Chapter 5: New Problems

As time crawled by, the blood-red twilight of sunset streamed through the iron bars of the window, falling across Gima’s profile and her ill-fitting, drab prison uniform.

What a terrible, terrible omen.

Gima scooted over on the stone bed, moving her butt out of the crimson sunlight. She gazed out the window at the fiery clouds, her heart heavy with a genuine, unfamiliar worry. She couldn't help but wonder, if she were in George’s shoes, would she save a succubus?

The answer was an immediate and resounding no.

If she were the rising star of the Holy Sanctuary, with a glorious track record of achievements at such a young age and a future brighter than a supernova, she would never sacrifice her career and power for a succubus she’d known for less than two days.

Once word got out that she’d signed a slave contract with a succubus, her pristine reputation would be mostly ruined. Not only would it bring shame upon the Holy Sanctuary, but it would also make finding a decent, high-status spouse in the future nearly impossible. Not to mention, for every single day the slave contract existed, her own power would be restrained.

The most rational, logical, and intelligent solution would be to send the succubus to the burning stake, then publicly declare that the slave contract was all part of the succubus's evil, seductive scheme. This would instantly restore her reputation and her power, leaving no room for argument.

As for the oath? If it was all part of the succubus’s plot, then the oath obviously didn’t count. Duh.

The more Gima put herself in his position, the more her anxiety grew. She couldn't help but clasp her hands together and pray in a low, fervent voice, “Oh, great ancestors of chaos and debauchery, please bless George and make him even dumber. The dumber, the better.”

A moment later, a loud, insistent rumbling sound came from her stomach.

Gima frowned and rubbed her belly.

Strange. I made sure to stuff myself completely full these past two days. For lunch, I had three whole pieces of bread and a massive bowl of milk. Why is this hunger getting stronger?

Knock, knock, knock.

A sharp knock sounded at the cell door. The small hatch for food delivery slid open, and a tray was pushed through. On it was a bowl of milk, a piece of bread, some olives, and half a sausage.

Gima walked over to the opening and called out, “Hey! I’m starving in here! This isn’t nearly enough!”

There was no response. No one paid her any mind. The only reply was the sound of footsteps fading into the distance.

“Seriously. It’s like they think they’ll die if they say a single word to me. What a bunch of stiffs.”

Gima took the tray, tore off a piece of the still-warm bread, and soaked it in the milk. She took a big bite, milk splashing everywhere. But it was like chewing on wax. Her tongue couldn't taste any of the milk’s creamy sweetness. This was her absolute favorite food—warm, fluffy bread soaked in milk—but it felt like chewing on soggy, flavorless wood chips.

Gima’s brow furrowed deeply, and she almost threw up. The Holy Sanctuary is actually giving me a hard time over the food supply? How incredibly petty.

Holding back the urge to vomit, she forced down the mouthful. She speared the sausage with a fork and examined it closely. It was a perfect blend of fat and lean meat, glistening and not too greasy, with faint wisps of steam rising from its perfectly browned surface. She sniffed it and caught the delicious aroma of pepper and savory meat.

Instantly, her stomach roared with even greater, more desperate fervor.

“It’s cooked perfectly. This should be fine.”

She took a bite of the sausage. She almost spat it out immediately. It was exactly like chewing on a flavorless candle. The minced meat in her mouth had absolutely no taste whatsoever.

The people of the Holy Sanctuary are such a ridiculously petty bunch to make food that smells so heavenly yet tastes so utterly foul.

In a fit of indignant anger, Gima threw the sausage at the iron bars of the window.

After calming down, the more she thought about it, the more something felt deeply wrong.

If the Sanctuary wanted to make things difficult for her with the food, why would they go to the immense trouble of making something that smelled perfectly normal but tasted disgusting? And lunch had been normal enough, just bland. The omelet had tasted like nothing at all.

“Meow, meow.”

Gima saw a gray stray cat at the window. It was crouched in front of the bars, its paws holding down the sausage she had thrown, tearing at it with gusto. It ate bite after bite, and in no time, half the sausage was gone.

A sausage that even a street cat finds delicious could not possibly be described as "bad."

Which meant the problem was probably with her.

Gima suddenly remembered the personal information she had read on her system screen yesterday. There was a sentence in there that now seemed incredibly ominous: “As a pure-blooded succubus, your natural food source is derived from lust. Therefore, chestnut-flavored liquid is the most common food…”

So, normal food was completely and utterly useless to a succubus.

Gima was completely stunned. The thought that a succubus’s primary food source was that kind of thing made her want to curse the heavens for their cruel, twisted injustice. Why, oh why, did she have to be reborn as a succubus? In the past, others had always been the ones consuming her chestnut-flavored liquid. Now, it was her turn to consume someone else’s.

The thought of that viscous, slightly yellow, vaguely smelly liquid made Gima feel nauseous from the very bottom of her soul. The thought of having to ask George for such a thing was enough to make her want to dry heave for an hour.

“Grrrrumble…”

Her empty stomach roared, and waves of gnawing, desperate hunger washed over her.

Gima felt a strange sense of shame. I must just be starving. Eating more should definitely help. It has to.

Driven by a strange, stubborn impulse to prove her own biology wrong, Gima suppressed her rising nausea and stuffed the tasteless bread into her mouth. It was almost impossible to swallow. She picked up the bowl of milk. The white liquid sloshed in the bowl, and for some inexplicable, primal reason, it looked incredibly appetizing. She lifted the bowl, tilted her head back, and drank it all in one go. The white liquid trickled from the corner of her mouth, down her slender neck, past her delicate collarbone, and disappeared beneath the collar of her prison uniform.

A powerful wave of nausea hit her. She quickly covered her mouth to keep from spitting everything out. After a great, heroic effort, she managed to swallow. Her stomach felt bloated and painfully distended. She had to lie down on the bed to feel slightly better.

But the feeling of hunger didn’t lessen one tiny bit.

It was an absurd, maddening feeling. Her stomach was clearly full of food, bloated to the point of bursting, yet the gnawing, clawing hunger hadn’t subsided at all.

I’ll just wait a little longer. It’ll digest eventually. Right?

Gima lay on the cold stone bed, clinging to a sliver of desperate hope as she watched the sun disappear below the edge of the iron bars, until pale moonlight flooded her cell.

The hunger only grew stronger, more insistent, more painful.

She gradually fell into despair, finally, horribly, accepting the truth. No matter how hard it was to accept, her only viable food source now was chestnut-flavored liquid.

Gima had always thought that, as an old pro, a seasoned driver on the highways of love, she had seen it all. She thought she was beyond feeling any embarrassment or shame when it came to sex.

But just imagining herself asking George for that kind of liquid made her face flush a shade of red that would put a tomato to shame. She gripped the thin blanket tightly, covering her burning face. And amidst the extreme, soul-crushing embarrassment, Gima also felt a tiny, thrilling, and utterly terrifying spark of excitement.

As Gima slept, under the very same moonlight, the trial in the Holy Sanctuary’s judgment hall was drawing to a close.

Five members of the Sanctuary, who held transcendent status, wore identical silver masks and sat on a high judgment seat, looking down at George, who sat alone in the center of the great hall.

“…I firmly believe that my actions are in accordance with the doctrine, in accordance with the sacred teachings of the Dawn God…”

George’s voice was a little hoarse. The long interrogation and trial had taken a great toll on his spirit.

The five judges above discussed amongst themselves, their voices echoing in the vast chamber.

“The succubus must be executed. Otherwise, the Holy Sanctuary will lose all credibility. Who would believe in a Hero who signs a slave contract with a succubus, and a Holy Sanctuary that covers it up? Besides, executing the succubus will restore the Hero’s power.”

“But George swore an oath to protect her. A holy oath is a serious, binding matter for a Paladin.”

“Even if she is innocent now, a succubus’s nature is inherently evil. From ancient times to the present, not a single succubus has ever truly repented. She will only feign remorse, and when she is strong, the Sanctuary’s losses will be even greater.”

“God said to redeem the world.”

Another retorted, “God also said to smite evil.”

They didn’t bother to hide their thoughts, openly discussing the impact of the matter on the Holy Sanctuary. In the Sanctuary, thanks to their vows, the clergy could not lie.

The discussion gradually came to an end. Since George insisted, he had to show his determination, and he had to accept his punishment.

Finally, Cardinal Gregory, wearing his silver mask, stood up and read the verdict:

“George Hammer, for harboring a succubus, signing a lecherous and profane contract with her, and failing to draw a clear line against her evil. However, in light of your sacred motives, the punishment shall be… reduced.”

“You are hereby stripped of the title of Hero and your rank of Paladin. Your holy sword shall be confiscated.”

Hearing that the honor he had won through countless hardships and the vanquishing of untold evils was being taken away, George felt a profound hollowness in his chest, and even a sharp pang of regret, despite having prepared himself for this outcome. But he still believed he was doing the right thing, that his actions were in line with his deepest beliefs. Even if a succubus’s nature was evil, and none had ever truly reformed, that didn’t mean she could be condemned without a chance.

George thought of Gima’s pitiful, tear-filled golden eyes. He could not, would not, break his oath.

This was a trial of his faith.

George’s resolve hardened again, and he continued to listen to the judgment.

“Since George insists on redeeming the succubus Gima, the Holy Sanctuary shall offer its support. But as the saints have taught us: actions speak louder than words.”

“Therefore, George must complete the ‘Trial of Sisyphus’ to demonstrate his resolve. If he fails to pass the trial, he will be deemed to have an unsteady heart and be unfit for the sacred task of redemption. The Holy Sanctuary will then take the succubus Gima into its permanent custody, to prevent her from bringing harm unto the world.”

After reading, Gregory put down the judgment scroll. To his left, a portly middle-aged man in a silver mask spoke:

“George, you still have a chance to repent. Purify the succubus Gima, and your strength will be restored from Gold-rank to Platinum-rank. The Sanctuary’s authority will not be greatly diminished.”

“If you feel ashamed, son, I understand,” another old man said. George guessed he was his former sword master. “Young men are always mesmerized by the beauty of women. It happens.”

George remembered that this man had three very young wives.

“Thank you for your counsel, but that won’t be necessary,” George said, his voice firm. “The precepts are the precepts. I request to begin the Trial of Sisyphus now.”

“Won’t you rest for a while?” Gregory asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

George hadn’t rested since that morning.

“No. I want God and all of you to witness my determination.”

Half an hour later, under the cold moonlight, a group of white-armored Sanctuary guards, holding flickering torches, led the weary George out of the white city walls to a stone mountain three kilometers away.

The yellow stone mountain was barren and about three hundred meters high, its surface covered with sharp, jagged rocks. If one were to climb it wearing shoes, the soles would be worn through before they even reached the halfway point. The moon hung directly over the peak, where there was a small, flat area the size of a dinner plate.

A massive boulder, as tall as two men, its surface rough and uneven, was chained with rusty iron chains, stained black with the years of old, dried blood.

George changed into a simple, thin linen tunic. Barefoot, he walked to the boulder and gripped the rough, chafing chains. He had to tread on the sharp, steep slope and push the boulder to the very top. If the boulder rolled back down, he had to start all over again.

Many had been seriously injured during this trial in the past, rolling down the treacherous slope and being crushed by the boulder.

George tightened his grip on the boulder’s chains. With a great, guttural effort, the boulder slowly rolled half a turn up the steep slope. His heavy feet stepped onto the slope, and the sharp stones immediately pierced the soles of his feet. Before long, he left a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

Sweat soaked his thin clothes. The iron chains chafed his hands, tearing the skin from his palms. He didn’t make a sound. The boulder got stuck on a large rock. He gritted his teeth, endured the searing pain, and pushed the boulder with his shoulder.

When the boulder was halfway up the slope, even the physically powerful George could hardly bear it.

His palms were a bloody, mangled mess, stuck to the chains with gore. The salty sweat ran over his open wounds, aggravating the pain. Sweat mixed with blood dripped down his arms.

A rock under the great boulder suddenly crumbled, and the boulder tilted precariously to the left. George quickly grabbed the chains to steady it, but with a groan of protesting metal, they snapped. The out-of-control boulder, pulled by gravity, began to roll back down. There was nothing George could do but leap out of the way and watch, helpless, as it crashed and rolled all the way back to the starting point.

He felt a crushing wave of frustration. He dropped the broken chains, walked back down the mountain, and began to push the boulder again…