"Who the hell do you think you're fooling—"
Medici stared into her eyes, then turned and marched toward the exit. "I answered your question. Our deal is done."
He waved a dismissive hand as he walked. "You're not too bright — I'll be magnanimous and leave you your body. Goodbye."
Staying inside someone right now is too risky. A thousand years I've waited. I can afford to be careful.
"Wait!"
Melissa called out. "Tell me what's truly sealed inside the Magic Wishing Lamp — and I'll share a secret with you."
"Not interested."
"It's about the Red Priest."
Tap.
He stopped.
"Go on."
Melissa drew a breath. "You want to know — who will actually become the Red Priest?"
"???"
Medici turned back, unimpressed. "Now that I'm free, the Red Priest will obviously be me."
"Not you! You're only ever going to eat apples!"
"???"
"What is that supposed to mean."
Medici raised one hand. "You know I could flatten you with one tap, don't you?"
"I do," Melissa said honestly. "But you definitely want to know the answer. And you have to be curious why I would know something about the future."
A moment of silence.
Medici scratched his ear with exaggerated indifference. "So who becomes the Red Priest? Sauron? Einhorn? Is Tudor crawling back from the dead?"
Melissa shook her head. "None of them."
"His name is Lumian."
...
Deep in the night. 19 York Street, Backlund.
Vincent had finally wound down after a packed day and had barely lay down when a prayer arrived from the Nation of Disorder.
He turned over, tempted to ignore it until morning — then thought: outside of the first contact, only Audrey and the HP-world Bernadette had ever reached out on their own initiative. If this was urgent…
"Looks like I'm just like Klein — born to worry."
He stirred himself and entered the Nation of Disorder, settled into the stone chair, raised his hand, poured spirituality into the Scale. The figure that emerged in the golden mist was unexpected.
Sharron. In her black Gothic court gown.
The last time they'd met, he'd left the Lord of Chaos's honorific with her. He'd assumed she'd never actually use it — given that the Rose School of Thought had been brought low by an evil god's influence in the first place, having yet another unknown deity show up in her life was hardly appealing.
"So she thought it through and decided to fight fire with fire after all."
He suppressed a smile, poured more spirituality in, and opened a link.
...
At the same moment, in a desolate abandoned villa in Backlund's Bridge District, Maric held his breath as Sharron finished the three-part honorific. He'd wanted to be the one to recite it — right up until Sharron had overruled him.
"It should be me, Sharron."
He said it one more time.
"Sharron — you're the Temperance Faction's last hope. And me… hoping to advance to Wraith might already be an indulgence."
Sharron said nothing.
Then the world around her eyes flooded with boundless golden mist, and within it a hazy figure materialised at a distance — leaning back, gaze tilted slightly downward, unhurried.
Whatever calm Sharron projected was not as complete as it appeared. The Temperance Faction's principles, the Acting Method's requirements, and years of discipline all kept her emotions in check regardless. But facing something that might be an evil god, she could not be entirely without a flicker.
"Why have you prayed to me?"
Vincent's voice, filtered through the Nation of Disorder, became something hollow and vast — a voice that arrived before one realised it was there.
"I wish to receive your help, great presence."
"Oh? And what can you offer in return?"
Sharron let the quiet settle, then said simply: "My life. My everything."
Vincent smiled inwardly. "That's a significant price. Surely your request isn't small — don't tell me you're asking me to destroy the Mother Tree of Desire for you."
"Of course not, great presence."
She shook her head. "That is far beyond where I stand. All I ask is to survive."
"Tonight, we intend to hunt the Indulgence Faction pursuers in Backlund's dock district. Everything is in place. Barring the unexpected, we should be able to eliminate them."
"But I'm worried the unexpected may come."
She continued: "First — our ally used to be one of the Indulgence Faction himself. He left that path long ago. But I'm not fully certain their influence won't resurface in a moment of crisis."
"Second — I don't know whether the Indulgence Faction's demigod has already arrived in Backlund. If one enters the fight, we have no chance."
Vincent said nothing. He simply watched her.
Sharron bowed deeply. "What I ask is this: if something unexpected happens, great presence, would you be willing to intervene on our behalf — not to eliminate the threat, but only to buy us a window to escape. That is all."
"So in exchange for your life and everything you are — all you're asking for is a chance to run?"
"Yes."
The restraint she showed — knowing precisely what a being of this stature required, asking precisely what was proportionate — was the mark of someone experienced. Vincent found he genuinely couldn't think of a reason to refuse.
The problem: if the Indulgence Faction's demigod actually appeared, even with the Mystical Re-enactment ability and six chances, his guarantee meant very little. And a god rushing in to personally manage a fight was not a good look.
Klein had constructed fictional follower-angels for exactly this kind of situation. Vincent should know the same principle.
He leaned back, feigning contemplation, then said: "Your life and your everything are not sufficient to compel me to act."
Sharron bowed her head. "I understand."
"But — I can offer you another arrangement."
"Please, great presence."
"I can grant you certain special abilities — to improve your odds of survival in the crisis ahead."
Sharron bowed again. "Thank you, great presence. Great Lord of Chaos."
"Don't thank me yet."
Vincent waved a hand, and smiled pleasantly. "I haven't told you the price."
He paused. "Actually, it's quite simple. I don't want your life. I don't want your everything. What I want is for you to do certain things for me."
He produced a contract and let it drift down. "What exactly — it's all written there. Sign your name."
This time the phrasing came with the quiet weight of an instruction, not a request.
Sharron caught the parchment, scanned it, thought briefly — and bowed her head. "As you will, great Lord of Chaos."
"Good. Go back and accept what I'm about to give you. It might sting a little. Just breathe through it."
To be continued…
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