Words, Karatena Wallmix believed, were a kind of magic—spells that let you steer people wherever you pleased.
Sensing the rising anti-Oakley sentiment in the Northeastern Branch, Karatena settled herself onto an obscene throne made of countless tiny insects, her chittering kin packed together into a warped, living seat.
She had already set every scheme she could think of into motion, carefully tuning things so that all that anger toward Oakley would erupt during the Jade Occupation Operation. The men she’d lured and tamed in her nightly visits wouldn’t hesitate for a second if given the chance to kill him.
From deep within her altered body, the sound of many small somethings crawling reverberated. The old saying about “a thousand worms beneath the skin” felt a little too apt.
But Karatena herself never once believed that ordinary elite believers could actually bring down Oakley.
That was precisely why she had accepted the insects of the breeding yard into her own flesh.
The one who will stop Oakley Mercury’s breath will be me, Karatena Wallmix.
Anything less, and the insects in her belly would never settle.
If she presented Oakley’s head, even Fuankilo-sama would surely praise her.
At the foot of her throne, her insects eagerly slurped up the body fluids that had splattered there, growing stronger with each drop.
The reason Karatena collected “essence” so obsessively was simple: she needed it to fuel the growth of her parasites.
On top of bodily fluids, she’d also stolen bits of meat in secret, but it still wasn’t enough. She needed to drain far more.
Oakley was the only man that brawler Joanne had ever acknowledged. He’d survived inhuman training at a brutal density, over and over, turning Joanne’s skills into his own flesh and blood and continuing to grow.
I have to become stronger. Much stronger.
That thing was insane. In terms of sheer mental fortitude, he was more inhuman than any of the executives.
No, he probably wasn’t human at all. He was some monster that had wandered in from a different dimension entirely. Not a simple personification of strength, but a creature whose psyche was like distilled human horror and madness, boiled down until it collapsed into pure chaos.
For a human to defeat something like that, they had no choice but to rely on insects.
She’d seduce those spineless fair-weather types who lacked any core of their own, narrow their vision, whip them up to a fever pitch, and let the pressure of the crowd crush them. And waiting beyond that was her final insurance: a direct confrontation with the power of the parasites inside her.
Now that her enmity with Oakley had become absolute, he would almost certainly strike back under the cover of the Jade Occupation Operation. An assassination carried out in the chaos of battle was the easiest kill of all.
And even if she died in the attempt, Oakley would unquestionably be subjected to interrogation afterward.
If people who’d been openly suspicious of him started dropping dead one after another, it would turn into a massive scandal, one big enough to drag Aros himself into the mess.
If Oakley died, Karatena’s objective would be achieved. If he survived in some half-broken state, the swirl of bad rumors around him would only burn hotter.
That was exactly the checkmated situation Karatena had wanted to create.
Like a spreading blaze, it had all begun as a tiny spark: Karatena’s idle speculation.
She’d fanned it with ugly human instincts—jealousy, the urge to drag down those more talented—and used them to spread the fire throughout the entire Northeastern Branch.
By now, some of those in her palm were already loudly proclaiming that Oakley was responsible for Fuankilo’s suspicious death. Once she’d let the flames catch, there was no putting them out. Not ever.
It was a vicious trap, a purgatorial hellfire, made possible only because she was an interrogator skilled in using words like a blade.
Good thing the boy I wanted to get rid of was so utterly unpleasant. If he’d been a genuinely decent young man, I might have hesitated.
Holding that lowest of thoughts in her heart, Karatena swung a leg over one of the men sprawled on the floor, straddling him.
“Come now, everyone,” she cooed sweetly. “You’ll have to work a little harder. This still isn’t enough.”
The truth was something you could always tack on after the fact.
She hated that Fuankilo’s death had been written off as a mere accident.
She intended to overturn that assessment.
She would cement a story that Fuankilo, having sensed the young man’s betrayal ahead of anyone else, had faced Oakley alone. She’d make that rumor stick until it became accepted reality, until the world saw Fuankilo as someone worthy of praise, even in death.
She wanted her to be an eternal, unseen pillar, an unsung hero in everyone’s hearts.
For the sake of that woman she adored, Karatena had to see this through to the bitter end.
Her body rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and the necklace at her throat swung in time, a calculated bit of ornamentation, swaying in a way meant to flatter and entice.
The men’s gazes were pulled toward her chest, their minds fogged by her sensual silhouette, and under that provocation, they lost themselves in fevered ecstasy.