What did the Archbishop mean? Was he planning to take out the Hero?

What exactly did the Hero say? Was it good or bad for me?

How should I escape? Facing the Archbishop, I felt unprecedented pressure—fear, something the Hero never gave me.

I acted fearless. I kept bickering with him. I pretended to have all the cards. But deep down, I knew I was powerless. Everything was a facade. I had to seem strong to avoid being preyed on.

I’m no saint. No born hero. Maybe I’ve read too many books, but I have zero real experience.

I’m just ordinary. Even as the Dark Lord, I’m terrified of death. All my knowledge can’t guarantee a perfect escape.

I can only take it one step at a time. But time’s running out.

The Archbishop left, laughing loudly and shouting, “Leave it to me!” I had no clue what the Hero said. I just felt so helpless.

“Are you okay? Hurt? Did he do anything awful?” Was Lott actually worried about me?

“Leave me alone.” I curled up like a shrimp, eyes shut, repeating: Be strong. Don’t give up. There’s still hope.

Really? I doubted myself. How silly, searching for an exit. This world is broken.

I rubbed my nose against the lace hem of my skirt. Tears spilled over.

“In three days… will I die?” Clinging to a last thread of hope, I asked the Hero this dumb question.

His answer shocked me, igniting a spark inside.

“The public trial just convicts you. Relax—it’s like a parade, but you get to speak. That’s what worried you?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. To show the Church’s justice and mercy, they list crimes publicly, then let special prisoners debate. After refuting with facts, they convict on the spot. Execution? Delayed days or weeks.” The Hero explained.

“How hypocritical,” I scoffed, but I relaxed. When did I get so sensitive? Crying like this—so embarrassing.

“Isn’t it kinda fair?” He squatted, unlocking the cage. “Look at you, crying like a kitten.”

“Are you asking for death?” I grabbed an Oxford dictionary out of nowhere. “Three minutes without a beating, and I’ll climb the roof!”

“Dark Lord, mercy!” He rubbed his nose—the Oxford’s favorite target. “Where’d you even get that thing?”

“No idea. Just super handy.” I didn’t rush out. No escape today. Maybe afternoon… but I was exhausted.

“Done crying?”

“You saw nothing, right?” I mimed throwing.

“Nope! Nothing!” He waved frantically. I lowered the dictionary.

Back to earlier: “About that trial process.”

“Hmm?”

“Know its sneaky trick?”

“Full transparency?”

“No.” I shook my head, stepping out of the cage onto his bed.

“Pre-trial dinner for insiders?”

“No… what a corrupt rule! Do they invite the accused too?”

(Shaking head)

“Capitalist rot! Wait—off-topic. It seems fair, but it crushes one thing: debate. The accused only gets one speech, right?”

“Even with a loli voice, you can’t charm nosebleeds out of anyone. Too scary!”

“Seriously asking for death?” Impossible to talk to him!

“Oh!” I sat up suddenly. Trust matters—education says so. “You whispered to the Archbishop earlier. What’d you say? Some shady deal?”

“Impossible?” He fumbled for words. “Just a whisper.”

“What was it? Spill.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to pierce his act.

“Overthinking. I’m straight!” He stressed each word.

“Look into my eyes~” I teased.

He turned, gaze sincere—like “Marry me!”

What the heck!

But after five seconds, he blushed and looked away.

Typical otaku. “Fine, I believe you’re straight. So what’d you say?”

“Secret. You’ll see soon.”

He was keeping secrets? With his IQ, it probably meant no lies. I wasn’t sure.

“By the way, that ancient quote you used—‘oppressing the distressed’—so cringey.” I mocked to save face.

“Cough—forget it!” He gave me puppy-dog eyes. “I was helping you.”

“Okay, good job.” I lay back down. Then I spotted an oil painting on the wall—oddly placed.

I rolled over to study it. A beautiful fairy in a gown like a wedding dress, snow-white hair. Behind her, a giant cherry blossom tree showered pink-white petals.

A stunning realistic piece. No heavy religious vibe—just fresh and elegant.

“This girl… your goddess?”

“She’s a goddess. Not mine.” He was uncharacteristically serious. His serious face looked… weirdly off.

“She’s a prophesied maiden. Born with angels and demons. She’ll save the world, bring lasting peace.”

Another prophecy? Can they be that accurate?

“Found her yet? If they found me, they must’ve found her.”

“Born with angels and demons. Meaning she’s from our era—you and me. The prophecy’s vague. So they spent huge resources summoning the Hero early and tracking the Dark Lord’s birthplace… all to clear her path.” He gazed at the painting, longing in his eyes. “She’s the real protagonist.”

“Trust prophecies?” I sneered.

He wanted to argue but swallowed it. Lott stared at the painting, then at my profile. He kept staring until I turned and caught him.

“W-why do I feel like a gay guy’s eyeing me? Stop staring!” I shivered.

“Nothing. Just thinking cat ears and tail would suit you better. That way—”

“STOP!” I threw the Oxford dictionary, silencing him. “Keep talking, and this book gets banned for indecency!”

Why does this Oxford always have magic power? It appears out of nowhere, never misses. As the Hero, he should dodge a girl’s throw—but it nailed his nose. He collapsed.

He fell straight down, legs twitching like a dead chicken… sorry for the weird comparison.

Did I hit too hard? He’s bleeding!

“Panties… worth it.” I almost added another jab.