Chapter 5: The New Problem
As time passed, the blood-red twilight seeped through the iron bars, casting its light on Jemma’s profile and her ill-fitting prison garb.
It felt ominous.
Jemma shifted in her seat, moving away from the crimson sunlight. She glanced at the iron window, anxiously observing the fiery clouds in the sky, unable to help but wonder if she were George, would she save a succubus?
The answer was no.
If she were the shining star of the Holy Order, young yet already renowned for her formidable achievements, with her future bright ahead, she would never sacrifice her prospects and power for a succubus she had known for less than two days.
If word got out that she had signed a slave contract with the succubus, her reputation would be nearly ruined. Not only would it bring shame to the Holy Order, but it would also hinder her future prospects in marriage, as others would look down on her. Moreover, as long as the slave contract existed, she would be restricted in her abilities.
The most rational solution would be to place the succubus on the pyre and publicly declare that the slave contract was a scheme of the succubus. This way, she could restore her reputation, regain her abilities, and leave others with nothing to say.
As for the oath? It’s all said to be a scheme of the succubus; thus, the oath would hold no weight.
The more Jemma considered the situation, the more worried she became. She couldn’t help but clasp her hands together in prayer, quietly asking, “May the ancestors grant George to be a little more foolish; the more foolish, the better.”
Not long after, a loud growl came from her stomach.
Jemma furrowed her brows and rubbed her belly.
Strange. She had been stuffing herself these past few days. At lunch, she had eaten three pieces of bread and drank milk; why was her hunger becoming more intense?
“Knock, knock, knock.”
The prison door was knocked, and the food delivery hatch opened, revealing a plate of food. It contained a bowl of milk, bread, olives, and half a sausage.
Jemma walked over and shouted through the hatch, “I’m hungry; this isn’t enough to eat.”
There was no response, and no one paid attention to her; the only reply was the sound of distant footsteps.
“It’s really as if they think speaking to me would kill them.”
Jemma picked up the plate, cut the hot bread, soaked it in the milk, and took a bite, splattering milk everywhere. But it tasted like chewing on wax; her tongue could hardly detect the sweetness of the milk.
Her favorite food was steaming bread soaked in milk, but now it felt like chewing on soggy wood shavings.
Jemma frowned deeply, almost gagging. It’s strange that the Holy Order would make her suffer with such awful food.
Suppressing her nausea, she swallowed the food. She picked up the sausage, closely inspecting it. The sausage was three parts fat and seven parts lean, oily yet not greasy, exuding a faint warmth. She sniffed it, catching a whiff of pepper and meat aroma.
Instantly, her stomach growled louder.
“Perfectly roasted; it should be fine.”
She said, taking a bite of the sausage. However, she nearly vomited; it felt like chewing on a candle. The meat she chewed had no flavor at all.
The Holy Order must have been a bunch of narrowly-minded people to create such strange food.
Fuming, Jemma threw the sausage toward the iron window.
Once she calmed down, she dwelled on the matter further, feeling increasingly uneasy.
If the Holy Order was intentionally making her suffer with food, why go through the trouble of preparing food with a normal smell but terrible taste?
Moreover, lunch had been fairly normal, just very bland, with the egg pancake having no flavor whatsoever.
“Meow, meow.”
Jemma saw a gray feral cat at the iron window; it was crouched there, gripping the sausage with its paws and savoring it. It was devouring it with delight, bite after bite. Soon, only half of the sausage was left.
If the cat found the food delicious, it could not possibly be bad.
Then the issue might be with herself.
Jemma suddenly recalled a line from the personal information she had read yesterday: “As a pure-blooded succubus, your food naturally derives from desire. Therefore, heather-flavored liquid is the most common food…”
So, common food had no effect on succubi.
Jemma felt completely bewildered. The thought of succubi food being that kind of thing made her curse the heavens for their injustice. Why did she have to be reborn as a succubus? In the past, others had consumed her heather-flavored liquid, and now it seemed it was her turn to consume theirs.
Just the thought of that viscous liquid, with a slightly yellow hue and a foul odor, made her nauseous. The idea of asking George for such a thing was enough to make her gag.
“Grrr…”
Her hungry stomach groaned, and waves of appetite washed over her.
Jemma inexplicably felt a surge of irritability. She must be starving; eating more couldn’t hurt.
Driven by a desire to prove herself, Jemma fought through her nausea, stuffing the bread into her mouth, which was nearly impossible to swallow. She poured the milk, watching the white liquid shake in the bowl, which suddenly evoked her appetite.
Lifting the bowl, she tilted her head back and gulped it all down. The white liquid spilled from the corners of her mouth, running down her slender neck, over her delicate collarbone, disappearing into the flat area beneath her collar.
A wave of nausea hit her; she quickly covered her mouth to prevent herself from throwing up. After finally swallowing it down, her stomach felt bloated, and she had to lie on the bed to feel somewhat better.
But the feeling of hunger did not diminish in the slightest.
This sensation was absurd; her stomach was packed full, about to burst, yet her appetite was entirely unsatisfied.
Just wait a little longer.
Jemma lay on the stone bed, indulging in a glimmer of hope as she watched the sunset slowly disappear beyond the edge of the iron window until the moonlight filled the cell.
The feeling of hunger only intensified.
She gradually descended into despair, accepting the fact. No matter how hard it was to accept, her only food now was the heather-flavored liquid.
Jemma had thought that as someone experienced, she had seen so much that she would no longer feel embarrassment or shyness about such matters.
But just imagining herself asking George for that kind of liquid made her cheeks flush. She clutched the blanket tightly, covering her face. In her extreme embarrassment, Jemma also felt a flicker of excitement.
As Jemma slept, under the same moonlight.
The trial in the Holy Order’s judgment hall was drawing to a close.
Five highly esteemed members of the Holy Order, wearing silver masks, sat high upon the judgment seat, observing George who sat in the center of the hall.
“…I firmly believe that my actions align with doctrine, in accordance with the teachings of the God of Dawn…”
George’s voice was hoarse; he was mentally drained from the prolonged interrogation and trial.
The five judges began to discuss among themselves.
“Execute the succubus; otherwise, the Holy Order will lose all credibility. Who would believe a hero who signed a slave contract with a succubus, and the Order that harbors this matter? Moreover, executing the succubus would restore the hero’s powers.”
“But George swore to protect her. A sacred oath is solemn for a paladin.”
“Even if she is innocent, succubi are inherently evil; no succubus has ever repented from ancient times to the present. She will only pretend to regret… The losses for the Holy Order would be even greater.”
“The God said to redeem the world.”
Another one retorted, “The God also said to slay evil.”
They did not hide their thoughts, directly expressing their truths and discussing the implications of this matter for the Holy Order. Because within the Holy Order, clergy could not lie.
The discussion gradually approached its conclusion. Since George remained insistent, he must show his resolve, as well as accept punishment.
Finally, Gregory, wearing a silver mask, stood up to proclaim the judgment:
“George Hammer, due to harboring the succubus, signing an immoral contract with her, and failing to distance himself from her. Considering the sacred motivation, I will exercise discretion in reducing the penalty.”
“Deprive him of the title of hero and the paladin rank. Revoke the holy sword.”
Hearing that all his hard-earned honors from slaying demons would be stripped away, even though he had prepared himself, George still felt an emptiness in his heart, even a tinge of regret.
Yet he firmly believed that this matter aligned with his convictions. He was doing the right thing. Even if succubi were inherently evil and had never changed their ways throughout history, that could not justify declaring her guilty.
George thought again of Jemma’s pitiful little eyes. He couldn’t go back on his oath.
This was a trial of his beliefs.
George regained his resolve and continued to listen to the trial.
“Since George insists on redeeming the succubus Jemma, the Holy Order should offer support, but the saint has taught: action surpasses words.”
“Therefore, George must complete the ‘Sisyphus Trial’ to demonstrate his determination. If he fails the trial, it will be seen as a lack of resolve, rendering him unworthy of the redemption task. The Holy Order shall house the succubus Jemma to prevent her from harming the world.”
After Gregory finished reading, he set the judgment book down. To his left, a middle-aged man with a rotund figure and silver mask said:
“George, you still have a chance to regret. Purifying the succubus Jemma can restore your strength from gold to platinum, and the Holy Order’s credibility will not diminish too much.”
“If you feel shame, I understand.” An elderly man added; George guessed he was his swordsmanship teacher, “Young men are always mesmerized by a woman’s beauty.”
George remembered he had married three young wives.
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary.” George replied, “The law is the law; I now request to begin the Sisyphus Trial.”
“Will you not take a break?” Gregory asked.
George hadn’t rested since morning.
“No, I want the God and everyone to witness my determination.”
Half an hour later, beneath the moonlight, the Holy Order’s soldiers in white armor each held a torch and, guiding the weary George, led him out of the white city walls to a stone mountain three kilometers away from the city.
The bare yellow stone mountain stood about three hundred meters high, with jagged rocks. If one wore shoes and climbed the slope, their soles would likely be worn down halfway up. The moon hung above the summit, atop which was a flat area the size of a plate.
A stone, the height of two people, was shackled with a rusty chain, and the long-accumulated bloodstains darkened the chain.
George changed into thin linen clothing. Barefoot, he approached the enormous stone and tightly grasped the frayed chain. He had to tread the painful slope and push the massive rock to the summit; if it rolled back down, he would have to push it again.
Many had been seriously injured during the trial, rolling down the slope, crushed beneath the boulder.
George gripped the iron chain on the rock, pulling with all his might, causing the massive stone to roll slowly halfway down the slope. The heavy weight pressed against the slope, the sharp stone cutting into the soles of his feet, and soon he left a trail of bloody footprints behind him.
Sweat soaked his thin clothing; the iron chain wore on his hands, tearing at his palms. He remained silent, and when the boulder jammed against a rock, he gritted his teeth, enduring the pain, and pushed with his shoulder.
When the boulder reached halfway up the slope, even George’s strong body struggled to bear it.
His palms were a bloody mess, sticking to the chain. Salty, wet sweat coursed through the wounds, exacerbating the pain, the mixture of sweat and blood dripping down his arms.
Suddenly, the stone beneath the boulder crumbled; it tilted to the left, and George quickly grabbed the iron chain. But the chain snapped, and the uncontrolled boulder rolled downward under the force of gravity. George had no way to stop it and could only dodge to the side, watching as it rolled back down to the starting point.
He felt a wave of defeat wash over him, releasing the chain and descending the mountain again to push the boulder…
