Chapter 43 : Labyrinth (43)

The meal did not last long.

That was only natural—eating was when a creature was at its most vulnerable.

Even so, the fact that the mimic monster managed to devour the entire corpse of the One-Winged Angel in such a short time was nothing short of astounding.

Once it had finished, the mimic monster moved away as if it had forgotten Hans existed, its mismatched legs awkwardly shuffling toward some unknown destination.

Hans, unable to let go of his sword, was caught in a frenzied internal struggle.

‘What should I do?’

The miraculous power that had briefly dwelled in his body had long since drained away.

Now, Hans was nothing more than an ordinary human.

True, his body had been tempered by exposure to venom, making him far stronger than the average person, but that strength meant nothing before a massive monster.

The sword in his grasp was held out of sheer habit.

Just watching the battle between the two great beasts made it clear—Hans, in his current state, could barely hope to land a scratch.

‘Should I run?’

But his survival instincts screamed that this was the wrong answer.

Every second he hesitated was a second closer to death, yet his reason and instincts pulled him in opposite directions, leaving him frozen.

Even the most seasoned hunters had never faced something like this before.

Meanwhile, the mimic monster slunk behind a rock crevice, curling in on itself as if trying to hide.

The boulder was large, but not large enough to completely conceal its towering [mouth].

And then.

Crack.

At first, Hans thought the sound was the mimic monster gnawing on the One-Winged Angel’s bones.

But it wasn’t.

That chilling noise was not coming from the monster’s prey.

It was coming from the monster itself.

Its enormous body, too large to be hidden even behind the boulder, was collapsing inward.

As if an invisible giant’s hands were striking it down, flattening it like a ball.

Of course, no such giant existed.

This was the mimic monster’s own doing—a deliberate act of self-mutilation, hammering and crushing itself into a more compact form.

It compressed further and further until, at last.

Crunch!

A deafening cacophony of cracking bones and splitting shell rang out, far louder and more grotesque than before.

Any part of the monster that had been peeking out was sucked back into the rock crevice, vanishing entirely.

And then.

Silence.

No more gnawing.

No more dragging.

Not even the sound of a heartbeat.

A complete and utter void.

“……”

Hans could not even breathe too loudly.

He was afraid.

But he did not know what he feared.

No matter how many times he asked himself, no answer came.

But one thing was certain.

Hans had to go.

He had to see what lay beyond that rock crevice.

Whether it was a monster, a terrifying, powerful mimic beast.

Or a person.

His breath grew heavier with each step.

He felt like a novice adventurer stepping into the labyrinth for the first time.

One more step, and the thing inside might leap out and devour him whole.

But the only reason he did not throw everything aside and flee in blind terror was the years of battle-hardened experience that had scarred him.

At last, Hans’s gaze reached beyond the crevice.

And a pair of amber eyes, glistening with tears, stared back at him.

“…Ah.”

Even in that moment, his sword was still raised.

Those fearful eyes.

The wary, furrowed brows.

The conflicted lines creasing his forehead.

The legs that trembled, unable to fully mask their hesitation.

Every detail was etched into the girl’s gaze.

And yet, in the end, Hans lowered his sword and took one step closer.

Then another.

“……”

Curled up inside the rocky hollow, Alje was crying.

The boulder that had been too small to hide a monster.

Was, in contrast, far too large to hide a girl.

She was stark naked, crouched on the cold ground, her delicate body marred by faint red scratches.

At that moment, she looked so frail, so easily wounded.

“…Alje.”

“……”

She did not answer.

It seemed she either had no strength left to respond.

Or simply could not bring herself to.

Strangely, not a speck of dust clung to her body, nor a single stain of the mimic monster’s blood that had been drenched over her just moments ago.

Aside from the bits of dirt from crouching on the ground, her bare skin was as clean as that of a newborn.

Even in this moment, Hans’s male instincts could not entirely ignore what was before him.

But his trained eyes caught something far more important.

A wound that should not have healed.

The gaping hole in her chest, where she had been impaled by the Holy Spear.

A wound that even the monster’s regeneration could not mend.

It had begun to close.

Not completely.

The fissure had not yet sealed, and fresh blood still seeped from the wound.

But the stench of blood had faded dramatically.

Instead.

A suffocating, intoxicating fragrance now exuded from Alje’s body, as if she had been drenched in perfume.

The girl did not move, except for the silent tears that continued to stream down her face.

Curled up like an egg, as if waiting for someone’s touch to awaken her.

But the moment their eyes met, her gaze was so heavy, so consuming, that Hans had no choice but to approach.

Stronger than any words.

More binding than any action.

As if drawn by an unseen force—Hans reached out to Alje.

*

If witches were inherited, then saints were chosen.

Alje had been a saint from the moment she was born.

One of the elderly saints of the Church adopted her, and from that moment, Alje became someone’s daughter.

She had no memories of the life she had before the Church.

No recollection of who her real mother was.

But she loved the cozy atmosphere of the library, the scent of books.

Yet she loathed ancient scriptures and tedious tomes.

Instead, she devoured fairy tales.

The common ones.

The princess locked in a tower.

The prince who came to save her.

Whenever she lost herself in those stories, a voice would flicker at the edge of her forgotten memories, as if someone had once read them to her.

“We can never be princesses.”

“Why not?”

“Because saints cannot bear children.”

All saints were barren.

As a price for receiving the brightest present, they bore the curse of never passing that light into the future.

When Alje grew up and became a full-fledged member of the Church, she, too, would adopt a child with the qualities of a saint—just as her mother had.

But it would be a duty, nothing more.

There would be no love.

Not as a lover.

Not as a family.

Not even between fellow saints of the Church.

A dry, desolate life.

A fate already written.

But Alje was too spirited for that.

She found the life of the Church dull.

She felt joy in serving others as a saint, but all the obligations and restrictions that followed?

Annoying.

And so, one day—Alje ran away.

Away from her nagging mother.

Away from the handmaidens who were not born as saints.

Away from the eunuch servants and the holy knights.

Away from everything.

She never meant to leave forever.

She had spent her entire life in the Church’s white-walled sanctuary; she could not imagine a life beyond it.

It was just a small act of rebellion.

She was simply curious about the world beyond the cage.

The Church was isolated, far from civilization.

Stowing away on a wagon, Alje managed to sneak out—only to be tossed into the middle of a wasteland.

Instead of the refreshing air of the outside world, she inhaled stale dust, wandering through barren land untouched by human footsteps.

A body raised in worship and protection was far too fragile.

The miracles of a saint could heal many, lift the fallen, feed the hungry.

But never herself.

The sun was scorching.

The wind was biting.

The thirst was unbearable.

The only creatures she saw were snakes and scorpions.

A vulture circled above.

She squeezed her small body into a crevice, seeking shelter.

And inside, she saw.

‘Huh?’

A monster?

Did she see a monster?

She didn’t know.

Alje remained curled up in that crevice for a very long time.

She had not eaten for days, yet she no longer felt hunger or thirst.

Eventually, she gathered the courage to step out of the crevice and walk again.

The monsters that had once hunted her no longer followed.

Instead, they fled at the mere sight of her.

She did not know why.

But she was grateful.

And her luck did not end there.

She found a trail of footprints.

The unmistakable imprint of boots, left deep in the cracked earth.

And on the sole, an insignia she recognized.

Sir Garion.

Her mother’s guardian knight.

An aging knight with silver-white hair, but still powerfully built.

A man who, when Alje begged, would sigh in defeat and hoist her onto his shoulders, carrying her like a child.

A man who would sneak her fairy tales when no one else would.

“Grandpa Garion!”

Alje ran toward him, her voice bright with relief.

Her mind was overflowing with everything she wanted to tell him.

She had to apologize first, of course.

Garion didn’t always indulge her whims.

She would tell him she was sorry.

That she understood now why the adults had warned her never to leave.

Then, she would complain as much as she pleased.

The snakes ignored her cries.

The vultures did not listen.

It was so hard!

Her feet were blistered, her skin was cracked.

She hadn’t had a single snack in days—he had to make up for all of them!

And after suffering so much, she would beg him to plead with Mother—to make sure she didn’t scold her too much.

And then.

Like soft, drifting clouds, her innocent, sweet thoughts swirled around her.

And in that moment.

The moment she ran, carefree and unguarded, into her ‘grandfather’s’ arms.

The old knight’s spear pierced straight through her heart.

*

In the days she spent curled inside that crevice, she heard voices.

Hallucinations.

She heard Mother calling her name.

She felt hands lifting her up, as if the handmaidens had found her in a game of hide-and-seek.

She smelled freshly baked sweets and heard the chime of the dining bell.

But whenever she lifted her head.

Only the same barren wasteland greeted her.

So she stopped looking up.

Stopped hoping.

Because what if.

What if this, too, was just a trick?

What if she was wrong again?

What if she was only setting herself up for disappointment?

“…Mister.”

And then.

Skin touched skin.

Damp.

Warm.

Human warmth.

Undeniably real.

A calloused, yet gentle touch.

A hand that did not pierce her.

A hand that held her instead.

Just like on that hill of corpses.