Isn’t Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? - Chapter 126

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com

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Chapter 126
9. Undercurrents
“Ugh, that hurts.”
After a brief meeting with Isidore, I returned home and spent the entire evening lost in thought until I sliced my hand on the sharp edge of paper. The cut ran deep enough that blood beaded at my fingertip.
In truth, the grave atmosphere Isidore had emanated kept my mind churning with unease. The sting of the paper cut barely registered against the weight of my anxiety. When someone as perpetually composed as him turned serious, it was rarely over trivial matters.
After hastily stanching the bleeding with a handkerchief, I collapsed onto my bed in a state of agitation. In this frame of mind, concentration would prove impossible regardless of what I attempted.
‘It has to be nothing serious.’
I stared blankly at the roses and serpents embroidered upon the white canopy fabric for an eternity before sleep claimed me.
And once again, I found myself dreaming of the Desert. Ever since the mana surge from the ancient artifact had swept over me, these strange dreams had become recurring. Within the relentless sandstorm, the dream-version of myself walked and walked without end.
That was when I caught sight of a half-ruined marble structure, and unknown information flooded into my consciousness.
This Desert had once been a thriving settlement. But the creatures of the Wasteland had drained the land’s vitality at an accelerating rate, transforming it into barren wasteland, and the desolation continued to spread.
In the dream, I stood at the heart of the Desert in a melancholic daze, gazing endlessly up at the scorching sun before my parched throat drove me to survey my surroundings. The broken well nearby held nothing but sand.
‘This is unbearable.’
Though I possessed a soul blessed by divinity, mere days without a single sip of water had brought me to the brink of collapse.
Eventually, I collapsed. As I lay sprawled across the sand, barely clinging to breath, a man approached.
“I thought you were a corpse.”
The sun behind him cast such intense backlighting that his face remained obscured, yet his waterskin hung so clearly visible at his waist.
“Water….”
I mustered what little strength remained.
“Water? What do you expect me to do about it?”
“I feel as though I’m dying of thirst this very moment. Might you show me some mercy?”
“There are far too many dying out here for me to save them all.”
“I can wield holy power. Though I look wretched now, people in society call those like me Saint Naila….”
In the dream, I promoted myself desperately. Water was all I could think of.
“Do you know how many people claim to be Saint Naila? Your repertoire is stale.”
When he turned to leave as though bored, I crawled after him and seized his arm.
“Don’t touch me. How dare you, with those filthy hands….”
He recoiled in disgust and brushed my hand away roughly, as though flicking off an insect. He clearly despised being touched by others.
“You’ll certainly need my strength to cross this Desert.”
“Holy power? If you want to convince me, try being creative instead. I’ve never been wounded in all my life.”
“Don’t make such rash promises. The creatures that appear in this region are venomous.”
The moment my words ended, the ground trembled violently.
“Speak of the devil and it appears.”
A centipede-like creature erupted from the earth, and a suffocating sandstorm engulfed everything. Sand forced its way into my ears and mouth. Even though it was merely a dream, the sensation of sand clinging to my cracked tongue felt impossibly vivid. The relentless thirst constricting my throat felt equally real.
Then a golden blade-light more brilliant than the sun itself flashed past, and the creature’s black ichor splattered across my face.
“Gasp!”
I jolted awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps that nearly choked me.
‘Why have my dreams become so violent lately?’
I seemed to have been deeply immersed in the nightmare, yet I retained precious little of its details. However, the emotions I’d experienced while struggling within that nightmare lingered like residue—a hopeless, distant despair.
‘Ever since I was caught in that mana surge, these nightmares with the same suffocating quality keep repeating.’
And I was frustrated because I couldn’t understand why.
I gasped for breath and reached for the glass of water sitting on the nightstand. My neck was drenched in sweat again, and my thirst was intense. It didn’t feel like much time had passed, yet dawn had already broken.
I rose from bed with my damp body and unwound the handkerchief I’d hastily wrapped around my hand to wash my face.
‘What’s this? The wound…’
I thought I’d been cut quite deeply by paper, but the wound had already healed.
* * *
“I have received a revelation.”
A woman’s clear voice echoed through the Cave. The apostles devoted to dark magic bowed endlessly before their masked master standing before the altar.
“A revelation! How long it has been since such a thing!”
A demon’s revelation was nothing less than divine oracle to dark mages. Francois Marquis even shed tears of emotion. Because the demon contracted with the woman was bound by great constraints proportional to its strength, the fact that it had delivered a revelation directly meant this was a matter of grave importance.
“Everyone, be quiet.”
The woman slightly furrowed her brow and continued.
“This is not good news.”
“What revelation have you received to speak such words?”
“Lucifer said he faintly sensed the power of a true Saint.”
“A… a Saint?”
The Cave fell silent as a tomb. Their plans had collided with an unexpected development.
‘I feared this might happen, but a true Saint has actually appeared.’
The master of the dark mages and the Fourth Imperial Consort of the Empire—Jamila Baskar’s eyes darkened. If a true Saint had appeared as Lucifer’s revelation indicated, her plans would suffer a significant setback.
【The Fake Saint Project】
It was something the Fourth Imperial Consort, hailing from the Nerman Kingdom, had been planning for a long time to grant legitimacy to her son, the Third Prince.
The Third Prince, tainted with foreign blood and lacking the blue hair that symbolized the Imperial House, fell far short in legitimacy compared to the Crown Prince, Behonic Hystech.
‘If I were to place the Third Prince as Crown Prince, the nobles’ resistance would be obvious as fire. The common people would be the same.’
To place her half-blooded son on the throne and put those arrogant Asteia nobles beneath her feet, she needed a dramatic scenario, and the Saint was to play a crucial role within that narrative.
The stone tablet inscribed with an ancient oracle passed down through the ages contained such content.
[Though deep darkness may descend, fear not. A Saint sent by God shall appear.
He whom the Saint chooses shall be the hero, and his glory shall be enjoyed for generations to come.]
Indeed, the people of the Empire believed that the first Emperor, Dominic Hystech, was the hero chosen by Saint Naila. The Saint’s choice held symbolic meaning even stronger than the blue hair that symbolized the Imperial House.
‘If the Saint chooses my son as Emperor, he will be recognized not only by the people but also by the Empire’s nobility.’
No—she would make them have no choice but to recognize him. In the end, it was a battle of justification.
‘I shall create the darkness. My son.’
She curved her crimson lips into a smile.
‘You shall enjoy the glory of one chosen.’
The moment I met the black eyes of my son, filled entirely with myself, I vowed to place all the world’s good things in those small hands.
I believed it was sufficiently possible. I possessed dark magic, a powerful force capable of turning desire into reality, and I had followers who adhered to my will.
Originally, I had planned to make Miya Binoshu, a fallen noblewoman easy to manipulate and beautiful enough to earn the admiration of discerning nobles, into the Saint.
However, the plan to make Miya the Saint of the Empire and have her choose my son, the Third Prince, had begun to falter at some point. It was because Miya, despite receiving all manner of material and personal support, had failed to make any impact in High Society.
In the end, what mattered was whether the nobles recognized her as a Saint, but Miya had only gained slight recognition from the common folk.
‘And I used the sacred blood for this!’
What they called sacred blood was highly concentrated life force extracted through the sacrifice of thousands upon thousands of human lives.
It might seem paradoxical that Jamila Baskar had created life force of such pure quality—potent enough to deceive a high priest—through alchemy rooted in demonic power, that is, black magic. Yet this was possible precisely because she was Lucifer’s contractor.
“The essence of divine power and black magic are one and the same.”
Lucifer, who had descended from the archangel guarding heaven’s gates to become the fourth demon of hell, spoke thus. Just as magic and aura were fundamentally rooted in the vast energy called mana, divine power and black magic were merely two sides of the same coin.
“My contractor. My power has always possessed the same quality, whether I dwelled in the highest heavens or in the very depths of hell.”
All natural change must proceed in the direction of increasing disorder. Yet divine power and black magic operate in the opposite manner.
God, in exchange for faith, defies natural law to restore humanity’s broken bones and flesh. Demons, in exchange for souls, defy natural law to fulfill human desire. Such hollow longings as near-eternal lifespans, bodies that endure incurable disease, flesh that never ages….
Jamila Baskar, Lucifer’s contractor who had wielded both forces, could use his wisdom to subtly reverse alchemy like flipping a coin’s sides, making it resemble divine power. This was the secret that had allowed her to remain undetected all this while in the very heart of the Imperial Court, which most oppresses black magic.
But if a true Saint were to appear, all her efforts would come to nothing.
“I must find the true Saint and kill her before she can reveal herself.”
Miya was a puppet dancing in her palm, but a true Saint carried far too many variables.
“I shall obey your command.”
The Insect Handler answered, pressing his forehead to the ground.
‘Still, the fact that a true Saint has appeared is known only to us, so we maintain our advantage.’
Jamila Baskar narrowed her eyes with that thought.
“For now… investigate whether there are any newborn girls with strong divine power among those born recently.”
The search for the Saint had begun.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com

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