Joyous Desire Witch.

Bologue had heard this name before; Serey had mentioned it to him previously. From Serey's behavior back then, it seemed he was terrified of this Joyous Desire Witch.

"You want me to avenge you? To confront the Joyous Desire Witch."

Information doesn't come free, and now Bologue noticed the price Belphegor wanted.

Belphegor giggled, "No, the Devil never forces anyone. I just provided you with some necessary information, and whatever you choose to do next is up to you."

Bologue took a deep breath, the feeling was familiar; it was the same when he made a deal with the Tyrant, who offered him assistance to fulfill his revenge.

It seemed the Tyrant helped him, but in reality, he was unknowingly doing the Tyrant's bidding, intercepting that train, preventing the Mammon Coin from getting out.

Now it's the same, the Zongge Orchestra seems to have taken an interest in him for some unknown reason, the Joyous Desire Witch wants to add him to her collection, and Belphegor timely extended a hand. He knew that ultimately, he would be opposed to the Joyous Desire Witch.

Everything made sense, but the thought that he would inadvertently help Belphegor achieve some goal made Bologue feel uneasy.

"Alright, Mr. Lazarus, let's stop here."

Belphegor suddenly spoke; at the same time, the screen froze, and the film stopped playing.

It didn't stop; rather, the film had only been shot up to this point. Bologue looked ahead; the screen displayed a strange picture,

Numerous shattered mirrors interspersed together, all the fragments reflecting the same figure, Bologue's figure.

"Mr. Lazarus, you have the potential to become a Poet."

Belphegor suddenly grabbed Bologue's hand, and in his grip, Bologue's strength vanished entirely; then a fierce burning sensation surged from his palm as if Belphegor's hand had become a branding iron.

Bologue remained calm, and Belphegor looked at him seriously.

"Whether it's cold transactions or interpersonal relationships, sincerity is always the cornerstone of our mutual trust."

Belphegor slowly released Bologue's hand, the burning rapidly receding.

"I won't let you face it alone."

Bologue withdrew his hand, his left palm now showing a burned scar. Roughly, it looked like a blazing sun, or perhaps like thorns bunched together, with sharp spikes protruding outward.

A violent force surged for a moment inside, then quickly calmed down, like an ordinary scar.

"Then... I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Lazarus."

Belphegor smiled softly and snapped his fingers.

The light flickered and dimmed, the space began to distort, Bologue opened his mouth, tried to say something, but the sound from his throat turned into meaningless whimpers.

His vision plunged into darkness, then brightened a few seconds later.

Bologue's consciousness remained clear, yet his body felt weak, losing balance as he fell forward.

As Bologue was about to tumble, a pair of hands from behind caught him, preventing him from falling.

Bologue leaned against the wall, regaining control over his unresponsive body, his eyes weary and dry. He blinked forcefully before finally recognizing his surroundings.

He was now at the entrance to Lebius's office.

"Are you okay?"

A familiar voice sounded behind him, concerned, "Were you lost in thought? You looked absent-minded."

Absent-minded?

Bologue coughed a few times, turned around, Aimou stood behind him, face showing confusion.

"It's nothing, just had a bad sleep."

Bologue shook his head, forced a smile, "Good morning, Aimou."

Aimou ignored Bologue's words and pressed on, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Bologue confidently said, "I am the Undead."

Aimou watched Bologue, his gaze and aura shrinking down to a thin line.

"Alright then."

Aimou was successfully deceived by Bologue, she opened the office door, Bologue followed her inside. After a series of events, Bologue needed some time to process.

Suddenly, a sharp pain emanated from his palm, Bologue opened his hand where the scar left by Belphegor marked his palm, warning him that what happened wasn't an illusion.

Even worse, the Time Reversing Axis had no reaction to such a scar; it seemed unchanged by Bologue's Blessing, eternally etched on his palm.

...

After sending Bologue away, Belphegor was alone again in the cinema. In the vast space, he appeared solitary.

Belphegor picked up the remote, the screen darkened, then quickly lit up again, this time projecting a completely different scene.

The film's perspective was first-person, the camera swaying constantly with the character's movements.

Huge trees blocked the sky, bright light splintered into fragments, falling to the ground in utter darkness.

The character's breathing echoed within the cinema, holding a Short Sword vigilantly looking in one direction, shortly sensing an Ether reaction from ahead.

The opponent's attack hadn't been released, the scene twisted with the character's rapid movement, the roaring wind passing by.

The character saw a gleaming light in the dense forest. He raised his hand, and the next moment the ground beneath the target suddenly collapsed, then towering trees began to crumble as if an invisible giant hammer crushed everything along the way.

The Ether reaction weakened ahead, then completely vanished, and dying wails gradually came through.

The character approached the collapsed spot; the area had caved in meticulously, a perfect circle with distinct edges.

The target lay in the sunken circular recess, half embedded in the ground, exposed bone fractured and twisted, blood flowed copiously from the body.

The fatal wound was in the target's spine, crushed by immense force, bending the body, struggling to breathe, bloody spittle spilling with each breath.

The character stood before the target, then stooped down, one hand covering the eyes, the other thrusting the Short Sword along the throat, lifting forcefully upward, piercing through the skull beneath the chin, twisting the neck, ending the target's life.

With this done, the character's hands were drenched in blood, he sheathed the Short Sword, searched the corpse, quickly finding a pristine ticket amongst the blood-smeared clothes; it seemed impervious to elements and stayed clean.

"I got the ticket."

In the lengthy silence, the character spoke for the first time; it seemed self-directed, or perhaps spoken to Belphegor.

Belphegor smiled without a word.

The character flipped open a thick book, scanning the pages, the book appeared to have passed through many hands, each section penned differently, and paper varied from old to new.

He inserted the ticket in the latest page, closed the book, and stepped over the corpse, heading further into the forest.

Belphegor watched this scene with satisfaction, a strange smile on his face; the Devil never lies, he just... doesn't tell the whole truth.

Even if the Joyous Desire Witch promises present delights, there remains a fraction of Poets who still believe in eternity after death.

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