I’ve lost all sense of time but I can tell that I’ve been staring at the knife for at least three minutes before I suddenly remember why I confiscated the knife.

Negotiation! Devil! I grip the knife hard as I yell internally, speaking of the devil so that they may appear.

‘Hi~ Bitch!’

With her stock standard grand introduction, fiery tongues burst out as she illuminates in that eerie red glow.

The devil in the athame, Little Miss Shiv. I thought she was merely a demon, but it comes to me that her identity if far more complicated than that of a sealed demon. I can tell that I’m missing some memories… Some very crucial memories…

Devil! I have a proposition!

‘You wanna not die,’ she ruthlessly cuts off my bid, ‘But the problem is that it’s fated to happen. I’m afraid you’re goin’ to hell, bub.’

Okay… Now I’m having doubts talking with the devil. Why’d I even jump to the most extreme case? Dying really isn’t that bad. What was I even expecting?

‘You weren’t expecting anything, but past you was.’

Oh my lord. Don’t bring that bastard up. He’s the root cause of all my suffering.

‘I’m not surprised, that rat bastard was a real bitch!’ With strong emphasis on the last word, Shiv shines with a deeper scarlet, ‘So unfortunately, you’re going to Hell.’

But why? I don’t even know what past me did!

‘You’ll find out when you get to Hell! Lot’s of stuff happened down there, I’m sure you’ll meet yourself again.’

What? Meeting myself… That shouldn’t be possible, but nonetheless, I have this strange hunch that my next antagonist will be myself. Tell me I’m wrong. This script can’t be right.

‘I’m afraid your wish may not be granted. Everyone has demons to conquer, and also, you’ll most certainly meet past me, so help me out, yeah?’

What if I don’t meet you though?

The Shiv flickers in indignation, ‘Are you daft~? It’s already happened!’

That’s an impossibility, I’ve never met your crazy ass before. I harshly rebuke the Shiv. Of course, considering how this whole conversation is playing out in my mind, it’d be better to say that I’m just dissing her in my mind, with the added consequence that she’s aware of it.

‘Yup, you’re hella right about that! You’re really gonna need to work on controlling your thoughts. All demons talk like this! Actually, you probably don’t need to work on it, you spoke pretty well when we met…’

Stop acting familiar with me! I don’t even know what I’m doing here!

‘You’re here to negotiate with me! Well, past me… Which sounds dumb but it works.’ Her shine dies down a bit before it settles to a medium rare kinda colour, ‘When you get to Hell, you’ll understand that time doesn’t flow in any ratio in comparison to here. It’s totally independent of time here, so it obviously cannot be applied. You’ll end up meeting past me, so don’t worry about not being able to get out of the Soul River.’

The setting of Hell sounds kinda dumb but fixes a lot of logical fallicies doesn’t it? Except time travel. What happens if I change the past? Will we just forget? Or is Hell an alternate timeline? If that’s the case, then Hell really does fix all the logical fallacies…

‘You’re thinking too hard. As I said, Hell is independent of this Realm, so it’s only natural time works differently and trying to change the past? Not possible. Something will somehow stop you. Trust me, I’ve tried.’

You’ve tried?

‘Why d’you think a devil is stuck in a dumbass dagger?’

Wow, do people not die when they’re killed?

‘Don’t know about people, bu~t devils sure don’t.’

I know necromancy exists but… You’re still dead which severely limits what you can do and what essence you can use. Whereas, I can positively feel that the knife is alive.

‘Okay, it’s good you understand, I’mma take a nap, and when you die, I’ll make sure you get to Hell safely. So to that end, I’ve already given you something.’

I don’t feel like I’ve been given anything.

‘Shut the Hell up little bitch, you can’t feel jack in the first place.’ The Shiv huffs a cloud of hot air —I assume its hot,— ‘You got the Jester’s Daisy as well, right?’

If you’re talking about the rose, then I still have it. The pretty pink rose. I knew something was off about it…

‘If you eat it, then die by your own hands, then you can die without regrets! How great is that? It greatly lowers the chance of insanity and obsession when you become a demon! That’s the deal you wanted, cor~rect?’

Her lilting and frankly skin crawling words snap a piece of crucial information right to the forefront of my lingering conscious. For some reason, I wanted to negotiate with a devil…

Can you tell me why?

However, to my directed question, the Shiv stays silent, and her glow finally dies off, returning to the lustrous black dagger that she usually is.

Wow, so I’m still dying in two days. A pity, but not something totally unacceptable.

I’m gonna need to write a will…

Can you at least help me with that?

…

“Jeffrey… You can write?”

He gives me the same deadpan, ‘I wanna die’ look he’s had for the past year I’ve known him. But as a response to my question, I can vaguely see his eyelids lower in a ‘I’m about to stab you’ way.

And true to his words, he does indeed, try to stab me.

“Hey hey! Be civil! It was just a joke.”

Despite his silence, the way he sheaths the machete back on his girdle is enough to tell me that he’s given up for today, once more reevaluating the strength of a Steel Will ranked individual such as myself.

“Must suck still being Silver, huh?”

After another bout of tomfoolery, I stop prodding the poor lad, as I take a look at the sheet of paper he handed me. The curly, neat and most importantly, legible handwriting catches me off guard.

Just the way that it’s written shows a lot of care was put into maintaining this perfect handwriting and that time and dedication is most certainly not Jefferey’s. The fellow is most certainly not civil enough to dot his i’s. And most noticeable is that it’s a girl’s handwriting.

“You got Lazari to do this didn’t you?”

He doesn’t reply but judging by the fact that he’s not staring back at me, I know I’m right. Who else would’ve written it? It’s not like he’d contract a demon just to help him write a letter… Actually no, Lazari is a demon so the man did commission a demon to write his will, which brings up the question of why he was so cut about me questioning his ability to write.

Anyway, bringing my attention back to the paper at hand, I’m immediately able to figure out from the legal formatting that it’s a will. Working as an archivist, these sorts of things usually got processed by me so I know the general procedure but why am I being passed a will?

Who’s trusting me with their will?

Oh wait.

That’s when I find the name, JEFFREY of SHARNE in print at the top of the page. I can’t help but suck my gums together as I face the man.

“Why are you trusting me with your will?”

And in a rare wonderment, Jeffrey replies to my question, “Why the Hell am I giving you my will?”

With another question. Because, of course, Jeffrey didn’t know what Jeffrey was doing.

“More importantly, what do you even own that requires a handover via will?”

The man reels back in shock, ruffling his black hair as he sits down on a milk crate. He has that ‘What am I thinking? What’s happening?’ contemplative sort of look on his face.

I’m sure he has a lot to think about so I watch over him, before he breaks something and then I turn to Jeffrey’s undead friend.

“Is he always like this?” I mean, I knew the guy for about a year, but this behaviour might’ve just started because he lost his job and I roped him into the Order. For all I know, Jeffrey could’ve been a respectable citizen that simply offended the wrong character whilst enacting justice thus leading to a brutal framing. I mean, he sure as Hell wasn’t one of us when I first met him, so the story adds up.

“No…” That voice booms. Signature of natural undead, simply his willpower is enough to materialise voice. Scary stuff. And also the reason why I never learnt Necromancy despite learning how to control Death essence. To make the most of Necromancy you need strong undead, and strong undead have frightening willpower, meaning you can get beaten up by your own undead if you ain't careful enough. Which is main reason why our resident Necromancy, Sheeny, didn't have any undead to herself —Disregarding New Guy, the traitor—.

Honestly, I’m quite content with my power level. Usually, for mortals such as ourselves, Gold Mind rank is at the peak of power but settling for Steel, is alright. It doesn’t paint a target on my back, nor am I a weakling that would back down in a fight.

I will admit though, I kind of feel bad for the Silver ranked fellow. I can tell that he regretted joining since the get go, but it wasn’t like he had a better choice. Circumstances dictated it, and sometimes I see his old habits linger. Sometimes trying to enchant his weapon with the elements, only to no avail whilst also suffering a backlash. All the while caring for a demon and clearly not being mentally sound. The man has a strong pride I’ll tell you that much, but as for anything else… I dunno.

“So, what kind of person was Jeffrey like?”

He doesn’t reply. But when I’m about to dismiss my own inquiry, I notice that he’s poured drinks on a nearby table. Why do I feel like Wills, that alcoholic is here?

I’m not one to drink, but being a professional at reading the mood, I can tell the old bones won’t answer lest I take a swig. And so I do. I’ve always hated that pungent taste and it takes me a second to recompose myself from the gagging.

“Jeffrey… He was much more carefree than now. But things changed. There was sometimes a lady that he’d often meet…”

He speaks in that disjointed fashion, making it an odyssey to follow, but good graces, I did not expect to hear such gossip… Not that I’m opposed of course.

“She was a witch. And cursed him. Now he has a chronic hate of all demihumans.”

“Okay… What did I just listen to?” This abrupt change in the story's undertone makes it feels like a comedy, but in all seriousness, it’s a tragedy. I should be feeling bad, and I barely repress my snicker.

“I don’t know the reason why she did that…” He pauses in that lilting manner common to most undead as his soul fire beneath the visor flares up in a deep, intoxicatingly deep azure, “But I feel like you people may know.”

“Ayay, let’s drop the topic, ight? Look at me!” I splay my arms wide pulling the most dumbass smile I can, “Do I look like I know anything? I just show up, honest!”

Yes. I hate doing this, but to disperse that immense killing intent, I’m willing to play the idiot card. It’s sad that I’m no foreigner to pushing my head down in front of the strong.

This atmosphere… I can’t stand it anymore, so I leave, back to more familiar members of the Order.

“Aye? Is that Laffer?” Kod, a member of this branch calls me out, “Good! Members from the Dessication branch have found the target! He’s vulnerable right now so we’re calling all members to jump him.”

That quick? Damn, I thought Dessication was an art for cursing… Though I guess some curses can reveal the location of a target, though, in an abstruse manner.

“Kod, can we even deal with him with hands we have now? What if it’s a trap?”

“Hell if I know, but Lady Syringa’s already planned where we’re jumping him,” He waves his hand in that rough, thuggish way that seamen are used to, “We don’t have time for the full squad to rock up.”

“You mean the Ruination branch? The most potent force of the order?” We're really not gonna wait for those guys?

“We have anthrax, it’ll be less of a hassle.”

Anthrax… Coming to the Capital was a real eye opener for me. The guys at the Plague branch here are so much more advanced than us back in Joost. Whilst we were hiding with stolen Empire technology, these guys can just hide in right under the auspices of the Kingdom through surefire legal processes.

And whilst we were knocking heads with the local nobles, these guys just poured a bit of anthrax through their windows…

Anthrax… Apparently, it was a substance quite alike Death and Ruination. Rendering our services mostly null aside from being meat shields…

“So why d’you even need us then?”

“Ah, we need more hands for the trap. Gather your lads and camp the North Palace entrance aaaannd,” Kod slurs as he rummages through his satchel, tossing me a black brick, or, as someone as cultured as I, am privy to, a radio, “Take this, friend, Syringa will give orders later. We’re tight on time.”

And so off he goes, heading off to busy himself with something else. Let’s hope we can get the job done and go home…

“But I wonder… How do you use this thing?”