NOVEL NEXT Chapter 247: Deception
A young couple sat at a small round table over their afternoon coffee, the warmth of their cups a quiet comfort in the hidden café's embrace. Tucked away in a secluded alley of Strasbourg, France, they visited so often that they knew every one of the regulars by name.
The café exuded a quiet charm, nestled in the shelter of aged stone buildings that had survived the Second World War. It was almost invisible to passersby unless one knew precisely where to look. The entrance was a narrow archway, half-hidden by cascading ivy, leading inside to a cozy space lit by the golden glow of hanging lanterns, enticing through the scent of freshly ground coffee mingled with the buttery sweetness of pastries, forming an irresistible invitation.
Inside, the wooden furniture bore subtle marks of time—edges worn smooth by years of lingering conversations. Tiny framed paintings of impressionist street scenes adorned the walls; their colors gently faded but still vibrant with life. The floor was a mosaic of black-and-white tiles scuffed by the countless feet that had passed through. A vintage gramophone rested in one corner, softly playing old jazz that blended seamlessly with the murmur of voices and the clink of porcelain cups.
This sanctuary was not a place for tourists but a haven for locals and those lucky enough to stumble upon it—a café where time slowed, where the bustle outside blurred just enough to make each moment within feel timeless.
The young man, dressed in a crisp white linen shirt with the top buttons undone, leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His sleeves were casually rolled to the elbows, and a navy blue blazer draped over the chair's backrest hinted at a refined yet relaxed style. He wore slim-fit charcoal trousers and well-worn leather loafers, carrying the effortless elegance of a Parisian in his mid-to-late twenties—stylish but unpretentious. His light brown eyes, warm like aged cognac, watched as his fiancée delicately broke apart a golden croissant, her slender fingers catching tiny flakes of pastry.
She was a vision of understated charm. Black hair fell loosely over her shoulders, the morning light catching subtle waves in each strand. A flowing, cream-colored sundress, cinched at the waist, fluttered with every small movement. When she lifted a piece of pastry to her lips, her sapphire-blue eyes sparkled with gentle amusement, lingering on him for a brief moment before she took a slow, thoughtful bite. The buttery layers melted on her tongue, and a soft hum of satisfaction escaped her.
They shared laughter and stories between sips of coffee, their words weaving effortlessly into the café's gentle background hum. It was a moment that stretched like a small eternity of bliss—one of those rare intervals in life where everything felt perfectly, quietly aligned.
The young man cradled his cup, steam curling between his fingers and tracing the faint lines of ink etched into his skin. His callused hands bore the remnants of a past shaped by discipline and hardship, a life that clung to him like shadows. Among the intricate designs, the number 13 stood out, stark against his tanned skin—a silent emblem of bonds forged in honor and trust, of unspoken oaths and trials endured. He exhaled slowly, glancing over his shoulder at the sunlit avenue beyond the window. A calm satisfaction settled in his chest. This life, this moment—it had not come easily. He had bled, fought, and survived for it.
His fiancée's voice broke through his reverie, concern threading her tone. "Zidane, are you okay?"
Zidane took a deliberate sip of coffee, savoring its warmth before letting out a soft sigh. "I just..." He hesitated, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I had a bizarre dream—maybe my constellation isn't lining up properly," he added wryly. "Did you happen to check my horoscope?"
She shook her head, curiosity shining in her gaze. "You're a Virgo, right? I think the stars promised you a good day." Despite her playful reply, she sounded more worried than amused. "What was the dream about?"
Leaning back, Zidane described an otherworldly vision involving lofty ambitions and a fierce desire to help others. Suddenly, he broke off with a short, incredulous laugh. "Apparently, I also married my sister. Weird, right?"
She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle. "Quite the Freudian revelation," she teased, breaking off another piece of croissant. Her gentle smile, highlighted by piercing blue eyes, made him grin in return. "I hope her name was Angeliqué, at least."
Zidane rolled his eyes. "Actually, it was Sarah."
She took a thoughtful nibble of her croissant. "Were you Jewish and an accountant, too?" she teased, recalling the nightmare time he'd tried accounting courses. "That might be the real horror."
They shared a brief laugh before Zidane stood, moving behind her with a softened gaze. "I love your unquenched anti-Semitism and racism, darling," he remarked in a dry tone.
Angeliqué rolled her eyes. "Please, it's a compliment," she said, leaning back as he massaged her shoulders. A contented hum escaped her lips when he found a knot. "We do love beauty, too—and your people are exceptionally crafty, aren't they?"
His voice dropped as he bent closer. "You know what, my dearest love?"
Angeliqué's eyes drifted half-closed. "Yes, darling?"
"The real Angeliqué wouldn't just laugh off my being with another woman, even in a dream." Her eyes snapped open. Before she could speak, a sharp sting pierced her throat. His tone dropped to a chilling gentleness. "She's part Italian, Russian, and French—the most explosively jealous mix possible. She'd never shrug off my engagement to another woman without making me grovel on my knees. Don't toy with me."
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Standing behind her with a butter knife lodged in her flesh, Zidane watched blood trickle down her neck. Her tear-filled eyes locked on him. "Why...?"
He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Another thing," he added, slashing her throat vertically and twisting. "She was a brilliant doctor from a family of scientists. If I mentioned horoscopes as something serious, knowing her father was a physicist, she'd have hurled scalding coffee in my face and stormed out. Don't insult her by playing this role."
Angeliqué's body crumpled at his feet, blood pooling around his loafers. "Come out, you fucking parasite," he growled, taking another sip of coffee and closing his eyes as though relishing the moment. "Ah... I've missed this."
When he opened them again, the café vanished, replaced by a vast desert of scorching heat and shifting sands. The air tasted of sunbaked earth and faint smoke—a ghost from a long-lost life weighing heavily on his chest.
Before him stood a little girl, no older than ten, clad in ragged layers of filthy fabric. A dusty sling bag hung from her shoulder, its strap frayed and barely holding together. Her dark, hollow eyes pinned him with a stare devoid of childhood innocence—she radiated a fierce, all-consuming hatred, the kind only born from unbearable loss.
He knew her.
The memory struck without mercy: dust and smoke clinging to his skin, the distant echoes of some grim past pounding in his skull. His pulse thundered, and an unseen force seemed to grip his chest, making every breath feel like a battle. The weight in his hands—an echo from years gone by—settled over him, bridging the gap between instinct and consequence.
The silence that followed was more deafening than any shout. Some memories never truly fade; they mark you forever.
Now, in this endless sea of sand, she stood before him again. Her lips parted as if torn between a curse and a plea, fingers twitching toward the sling bag that no longer bore any weight.
Zidane swallowed, his heart a heavy, deliberate drumbeat in his ears. She had become his unyielding specter of guilt, the relentless shadow following him through every step of his life.
His grip on the porcelain cup tightened, and a sharp crack rang out as it shattered in his hand. Jagged shards bit into his palm, blood welling up hot and sticky against the smooth white fragments before dripping onto the sand below.
He barely felt it.
A wave of fury coiled inside him, pressing against the boundaries of his self-control. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with venom. "I'll make sure you suffer eternally, you condescending hag."
The tang of iron seeped into the dryness of the desert air. His blood-soaked hand trembled—not from pain, but from the raw force of rage pumping through his veins. Tension rolled off him in palpable waves as though mere stillness took monumental effort.
The desert itself seemed to respond, the air growing thick and charged with unspoken violence. Where Zidane's blood fell, the sand darkened as though the very earth was hungry for his wrath.
The little girl's eyes glinted with sudden mischief, and her voice—now Oyaras's—echoed across the dunes like an eerie breeze. "I didn't expect the betrayer to bring yet another parasite into our world~."
Zidane's expression twisted into a grin unsettlingly reminiscent of someone else—Alexander. His consciousness flickered, wild and bloodthirsty. "Care to elaborate? I'd love to know exactly what you mean before I crush your skull with my bare hands." A throbbing vein pulsed in his throat, betrayed by his mounting fury. "I learned a few special techniques from some American colleagues. I can't wait to try them out on a rat like you."
Her laugh was piercing, seeming to tremor in the shifting sands. "So cocky for a mere slave," she taunted. "I wanted this to be gentle, but apparently, you need some education~."
Zidane narrowed his eyes. "Wanna bet?"
"Bet what?" She shrugged as though his threats were trivial. "Your feeble skills keep you conscious, but once they're gone, taking your soul will be easy."
Zidane attempted [Mana Manipulation] and felt only emptiness, as though he had never possessed the ability. "So I'm locked out," he muttered, realizing that at least some mental safeguards remained intact. "Cute."
Oyaras extended a hand, her fingers twitching like the strings of a puppeteer. The ground rumbled—a low, menacing growl from deep underfoot. Sand began to swirl violently, drawn into a colossal shape. A behemoth rose, molded from compressed dunes, each movement raining dust from its massive limbs.
The monster was gargantuan, broad enough to blot out the sun. Pillar-like legs pushed deep into the desert with every step, the grind of shifting earth echoing like ancient plates colliding. Its torso—a cavern of swirling grit—seethed behind a ribcage of hardened sandstone. Clawed hands, jagged as eroded rock, flexed with an otherworldly awareness. A head formed from uneven stone and roiling sand, its eyes hollow pits of darkness flickering with captive sunlight. Its breath—a wave of scorching heat—bent the air like a mirage.
Oyaras stood beneath its towering form, a smug smirk curling her lips as she gestured toward Zidane. "You are weak," she giggled, a mix of childlike innocence and murderous intent echoing in his ears. "Your soul doesn't truly have skills; don't even try to resist. You're merely a parasite from Earth living in that animal's body."
"Maybe." Zidane kept his tone even, hoping to stall her. He scanned the dunes for any advantage, aware that running was pointless but still searching for a way out.
Oyaras perched upon the creature's sand-sculpted paw, counting playfully on her finger. "You've no System Window, no [Energy], no skills, and no mana. All you have is your creativity and overwhelmingly resistant souls," her eyes gleamed with fascination.
"Thanks," Zidane said, discreetly tapping his pants. His eyes remained fixed on her as he searched for anything he could use, all while trying to catch a glimpse of an escape route with his peripheral vision. "Earthlings are quite the crafty folk."
"You underestimate your own race!" she exclaimed, swinging her legs with childlike glee. "You people are geniuses—though it still baffles me how you survived this long," she teased with a deranged glimmer in her eyes.
Zidane abandoned any search for a hidden tool, shifting his focus inward, desperate to reactivate even a shred of [Mana Sense]. "So you've seen others like me?"
Oyaras's grin turned murderous. "Of course. Did you think you were the only one? Or that I was the only one aware of you?"
A wary note crept into Zidane's voice. "I've heard rumors about others. Maybe they're real, maybe not."
She shook her head in mocking disbelief. "Being an animal dulled your wits. There are many like you," she added matter-of-factly.
She then revealed that invaders from Earth had existed for ages, some rising to fleeting prominence before fading into obscurity or achieving legendary status—Merlin among them. It was always the same: While young, they would ascend unprecedentedly but at one point stall, never to eclipse their beginnings, becoming, at best, some noticeable knights or adventurers.
"But many never survived," she said, wrinkling her nose at the grime stuck to her fingers. With a look of disgust, she flicked the dirt away.
Zidane kept his tone measured, still trying to coax her into talking. "Never survived? Care to explain?"
Oyaras arched an eyebrow. "Are you that dense? Have you played fetch too often?" Her smile widened ominously. "You don't really think I'm the only one who finds your kind...useful or disturbing, do you?"