He was seized by Odellit Marcelion and subjected to an interrogation that felt more like a twisted experiment.
Was it the 47th life?
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, posing yet another riddle to himself.
Which life is this one?
After the interrogation room of the Mage Republic from before, this time the setting shifted to the interrogation chamber of the Holy See. It seemed the two nations were locked in a grim contest to showcase their most ruthless interrogation techniques.
Branded a heretic, he endured their torment. His body, ragged and useless, lingered in a state where it awaited only the incinerator’s flames. It was then that the stunning, dark-haired saintess, Muriel Philize, appeared once more.
With an expression and voice brimming with saintly compassion, she addressed him.
“This world demands your death. I’m sorry. And thank you, Sir Thesilid.”
…The 88th life.
Nausea twisted his gut, his lips curling in revulsion. As he wrestled to suppress his emotions, death slipped past him.
He asked again.
Which life is this?
Shwaaaa…
Rain lashed…