Tibaut gave her a doubtful glance.

“Essence… what would that be exactly?”

She reached into the dead man's mouth and pulled out a small crystalline cube.

“This.” She said, before handing it over to him.

He took it and began observing it. It had a blue hue and gave off an iridescent sheen in the centre of each square. It had a height no greater than his thumbnail but was surprisingly weighty. A small pouch of these could easily bludgeon someone.

“Okay, so what is this ‘Essence’ exactly?”

She looked confused.

“Uh, sir,”

“Don't call me Sir, I'm only sixteen.”

“Eh? Really!?”

(“Is it really that surprising?”) He thought to himself.

“I knew you looked young but…”

“That's beside the point, can you explain what this is?”

“...” She looked away and began scratching her head. Tibaut grabbed her cheeks and turned her to face him.

“Explain.” He asked in a forced tone that deepened his voice.

(“Pft, keep practising and one day you'll sound like a man.”)

The woman broke out into a cold sweat and began jittering while doing her best not to maintain eye contact.

(“Maybe it's a secret that'll get her killed if she tells me. Guess I'll just have to force her.”)

“Promise you won't get mad.”

Tibaut raised an eye at this comment but gave her the go-ahead.

“Well, the thing is… I don't know.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Repeat that?”

He wanted to accuse her but based on her facial expression she was either a really convincing actress or she truly had no idea. And based on their earlier interactions…

“Ugh, out of all the cultists, I find the only one that slacks on their studies.”

“It's not like that! I don't think even the priest knows.” She hurriedly added.

“Really? Well whatever, so is this the reason your colleagues kill people in cold blood.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Y-yes.”

“Don't you feel disgusted with yourself knowing you work with such a group?”

“...”

“Sigh Whatever. We've spent a while talking, how long would it take for someone to come check up on you guys?”

“Oh, I think we're supposed to report to the dungeon by the end of the week usually.”

“Dungeon? They have another one?”

(“Oh, guess the cat's out of the bag now.”)

(“..........What do you mean by that?”) Tibaut asked, feeling greatly unnerved by that sentence.

(“Well, I sensed something and I guessed pretty quickly it was that dungeon your group was supposed to go to.”)

Never had Tibaut felt the urge to kill himself. But this thing that had taken residence in his head had him contemplating that action with those careless words. If he could delay whatever this bitch wanted by even a day then he felt his death wouldn't be wasted.

(“You're lying.”) He flatly denied it and had to lean against the woman as support when he heard those words.

(“Why would I lie to someone of your standing? Besides I'm sure that woman you had with you along with those other cretins would have made independent traversal an annoyance. So from my perspective, this was the correct choice.”)

("An annoyance? You had me fight Elizabeth and come here by myself because it would have been an annoyance!?”) He snarled at them.

(“Yes.”) There was no hesitation in their answer. He felt like he was going to have a blood vessel rupture with how much his body had tensed up. A man who had eaten nothing but salt for a week would have a lower blood pressure than him.

“Ow, p-p-please I'm sorry for what I said!”

He wondered what she was begging for but realised in his anger he was tightly clutching her cheeks. He let go and apologised for it, and it left her at a loss for words.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, just show me the way to this dungeon of yours. I want to get this shit over with already.”

“R-right.”

They began walking through the forest and Tibaut no longer cared. Not about the cultists or their origins. He could figure all that out when he was in better company. He had only one goal and that was to do whatever this asshole in his head wanted him. That was all. If he spent any more time digging for details with the cultists he felt he would obtain more information from that voice that would make him want to rip his head open to reach that bitch.

(“Silly, I'm not here physically!”) They remarked sarcastically to his thoughts.

They encountered the tied-up rider and his horse nearby.

“Did this guy kill anyone?” He asked.

“Umm, I don't think he mentioned being a part of the collection squad.”

Tibaut hocked a loogie. “Collection squad? Do you think you're taking out trash?”

She didn't respond.

“So you say we have a week?”

“Well, for us show up in person. We have a piece of paper we write our signatures on, but it's collected inconsistently. It could be tomorrow or three days. I don't think they'd take it too seriously but they'd probably start looking for us.”

“So in and out before they discover me. (Just to confirm I'm not killing anyone, right?)”

(“Nope, just confirming something. Though I don't care how you go about it.”)

“How far away is the dungeon?” Tibaut asked.

“About five hours on foot.”

(“Even if they search her cabin in a day, it'd probably do me more good to get some good sleep, than risk going in there groggy.”) He thought as his fatigue became evident.

With that decided, he began gathering tinder and branches to make a fire. The heat and the light were irrelevant. The only thing he used it for was to make good use of the leftover horse.

He borrowed her knife and used it to hold pieces of meat over the fire.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Y-yeah, it's Agnes.”