Hieronymus and two men carried the corpse outside.

Judging from Hieronymus's expression as they left, it might have been a mistake to show them how I absorb warmth.

Still, it’s better than having this discovered later in a more incriminating way.

However, I didn’t expect the transformation to happen so quickly. Previously, there had been a faint connection remaining, but this time there wasn’t even that.

They weren’t looking at me through their own perspective anymore.

This raises the question: what am I, exactly?

Of course, it’s not something I need to dwell on. Before pondering over my identity, I need to gather more warmth.

This might be the only opportunity I’ll ever have to emerge into this world.

If I sink back into that abyssal sea, aimlessly swaying at the bottom, I might never again have the chance to take form like this.

After all, this body isn’t mine.

The success with Joanna was only possible because of this vessel. Up until now, even the smallest exertion of what I could manage resulted in explosions.

Speaking of Joanna, she’s giving me a strange look. What is it? Could it be that she’s afraid of me after what just happened?

But for someone supposedly scared, she still looks at me with the devotion of a believer.

In fact, her reverence seems to have grown even stronger.

Perhaps it’s because I turned someone into a monster.

From Joanna’s perspective, it must seem like an extraordinary power.

Especially since she herself underwent such a transformation.

I stood up and surveyed my surroundings. The room was filled with luxurious furniture, adorned with intricate decorations, yet lacking any sense of cohesion.

This lack of unity must be intentional to conceal the strange mechanisms above. The oppressive atmosphere permeating the room likely comes from these devices.

The arrows from the altar and the blades the men had been carrying earlier seemed coated with something similar.

Meanwhile, Joanna stepped outside to fetch cleaning supplies from a corner, perhaps to wipe away the blood spilled when she decapitated the boy.

Being able to see multiple things simultaneously is fascinating. If only I could see what was happening near Hieronymus as clearly—it would be reassuring.

Or perhaps it’s just Hieronymus himself.

Given his wariness toward me, it might be difficult to turn him into someone like Joanna.

I’ll wait for the right moment.

Primary goal: Increase the number of harvesters. Production plans are in place, so I just need to finalize schedules and quotas.

Next, I need to figure out how to harvest even more warmth.

Looking at Joanna, she exudes a confidence typical of those who’ve gained power. But that’s all it is—confidence.

Her light has turned a dark purple, and her skin has become blue. One would expect her to exhibit more... impulses, but there’s nothing.

In contrast, the boy from earlier, Cheki—his name was—reacted differently.

He became like me when he lost his warmth. Feeling the same bone-deep cold I do, he instinctively realized that the light before him was warmth and attacked.

The girl in front of him, Patricia, was struck by the bizarre arrow Cheki created and died.

Considering the chain of connection, shouldn’t the warmth have flowed from Patricia to Cheki before I took it?

But the warmth came directly to me.

Or is it that all calculations are resolved beforehand, leaving only the final result?

What is warmth, anyway?

The light seems like a soul.

Or perhaps a vessel containing a soul.

Warmth resides here. Light falls to me from above. In the past, during a time when I couldn’t even make it explode, all I could do was watch it fall.

Then came a time when light stopped falling, and after what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to obtain warmth again.

So, I consumed warmth just now. The light shriveled and grew murky, but it remained.

Where, then, did all the light that has fallen to me so far go? Licking the light gave me warmth and memories.

Even now, I’ve licked it.

But the light hasn’t disappeared.

Perhaps the light that falls to me vanishes somewhere mid-process. They all seem to come from lives that ended prematurely or in despair, which makes this warmth unbearably bitter.

On the other hand, light from those who lived happily and met tragic ends held far greater warmth.

So warmth is likely tied to joy, happiness, and anticipation for the future, as I initially thought.

In other words, to gain warmth, I need to turn those in a positive state into beings colored by my essence before killing them.

I need warmth.

So I must do whatever it takes.

Fortunately, Hieronymus harbors hatred for the current ruling class. While he might claim to despise all nobility, the truth is his personal grudges are limited to a select few—likely no more than one or two individuals across a couple of nations.

Still, he built this cult, the Future Hope Sect, out of his hatred.

He has no right to stop that hatred now. If he denies it, someone else will kill him and take his place, inheriting the justification to continue leading this sect.

This is why every dictator inevitably corrupts—no matter how pure their ideals might be, those who follow them rarely share the same purity.

Those with power must be appeased, or the first dictator’s death will only pave the way for a second.

Hmm, indeed.

As long as I grant strength, I can maintain this factory. This place is a ranch designed to cultivate hatred.

Then I must expand the harvester network.

Joanna’s physical abilities have improved significantly. She identifies her target, holds them down, regenerates her injuries, and coolly aims for their light.

It’s a highly effective power.

I returned to the room and watched Joanna wipe away the blue blood from the floor and walls with a cleaning rag.

She now takes the form of a beautiful woman, but she’s over 50 years old. A woman who was once pure and lovely in her youth, but was broken by her abusive husband and the loss of her child.

It’s no wonder she shows no hesitation when doing menial tasks.

How will she change?

I sat and observed Joanna Smith, who continued scrubbing the floor while occasionally touching her waist and smiling with satisfaction.

   ***
   

Hieronymus, whose real name was Yasle, carried the corpse to his laboratory.

One of his subordinates placed it on the operating table, then bowed to Yasle before leaving the room.

Once the two had fully departed, Yasle turned his gaze to the corpse.

What lay before him was something so grotesquely mutated that no one would believe it had once been human.

This was the leftover remains of a meal consumed by the entity wearing Rebecca Rolf’s skin—a being that had drained the warmth from its prey.

Taking precautions, Yasle donned thick gloves and drove a blade into the corpse.

From the left side of the boy’s face, which showed no signs of bruising, a massive horn had sprouted.

Yet, it resembled more a lump of flesh than a hardened carapace. What Yasle focused on, however, was the skull. Flesh swelling was common, but truly powerful magic or curses distorted even the bones.

When he scraped away the flesh, he found only fragments where a full skull should have been.

This confirmed the immense power that had caused such changes.

It also served as evidence that whatever entity inhabited Rebecca Rolf’s skin was stronger than expected.

Just as he was about to delve deeper into his analysis, the door burst open.

Yasle looked up.

Standing in the doorway was a figure barely half his height.

This individual was one of the four stationed before the staircase leading up the step-pyramid altar, further inward than the three concentric circles of the summoning site.

Their defining feature was the staff they carried, taller than themselves, adorned with a human skull fused to a spine.

As they stepped inside, the figure cast aside the cloth they had draped over themselves, revealing dull silver hair cascading down and the face of a young girl.

Though her features could be described as those of a beautiful girl, the wicked smile she wore made her appearance unsettling as she approached Yasle.

“Oh ho! So this is the creature that monster created! It’s just as grotesquely twisted as the ones outside described.”

“Hyungkeshni. You are not permitted to enter this place without permission.”

Yasle addressed her by name, to which the girl responded with a mockingly surprised expression.

“Come on now, shouldn’t we examine this together? We need to figure out exactly what this thing is that’s squatting in the body we prepared for the god. Don’t you agree, Yasle?”

Hyungkeshni laughed, her voice clear and melodic, as she teasingly called him by his name.

“Hyungkeshni.”

“Ah, my apologies! I forgot—you go by Hieronymus here, don’t you? Who would have thought that the once-innocent leader of the Spirit-Pure Kingdom would become the vilest of cult leaders? Life truly is unpredictable.”

Taking small, deliberate steps, Hyungkeshni approached Yasle, stopping before the monstrous remains. She plunged her hand into its head, rummaging through its distorted flesh.

After pulling her hand back, she grabbed her staff, made of human bone, and walked toward the twisted body.

The staff’s sharp end pierced into the severed neck.

Thunk.

The skull on the staff opened and shut its jaw a few times before going still.

Hyungkeshni examined it with a surprised expression, tapping the staff lightly before placing her hand over the creature’s chest, where the heart should have been.

“This isn’t human. Was it ever human to begin with? There’s not even a trace of a soul. Hmm… Ah, there’s a faint residual energy. Is this what that thing carried within itself?”

From the chest, a faint purple mist rose, shimmering briefly before disappearing as if it had never been there.

Hyungkeshni’s smile faded. She brushed her unkempt silver hair aside, her expression turning serious.

“Did you discover something?”

“A little. But this…”

She suddenly leaped onto the operating table, rolling up her sleeves to her shoulders. Her small, pale hand pressed against the spot where the heart should have been.

A dark shadow enveloped her hand as it gripped the chest, but Hyungkeshni abruptly recoiled.

Yet, the shadowy hand she had created couldn’t escape; it was caught at the center of the body.

Then, as if a tiny black hole had formed, everything within a handspan’s radius collapsed inward, vanishing except for the light.

“A magical dual-annihilation phenomenon. Ha! You actually summoned something from beyond the void.”

“What is it?” Yasle asked.

Rather than answering, Hyungkeshni hopped off the table with a sly grin.

She turned to Yasle, her face alight with amusement.

“A monster. In the Spirit-Pure Kingdom, they call it a Void Being. Those in extreme despair cause massive explosions, pulling everything around them into nothingness before vanishing. The false god you created, Krssaksshibal—it has many names, but they all mean the same thing.”

Hyungkeshni raised her arms, her face a chaotic blend of murderous intent, mockery, and twisted glee, and declared:

“As the Witch of Ecstasy, I confirm it—you summoned the real deal, Yasle. The laws of sin and despair that every cult and heretic desired but failed to invoke!”

Her expression, a wild mix of hatred, joy, and scorn, seemed to embody nothing but frenzied ecstasy as she proclaimed:

“You! Did it!”

Then, with a laugh that sounded like blood being vomited, Hyungkeshni cackled uncontrollably.

And why wouldn’t she? Yasle, who once stood against all cults and heretics, had fallen to revenge, only to summon the very god of vengeance those cults had yearned for.

Yasle briefly touched the place on his neck where the Spirit-Pure Kingdom’s sacred insignia had once rested. Finding nothing there, he lowered his hand.

Glaring at Hyungkeshni, who was still his enemy despite their shared past, Yasle picked up his blade to resume his analysis.

Ignoring her mad laughter, he focused on studying the remnants of the being he intended to use.