"What are you saying?" Grace asked, her face filled with confusion. "I am Grace."
"No. You are not."
Alastair snapped the words out, then spun on his heel and strode toward Belmuth.
"What does this mean?"
His fist clenched tight as his voice dropped, thick with restrained fury. His ruby-red eyes locked onto Belmuth, burning with murderous intent.
Belmuth merely shrugged, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
"What do you mean? I gave you a perfect Grace, and now you think of breaking our agreement? Do not forget. You made a soul contract with me."
That was true.
He could not play tricks while bound by a soul contract.
But this… this was not Grace.
Or had he made a mistake?
No. The contract was clear. Grace was to be revived perfectly. If she were imperfect, his soul should have already shattered.
Alastair narrowed his eyes, studying Belmuth, then turned his gaze back to Grace.
She looked exactly like Grace. Her gestures, her presence, even her soul aura were identical.
And yet—
Grace would never think of Charlotte and Sybil as disposable tools.
Grace would never accept him stealing Talis's body.
Never.
But if she was not Grace, then the soul contract should already be taking effect.
So why was Belmuth unharmed?
Her soul aura was unmistakably Grace's.
Then where had it gone wrong?
Alastair's thoughts spiraled, his head throbbing. The more he looked at her, the worse it became. He had hoped for this moment for far too long. He could not accept this outcome.
Calm down.
Losing control now achieves nothing.
What did I overlook?
"Well?" Belmuth pressed. "Hand over your body already. Do not forget your soul contract."
The soul contract…
Or rather—
Alastair's eyes flashed.
"I will not give you my body," he said coldly. "Because I have not received what I was promised. She—" He pointed at Grace. "—is not Grace."
Belmuth laughed.
"Enough games. If she is not Grace, then what is she? Are you not afraid your soul will shatter?"
"If that were true," Belmuth continued lightly, "it would be even better. Taking your body would be easier."
"I am not afraid," Alastair said, standing at his full height, his gaze fearless.
"Just as you are not afraid either."
"Oh?" Belmuth tilted his head. "And why is that?"
"Because," Alastair said calmly, "there was never a soul contract between us to begin with. Am I wrong?"
Belmuth burst into laughter.
"Sharp. Very sharp. How did you see through it?"
"I was trapped by the idea of a soul contract," Alastair replied. "It made me trust you completely. But when something went wrong—when you showed no fear of consequences—I realized the only explanation."
"There was never a contract."
"I do not know when you did it, nor how. High-level illusion magic, I presume. But it does not matter. You cannot deceive me."
His voice turned glacial.
"So tell me. How do you intend to compensate me for wasting my time?"
No matter how powerful Belmuth was, Alastair would never allow himself to be used.
If it came to it, he would destroy this body.
Belmuth studied him with unsettling amusement.
"You are thinking," Belmuth said softly, almost whispering, "that if cornered, you will self-destruct rather than let me have your body."
"That is correct."
Belmuth chuckled.
"Then allow me to share something amusing. I am not trying to take your body. I already have."
"What?"
Alastair froze.
Impossible.
If Belmuth was possessing his body now, then what was this state he was in?
Which part was real?
Which was illusion?
Then it struck him.
The scent.
The strange, sweet fragrance from their very first meeting.
His face went pale.
He had never escaped the illusion at all.
"Indeed," Belmuth said, his voice echoing unpleasantly close. "You have been dreaming since the moment we met. I was merciful. You lost your body, yes—but you were allowed to remain in a beautiful dream."
"A dream where you could stay with the woman you love forever."
"Is that not kindness?"
"Bastard!" Alastair snarled. "I do not want a false dream. And that is not Grace. Not even close."
"Release me. Now."
"And why would I?" Belmuth replied lazily.
"You underestimate me."
Alastair clenched his jaw.
He remembered Charlotte.
How she had awakened through sheer will—and erased Grace's memories while he was in the midst of stripping her own away.
She had been far weaker than him.
And yet she had defeated him once.
Then I can do it too.
Alastair gathered every ounce of willpower he possessed, focusing his spirit with ruthless intensity.
I will not give him my body.
Even if I die, I will drag him down with me.
Wake up.
In that moment, he finally understood the enemy from a thousand years ago—the one who had cursed him out of pride and hatred.
So this was what it meant to refuse defeat.
"I told you," Belmuth's triumphant laughter echoed, "you cannot escape this dream. Sleep forever, and I will devour your soul at my leisure."
"Alastair," Grace's voice pleaded softly. "Do not abandon me again. I love you. Stay with me."
"Shut up," Alastair snarled.
She had no right to wear that face.
No right to speak with that voice.
"Idiot demon!" Vera's voice cut through the air. "What are you doing? This is real. Not a dream."
Vera.
Yes. That method.
Good.
Wake up.
Now.