Everything around him is colored a vile red. Thirty-four... thirty-four souls, murdered by his own hands. Kakavasha isn't crying — his eyes are just slightly moist — but he has no right to be weak. Master will not allow him to be. He's lucky, he survived, he's recouped all the money spent on him. Nasty sixty Tanbas.

The cold floor and walls; the mocking tone of that monster who, with a smooth smile, made him color everything red; the chains that rubbed his skin until it bled; the painful blows of the whip and the overly greasy-sounding words of praise... Surely the Goddess didn't curse him?

Kakavasha only sinks deeper into this mire as he beats with his own hands, at will, until the muffled wheezes of agony cease. The Devil is dead, but he has already taken all the life out of him.

That's why Kakavasha is startled when, instead of a ringing slap, he feels a soft touch on his shoulder. Oh, is this the new master the dead Devil was talking about? That's Kakavasha can't get a word out as he is gently led into an unfamiliar place. That's why Kakavasha shrinks into the couch like a scared little wolf when someone's hands touch him too gently. It doesn't even seem to be a physical pain: it comes from that vessel that used to be his soul. Couldn't his new master have turned out to be a good person?

It will all be over soon, the new incarnation of the Devil will soon take off the mask... but they didn't — only after a too hearty dinner they covers him with a blanket, as if noticing his trembling shoulders.

Guilt for the lives taken by his hands, fear, pain, horror — all of these waterfall tears flow down the shoulder of the one Kakavasha mistook for the Devil. He doesn't know how many tears he shed before they are gone. As his heart clenched painfully, Kakavasha clutched the too soft blanket in his hands. His heart ached, screaming too loudly, forcing him to finally raise his voice for the first time, even if it wasn't anything more than a hoarse whisper.

I didn't want this...