As evening settled and I finished my meal, Hieronymus suddenly appeared.

When the door opened, Hieronymus entered with a stoic expression, though his tension was palpable.

What had him so tense? He’d likely explain soon enough. I handed the dishes to Joanna and walked toward him.

“Good evening, Hieronymus.”

I wanted to ask about his condition, but not yet. Patience. Just stick to a simple greeting, the kind I always give. Repetition is comforting to people. If I were to suddenly laugh and greet him with something casual like, "Oh, you’re here?" I imagine Hieronymus wouldn’t hesitate to strike me with one of those magical tools hovering above my head.

So, I greeted him as usual. Nothing more, nothing less.

Speaking often helps bridge misunderstandings between people. Conversely, the less I say, the harder it becomes to mend differences in perception. And, naturally, it reduces the chances of me slipping up with my words.

Why craft a character for myself, you ask?

Because I’d like to stay here as long as I can. If I fall back to the bottom, I might disappear altogether. So, I must gather as much warmth as possible while I can.

I portray myself as weak because strong characters have their flaws exposed too easily. I lack the power or intelligence to support the traits of strength. If I could, I’d be blasting death beams at anyone who annoyed me, behaving like the worst kind of monster imaginable.

Regrettably, I can’t.

Living beings learn through fear and reward. With such abilities, I could have conditioned these people, offering the blessing of warmth as a reward and the terror of death as punishment.

Fear alone doesn’t work, though. Without a balance, things twist and break. Even when you’re thorough, exceptions will arise. Take Tis’ha, for instance.

He realized this cult was abnormal, despite being trapped in an environment designed to stifle such thoughts. His intelligence allowed him to reach that conclusion. Not only that, but he also learned to hide before being killed.

Exceptions always exist, so I keep that in mind as I observe Hieronymus silently after greeting him.

Why has he come alone so late?

“What a pleasure to see you, Lady Rebecca. I’ve come because I heard you don’t find this room to your liking.”

Ah, Andrew must have told him. So, he rushed over?

Hmm?

From behind me, Joanna furrowed her brow while clearing the table, not even glancing at Hieronymus. Was it because of the room’s state? Because a stranger had entered? Or was there another reason?

If she had a habit of muttering her thoughts aloud, I’d know, but Joanna wasn’t one for such slips. Thus, I had no clue what she was thinking.

Half my mind analyzed Joanna while the other half responded to Hieronymus. He followed up with a question.

“What about this room displeases you?”

What displeases me? He asked for my opinion. I’ll give him credit for not dismissing my dissatisfaction.

But he shouldn’t phrase the question like that. I don’t lie—I’m not confident enough to deceive someone to the end. The character I’ve built as weak matches my true nature, so there’s no dissonance.

I’ll speak honestly.

There are several things I dislike about this room, but there’s one straightforward way to express it. I know of a room meant for Rebecca Rolf, the original owner of this body.

“It’s different from the room Rebecca Rolf used to live in.”

Yes, the room her body’s true owner once called home.

Rebecca Rolf had been wealthy. She lived in a grand house, the type where servants filled the halls and she played the role of a classic young lady.

But the one responsible for burning that house down? He’s standing right in front of me. Even if he didn’t set the fire himself, he surely gave the order.

“You know the room of this body’s original owner?”
“It’s in her memories.”

This statement is risky. It reveals that I have access to Rebecca Rolf’s memories.

One could deduce that I can recall the memories of those whose bodies I inhabit. A more imaginative thinker might suspect I can read the memories of anyone I consume.

If Hieronymus were a genius, he might piece together my slip-ups and realize that I view them through the eyes of those I’ve blessed.

If I’m exposed, it’s fine.

But I’d prefer to delay it. I want to gather more weaknesses first. When the moment to strike comes, I’ll use them.

I watched to see how Hieronymus would respond. His quick mind gave an answer almost immediately.

“I’ll prepare such a room for you.”

Oh dear.

This implies he might have personally visited her home when abducting her. He didn’t even ask what the room looked like. Of course, he could order his subordinates to investigate.

Hmm?

Wait—there’s one thing I need to say.

“How? It’s already burned to the ground.”

Hehe.

Yes, that was an accusation. A rebuke from Rebecca Rolf herself.

A condemnation from someone already dead. Can you answer that, Hieronymus?

There was no reply.

He chose silence.

How disappointing. Any response would have stripped away part of his humanity, yet he still clings to it.

Because vengeance, after all, is the most human of choices.

That’s why revenge stories shine the brightest. And why everyone fears a world where they are the norm. I don’t mean the petty concerns of the powerful fearing retaliation—I’m talking about something deeper.

By feeding on despair, I’ve learned something about revenge.

Revenge is agony. It’s painful and exhausting, yet memories of better times cling to you and ignite your resolve.

Can’t we just forget about this? Can’t we simply ignore it?
Because the world says so, because revenge is bad.

Closing your eyes and running away from this pain, pretending revenge isn’t righteous—doesn’t that just make the burden of the world greater? People will either succeed or fail, breaking down in the process.

Not everyone can be a superhuman. Not everyone can be a philosopher-king. Every person has the right to resign themselves, to become lazy and indifferent.

The right to be a slave.

A life without deep despair, fearing only the daily pains of existence—some would call that a comfortable life.

Those who want that kind of life are the ones who push the idea that revenge is bad. Even in eras where the majority possess power, this concept persists—it becomes more entrenched, not less.

Once someone abandons their humanity, they envy the humanity of others.

Thus, the revenge of others becomes beautiful, but they avoid entangling themselves in it. Because they lack the drive to pursue vengeance themselves.

But before you stands someone willing to do anything for revenge. You don’t know their past, but surely they had something precious that was taken from them.

And before that person is someone who lost everything because of them.
Even if their mind knows I’m not Rebecca Rolf, the visual impression is impossible to ignore.

Once I voice my accusation, it’ll stick in their head, whether they like it or not.

Because of their humanity, because they are also seeking revenge—it doesn’t matter what the rationale is. I believe this will leave its mark on Hieronymus.

This is the closest thing to revenge that Rebecca Rolf can enact.

It’s pitifully meager for revenge, but it’s something.

In any case, if this raises my presence and brings more warmth or blessings my way, then so be it.

They’ve been neglecting me far too much.

He chose silence in response. I could sit silently with him, letting this unpleasant moment stretch endlessly, but Joanna’s stomach might end up with ulcers if I do.

Hmm.

Maybe I’ll try another approach.

“Do whatever you want, Hieronymus.”

Don’t worry about what I think. Just do as you please. Give me warmth, offer blessings—whatever you wish.

But.

“Don’t stop.”

Yes. People die if they stop eating. I get cold if I lack warmth.

So stopping is the one thing I won’t forgive. If it comes to that, I’ll leave this place by any means necessary and find another host.

If Andrew is your enemy, I could even side with him.

Of course, I don’t say that out loud.

I fall silent and watch as Hieronymus lifts his head.

“What do you mean?”

Huh? At this point, hasn’t he understood everything?

“What do I mean?” he asks. Are you telling me everything I’ve said so far has been turned into my own delusion?

Sigh.

This is what happens when there’s a lack of communication. Oh well.

Let’s simplify this.

“I need warmth. The closer you are to achieving your goals, the more warmth you’ll offer me, won’t you?”

Hehe.

The warmth harvested by those I’ve blessed when they kill others is separate from this. Beyond that, you must offer me sacrifices that provide warmth.

“So just do what you want. Or should we ask Joanna? About a better room, perhaps?”

At my words, Joanna shakes her head violently. No? She dislikes it that much?

Hieronymus glances at Joanna, then back at me. He nods.

“Understood. I’ll do as I please. And, Lady Rebecca, if you have any complaints, please inform me through Joanna.”
“Sure, I will.”

So it bothered him that I communicated through Andrew?

Beasts don’t care about strings like that. If he wants to do something, I won’t stop him—but I won’t help either.

Hieronymus exits without turning his back to me.

Did I push too hard with my words?

Still, Hieronymus is at fault for not thinking of supplying warmth or bringing resources for blessings.

Anyway, if I can get a new room…

“Joanna.”
“Yes, Lady Rebecca?”
“If possible, please ask for a room with a window.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Lady Rebecca!”

Air gets stale in an enclosed space after a while.

While I don’t mind, this environment isn’t ideal for Joanna.

The kitchen and other areas are too far away.

By now, they must realize I have no special abilities beyond my blessings and no intention of making significant moves. I hope they’ll relocate me to an area I haven’t explored yet.

After all, events are more likely to occur when I’m out and about.

Hehe.