Two bodies lay on the bed.
The girl was on top of the man.
Soren, the man beneath her, had white hair and clear blue eyes. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. A soft groan escaped his lips. The girl above him was also breathless, her pale face flushed, lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.
She had long white hair that tumbled down her back and golden eyes that glowed with twisted joy.
In her hand, a knife.
Already buried deep in the side of Soren's stomach.
He groaned again, louder this time, as blood bubbled up from his lips. The girl leaned down and kissed him, tasting the blood she had drawn from him.
She laughed.
His pain delighted her.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered, twisting the knife deeper.
Her face was glowing with excitement, madness, and something close to pleasure.
"Yes… Saintess," Soren gasped. One hand clutched the bedsheet. The other reached up, trembling, to gently touch her face. His eyes, even in pain, were full of love. He stared at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
And maybe to him, she was.
"More," he breathed. "Hurt me more, Saintess."
She smiled sweetly.
Then she yanked the knife out and drove it into a new spot.
He screamed. Blood poured out, staining the white sheets and soaking into her white robes. She twisted the blade in a full circle. His face contorted in agony.
Her breath caught.
Her heart pounded.
Something inside her was building—fast, wild, hungry. The more he bled, the more her body trembled. The pain in his voice mixed with the high in her chest.
He cried out.
She cried out, too, but in pleasure.
Her body shook as she reached the peak of it. Her golden eyes rolled back. Then she collapsed on top of him, panting. His breaths were shallow now. The light in his eyes was dimming… but even as the life drained from him, his gaze was full of love.
How did it come to this?
To understand, we have to go back.
Back a few months, before everything began to fall apart.
It was a quiet morning when Soren, Duke of the North, jolted awake in his bed. His breath caught as he stared around the room, cold sweat on his brow.
He was alive again.
That meant only one thing. He had died again.
This wasn't his first time waking up like this. Not even his second.
It was his tenth.
But this time, he told himself, this would be the last.
Soren rose from the bed and pulled the rope beside him, ringing the bell that summoned the maids.
"Call Jeffrey and prepare a bath," he said.
The maids bowed and quickly rushed out. In no time, the bath was ready. Soren sank into the warm water, letting out a long breath as his muscles relaxed.
Before all this—before the time loops—he never realized how something as simple as a bath could feel so comforting.
But after living through ten lifetimes of hell, he knew better now. He had taken too many things for granted.
And it was all because of her.
No... it wasn't her fault.
It was his.
He had trusted the wrong person. And that mistake had cost the world everything.
Soren stepped out of the bath and dressed quickly. His aide, Jeffrey, was waiting in his chambers.
Jeffrey had bright blond hair and calm gray eyes. He gave a short bow when Soren entered.
"You called for me, Your Grace?"
Jeffrey. Loyal to the end.
Soren had watched this man die many times—ripped apart by demonic beasts, stabbed by enemy soldiers, even once killed by desperate refugees. In other lives, Jeffrey had died protecting him.
This time, Soren wouldn't let that happen.
"I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say," Soren said.
"Of course, Your Grace," Jeffrey replied.
"Saintess Aileen is a fake," Soren said. "The real saintess… is Alya."
Jeffrey froze.
That couldn't be right.
Saintess Aileen? A fake?
She had healing powers. She performed miracles. She even had the mark of the Saintess on her forehead—something no one could fake.
"My lord… I don't understand," Jeffrey said, clearly shaken.
Soren expected this. Jeffrey wouldn't believe him right away. But convincing him was the first step.
If Jeffrey didn't trust him, he might try to protect him by leaking his plans to others.
And that would get everyone killed.
Still, Soren understood why it was hard for anyone to doubt Aileen.
The North was a hard place to live. Snow fell nine months out of the year. The soil was poor, and most crops failed. Tourism didn't exist—the region was underdeveloped and surrounded by demonic beasts. Most traders avoided it entirely.
The only thing keeping the North alive was Soren himself; his gold and silver mines paid for everything.
Even then, many northerners still lived in hardship.
Saintess Aileen had visited many times. She changed the weather, made crops grow instantly, and even brought merchants with her. Her miracles had helped the territory survive. People saw her and believed.
Meanwhile, the real Saintess, Alya, had only visited three times—and her miracles, though real, weren't as flashy or consistent.
Compared to Aileen, it was no wonder people believed she was the true saintess.
But Soren knew the truth.
During his past regressions, he had discovered something important—Alya had tried to visit the North many times. She had wanted to help. She had begged to perform miracles for them.
But each time, she had been stopped by the emperor, the high-ranking nobles, and greedy priests who didn't want her influence spreading.
The three times she had made it to the North were only after she fought hard to win permission.
"I know you don't believe me," Soren said, his voice firm. "I can't prove it right now, but it's important that you don't trust Saintess Aileen."
"But, Your Grace—" Jeffrey began.
"Jeffrey," Soren cut in, "you swore an oath to serve me, didn't you? To follow my judgment?"
Jeffrey froze. He lowered his eyes.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said quietly.
Soren sighed. He hadn't convinced him. Not yet.
But this would do for now.
"Good," Soren said. "We don't have much time. Listen carefully…"
Two weeks later, in the Imperial Capital...
In the grandest chapel of the empire, a beautiful woman sat calmly before a mirror. Her long, white hair flowed over her shoulders, glowing softly in the candlelight. Her golden eyes reflected no emotion—only stillness.
Behind her, a maid tugged harshly at her hair with a brush. But the woman didn't flinch. She just kept smiling.
The maid, annoyed by the lack of reaction, pulled even harder—almost cruelly.
Still, nothing.
"I'm done, Saintess Alya," the maid said bitterly.
"Thank you very much. You may leave now," Alya replied, her gentle smile unchanged.
The maid didn't bow. She stormed out without a word.
Alya didn't seem to notice.
She stood, straightened her white robes, and left the room.
In the past, when she stepped out of her chambers, a line of young priestesses would be waiting to follow her, offering prayers, compliments, and reverence.
Now, there was no one.
But her calm smile never left her face.
Alya made her way to the prayer room and knelt before the four great statues of the gods. The cold stone floor pressed against her knees as she folded her hands and began to pray.
Thirty minutes passed in silence until the doors slammed open.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the chamber, followed by the clank of metal armor.
"False Saintess Alya," a knight barked, "you are under arrest for impersonating the Saintess and deceiving the people of the empire."
Alya rose to her feet slowly.
She stepped forward and held out her hands without a word.
They bound her wrists with chains and dragged her through the halls of the chapel.
Still, she said nothing.
And through it all, Alya smiled.