the people Pandora had mentioned, those dragged here by the Witch of Envy.

As he considered how to deal with a clearly powerless outsider, Emilia spoke up, demanding the thugs hand over something important.

A bad feeling crept up his spine.

Then she saved the boy.

And immediately asked if he knew anything about her missing insignia.

His stomach twisted.

He hadn’t even made a move, and someone had already stolen it.

Crouched at the corner, he buried his face in his hands and sulked for a while. When he finally looked up, the half-elf and the boy had already emerged from the alley, teaming up as if it were the most natural thing in the world to search for the insignia together.

Ignored. Reduced to a passerby.

He pulled his hood low against the sunlight, thought it over, and followed again. If they succeeded, all the better—he could let them do the heavy lifting and swoop in at the end to steal the prize.

They wandered around like tourists.

Introduced themselves during a break.

That was how he learned the boy’s name, Natsuki Subaru. A Japanese high schooler, apparently.

Beyond that, nothing.

Their search was aimless. Worse, Emilia proved even more irresponsible than he’d expected, stopping to help a lost little girl in the middle of all this.

Eventually, after endless questions, they finally learned the truth.

The thief was Felt. A notorious name in the Slums.

By the time they reached the Loot House to recover the stolen goods, night had fallen.

“…What is wrong with these two?” he hissed under his breath. “How can they waste this much time over something that important? Walking around like it’s a stroll. Not an ounce of urgency!”

Up ahead, the pair chatted as they walked, unhurried and carefree. Following at a distance, he nearly drew a blade just to scare them into moving faster. If the insignia was sold before they arrived, he’d have to waste even more time tracking it down himself.

Then they entered the Loot House.

He blinked.

Darkness vanished.

Daylight flooded the world.

“…Huh?”

One moment, he stood outside the Loot House. The next, he was in the middle of a broad street, brightness stabbing at his eyes.

He stared up at the sky. The moon was gone. In its place—the sun.

Chapter 20: Thieves Robbing Thieves

“…What just happened? Did Pandora drag me somewhere again? Is this the other side of the planet? But this place…”

The situation was too bizarre. Instinctively, his suspicion landed on Pandora. She’d yanked him across national borders with a single sentence plenty of times over the years, if that was the case, everything around him made a twisted sort of sense.

Yet no matter how he scanned the area, the conspicuously obvious witch was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, he realized something stranger.

This was somewhere he’d already been earlier that day.

After stopping several passersby and confirming it again and again, the conclusion was unavoidable, this was still the Royal Capital of the Dragon Kingdom.

Night had fallen.

And now it was day.

Could Pandora pull that off? He wasn’t sure. Then again, she was a witch who could overturn causality itself, so maybe it wasn’t that shocking.

The real question was why.

And why no one else noticed anything wrong. This wasn’t a simple change in the sky.

“…What is going on? Time reversal? Then why wasn’t I affected?”

The unanswered questions made his head throb. He shelved them. The insignia mattered more.

With no clear answers, he changed course and headed for the thief’s home.

If the insignia had been sold to the Loot House, Emilia should’ve recovered it already. But if Felt hadn’t gone there yet, her home was the most direct route to the prize.

Even if time had reversed, the choices stayed the same.

Loot House, or Felt’s place.

If Felt went home first, he’d take the insignia from her. If not, he’d go to the Loot House and take everything, Felt included.

As for Natsuki Subaru… that could wait. He’d see later what kind of deal he could strike with Pandora. First, he needed to gauge the boy’s value.

……

The Slums lived up to their name.

They clung to the farthest edge of the Royal Capital, sharply divided from the city proper. On one side stood neat stone buildings. Across a small stretch of empty land—decay.

Stone houses with grass choking their roofs. Walls cracked and patched with planks. Some roofs gaped open entirely. If he had to sum it up in one phrase, the whole place looked like a war zone that never got rebuilt.

Deeper in were the real homes, single-story wooden shacks, dark and damp, steeped in a stench of rot, sweat, urine, and worse. Sanitation was nonexistent.

Two copper coins bought him a cheerful guide.

Felt’s home came into view.

Calling it “broken” felt generous.

“…Looks like a public toilet.”

More precisely, it resembled the old outdoor wooden latrines he remembered from another life. Except even those had doors. This shack didn’t. Just a large white cloth hanging where a door should’ve been, barely capable of blocking wind or rain.

Once, he might’ve been shocked. Now, after seeing slums across multiple nations, he barely reacted. He pulled the cloth aside and leaned in.

Inside sat a battered sofa doubling as a bed, patchwork cushions tossed on top. Beyond that, dirty pots and bowls.

Nothing of value.

“Who knows when she’ll be back…” he muttered. “I’ll wait.”

He set a cushion aside, sat on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

The sun dipped toward the horizon.

Footsteps approached.

“Haah… that guy was a real pain, but I still came out on, eh?”

The cloth lifted.

The girl froze when she saw him sitting there.

Stone-still.

He studied her calmly before speaking. “You’re Felt, right?”

“Wah!!”

She exploded backward, scrambling away in a panic before skidding to a stop ten meters out. Then she spun around, fury blazing in her eyes.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“That’s not important,” he said, standing with an easy smile. “What matters is this, could you give me the insignia?”

He walked toward her.

She drew a short blade from her waist.

Small frame. Messy short blond hair sticking out at odd angles, like she’d never bothered to tame it. Red eyes, sharp as a rabbit’s. A little fang peeked from her grin, her face unexpectedly delicate. About the same apparent age as Pandora. Her clothes were a mismatched mess, clearly scavenged, slums through and through.

"The insignia?" she snapped. "What is this, a joke? You a customer or what? Wait…"

Her hand pressed against her chest, guarding the spot where she'd hidden it.

“How do you know I stole it? I only told the client’s big sister. That just happened! You her partner or something?”

“Exactly,” he replied without hesitation. “Hand it over. She’ll give you the money later.”

He didn’t know any client. Didn’t matter. His confidence never wavered as he held out his hand.

“Come on. Give it here.”

"Hold it!" Felt snorted, shaking her blade at him. "Whether you're her partner or not, I don't care, but in this line of work, it's money first, goods second. What if you take it and run? Who do I get paid by then?"

But if she were truly dangerous, she wouldn't still be scraping by in a slum like this. Seeing through the bluff, Carlos didn't bother being polite.

“You misunderstood. I was clear from the start. I’m not here to buy stolen goods. I’m here to take them.”

“…The owner’s people?”

"Third party," he corrected. "Hand over the insignia, and I'll give you one Holy Gold Coin for travel expenses. I also won't report your theft to the guards. I favor peaceful solutions. I don't like unnecessary violence."

But when it's necessary, I won't hesitate.

He didn't say that part aloud—but Felt heard the threat anyway. And shrugged it off.

“In your dreams! This thing's got a gem on it! That gem alone's worth more than one Holy Gold Coin! And I worked my ass off to get it! You think I'm a beggar?”

She backed away and, almost boastfully, pulled the insignia from her clothes. A dragon motif, with a red gemstone set at its center—glowing faintly.

He stopped.

Because if his memory wasn't failing him, that wasn't an ordinary gem.

It was a Dragon Jewel.

Only a Royal Selection candidate—someone chosen by the Divine Dragon to potentially rule Lugunica—could make it glow.

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