As Vienny began to breathe out shakily beneath him, her breath reached him and saliva pooled in his mouth. Even the hunting dogs in the interrogation room weren’t that reactive.

“I never tried to seduce him.”

Each time her lips moved, they would crease and part again. The fresh blood glistened in those creases, deepening the red of her lips. With each unsteady breath she took, an inexplicable thirst rose in his throat.

“I just saw you wiping yourself earlier, and I thought I’d help, that’s all.”

“Ha, so you did it without thinking—just because you happened to see it?”

McClart’s open mockery drained the remaining color from Vienny’s face, leaving her looking almost lifeless—like a corpse. The sight bothered him, and his expression grew even harder.

Seeing his face turn rigid, Vienny parted her lips, desperate to say something. It was obvious, even to him, that she was frantically searching for the right words. Finally, she seemed to find them.

“I… I do have a question.”

“A question?”

McClart replied, forcing his gaze away from her blood-streaked lips, his tone colder than necessary. Her eyes, usually shadowed with fear, were now fixed on him, uncharacteristically steady.

“Why are you being kind to me now?”

Kindness. The unexpected word left his mind blank for a moment.

McClart found himself momentarily speechless, staring down at Vienny lying beneath him. Despite his stunned reaction, she pressed on resolutely.

“Have your intentions… to purify the last remaining witch… changed?”

“A worthless question,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt. But Vienny’s voice grew more urgent.

“If you think the same way as the High Priest does, then…!”

“You think I’m being kind to win you over?”

His mind snapped back to clarity, his composure returning as his head cooled. With a bitter laugh, he allowed a mocking murmur to slip from his lips.

“Wouldn’t it be more convincing if I said it was to warm my bed rather than to win you over?”

This time, it was Vienny who looked completely bewildered. Her expression made it clear that she had never even considered being associated with him in that way—not even after the kiss they had shared not long ago.

For some reason, that realization made something twist uncomfortably inside McClart, and his mocking smile faded. It seemed she’d even forgotten about the kiss. She’d been relieved that he hadn’t “become a demon,” yet the only thing that seemed to truly concern her was her own blood.

“…You haven’t become a demon…”

Her voice was awkward, the words hesitating as they left her lips. McClart narrowed his eyes, staring down at her thoughtfully, then paused.

It was said that drinking a witch’s blood would strip one of reason, turning them into a demon. Her reference to demons in response to his comment about warming his bed implied she was drawing a link between the two.

Suddenly, McClart recalled the testimony of a witch executed recently. She had claimed that the ultimate duty of the great witch was to ensure the continuation of her bloodline, and since passing on the blood was difficult, she had taken various men to do so.

Even for men consumed by desire, it wouldn’t be easy to lust after a body covered in scars and wounds. Yet, if she’d managed to keep drawing men to her until a proper great witch was born, some other power must have been at work.

“So when they said you’d become a demon, it meant lusting after a witch?” he murmured, realization dawning on him.

…Ah, so he wasn’t the strange one after all.

McClart had finally found a rational explanation for the state that had been haunting him for days. Every inexplicable impulse he’d felt was because of the great witch’s influence. Her blood had enchanted him, dulling his reason and warping his control.

Upon reaching this conclusion, the tension that had been plaguing him seemed to dissipate all at once.

“So, the witch doctor must have…”

Vienny startled, quickly shaking her head.

“I’ve never fed him my blood! I swear!”

Now that he understood the effects her blood had, McClart found it hard to fully trust her denial. He decided to ignore her desperate insistence. If he, with his training and discipline, felt its effects so strongly, there was no way someone like Pepin, lacking in holy power and strong conviction, could have resisted.

Even now, each time Vienny spoke, the subtle, intoxicating scent of her blood grew stronger, lingering in the air between them. Knowing it was all due to the allure of her blood did nothing to ease his body’s reaction.

“Your blood is truly evil, no doubt about it.”

The Great Witch was undoubtedly something that needed to be purified. McClart resolved to inform the High Priest of this witch’s malevolence as soon as they returned. Both this newly reborn Great Witch and Vienny were deserving of purification…

Yet, his determined thoughts came to an abrupt halt, as if thrown off track, the moment he imagined purification—the image of Vienny engulfed in blue flames.

“Inquisitor.”

Vienny was still lying beneath him, her disheveled black hair spread across the bed, and her red eyes, filled with a mix of emotions, gazed up at him helplessly. The blood staining her lips carried a persistent, sweet scent.

If this wasn’t a demon, then what was? Only a demon, cloaked in a guise of innocence, could corrupt humanity so profoundly.

“Inquisitor, you have not lost your mind.”

McClart stared, unable to understand what Vienny was trying to say.

“You haven’t become a demon.”

His frown deepened as his eyes caught sight of her trembling lips. Despite the slight tremor in her voice, she somehow managed to speak with surprising confidence.

“It’s not because of my blood.”

“Rubbish.”

He had been exposed to the scent of her blood too often. Even the High Priest had observed him and remarked that he’d been enchanted. At the time, he’d denied it, but now he was beginning to accept it. Like clothing gradually soaked in a drizzle, he had slowly been consumed by the influence of the witch’s blood.

McClart gritted his teeth. No matter how often he reminded himself that she was an evil witch, his mind remained scattered.

It was utterly absurd. He was the greatest inquisitor, wielding the highest holy power, the very one who had personally purified thousands of witches.

“If it weren’t witchcraft, how could I…”

Yet, the mere thought of executing a Great Witch made his heart sink.

“The demons who have drunk the Great Witch’s blood aren’t like you, Inquisitor. They don’t… feel this kind of confusion.”

McClart’s face contorted with anger. It was infuriating that this foolish Great Witch could so easily see through the turmoil he was experiencing.

He hadn’t intended to taste her blood in the first place. It had been a moment of impulsive weakness. Even though he knew the danger, he should have foreseen that, having given in once, it would be all the harder to resist again.

McClart gripped the blanket tightly. He could have just stood up. Or pushed her aside. She was so frail that a single hand could send her sprawling to the floor. It should have been easy—but his body refused to move.

“You don’t have the same intentions as the High Priest, do you?”

Even as she trembled, Vienny was determined, her question laced with a hint of desperation. She needed him to confirm that his intention was still to purify her completely.

It should have been an easy answer. He could have said “yes” without hesitation, but McClart found himself unable to speak.

As the silence stretched, Vienny’s trembling fingers lightly touched his arm. With no clothing to shield him, he felt her warmth directly against his skin.

Enchanted.

The High Priest’s scornful laugh echoed like a persistent ringing in his ears, mocking him. Yet the sound felt distant, failing to fully reach his heart.

Instead, his attention was captured by her red eyes, staring up at him with an empty, questioning gaze, and the slight movement of her lips as if she was about to speak. Her frail, emaciated body only fueled the impulses he was barely containing—a raw, insatiable desire with no clear beginning.

As if determined to unravel him further, Vienny quietly asked again.

“The kindness you’ve shown me… it was just a momentary pity, wasn’t it?”

As soon as she spoke, a sigh escaped his lips. The great witch—Vienny—was truly a dreadful woman.

McClart let out a bitter, almost feral laugh. Had the High Priest foreseen this outcome? Was that why he had mocked him so mercilessly?

He had become nothing more than a pathetic dog, salivating at the mere hint of sweetness. A dog that now understood the taste was too intoxicating to resist, potent enough to cloud his reason.

The disgust rising within him had lost its direction, swirling aimlessly. He wasn’t even sure anymore who deserved his loathing.

“I told you already,” he said, his voice low and strained through clenched teeth.

“It’s to warm my bed.”

She opened her mouth, perhaps to press him for confirmation of her inevitable death. But McClart didn’t hesitate any longer; he lowered his head.

A week of keeping his distance, of avoiding her, of trying to erase the memory of her taste—all of it crumbled in an instant. Her blood, which should have been bitter, was unexpectedly sweet as it touched his tongue.

In that moment, McClart realized he had never truly forgotten the feel of her chapped lips, the tense way her mouth had set, or how her tongue tried to retreat when startled. He had simply overestimated his own resolve, like a fool.

The dam he had built so carefully gave way to the smallest crack, collapsing entirely. The emotions he had restrained flooded in all at once, and nothing remained of the wall he had tried so hard to hold up.

If this was a test from God, then he knew he would never pass it.