Semua Bab The Demon's Deal - Night of Walpurgis: Bab 21 - Bab 25

I was pretty sure I smelled like goat piss.Day three. Still no Faust.My legs ached, my thighs were chafed, and I was ninety percent sure something had crawled up my hoodie and died in there. I dragged my feet along the forest trail like a zombie with a vendetta, slipping every three steps on pine needles or moss. My once-white sneakers now looked like they’d survived a war crime. And my hair? Let’s not even go there. It had gone from "bedhead chic" to "feral cryptid.""Paimon," I groaned, dragging myself forward like a dying squirrel, "just carry me already. I think I’m developing blisters in places that don’t even make biological sense."The Demon King of Mood Swings didn’t even look back. He just kept walking, all brooding and dramatic, his long coat swishing behind him like he was strutting on some apocalyptic runway."I am not a beast of burden," he said coldly."No, you’re worse," I muttered. "You’re a dramatic leather-wearing tyrant with zero compassion."Aurora floated ahead

I hated the smell of this place. It reeked of iron, old books, and defeat—the kind of decay that didn’t rot, just lingered. A human’s scent, marinated in years of curses and blood. Worse, it belonged to a man too stubborn to die and too dangerous to ignore.I stayed near the cabin wall, arms crossed, my coat heavy with infernal power. My skin still burned faintly from the runes etched into the doorframe. Petty defenses. And yet, I had stepped inside anyway.Because of her.Alice perched awkwardly on the edge of a battered chair, eyes flicking between Faust and the fire. Her hoodie looked like it had fought a raccoon. Her hair was like it was lost. And yet, her soul still pulsed brightly—naive, stupid, untouched by true corruption.I wanted to carve my name into it. Slowly. Permanently.But Alice’s soul wasn’t just bright—it was loud. Too loud. It rang through the planes like a bell at midnight, calling attention. Calling vultures. I knew what would happen if it ended up in the wrong h

The days that followed were slow, dull things. Like mud sliding through my veins. I did not eat. I did not sleep. I stopped tending the garden. Stopped mixing herbs. Stopped answering when people knocked at the door.They came at first—curious, hesitant. Perhaps with questions. Perhaps with guilt. I wouldn’t know. I did not open the door.I remember sitting on the floor for hours, my back against the wall, staring at a chipped cup Matilda once used for tea. There was still a smudge of raspberry jam on the rim. I didn’t clean it. I didn’t move it. I just watched.They killed her.And they called it justice.I tried to go back to the chapel. Just once. I stood in the back, listening to the same golden bell I used to love. It sounded like mockery now. When Father Gregor rose to speak, I left. If I had stayed, I might have killed him.But I did go back to healing. Not for them. For me.I wrapped wounds with shaking hands. I boiled herbs with hands that could no longer feel warmth. I stitc