Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire

Chapter 667 : Negotiation

In the southern outskirts of Falano, within the Temple of the Goddess of Beauty, the climax of the annual Audience Banquet had just concluded. The long-standing unseen confrontation between the two dancers—Adèle and Sandrina—had finally reached its resolution. At this moment, Adèle stood upon her stage, slowly taking her final bow, while Sandrina lay sprawled on the floor—mouth agape, eyes wide, and her body barely moving.

After completing her curtsy, Adèle gracefully straightened up. She looked at Sandrina’s collapsed form in the distance, her expression devoid of sympathy. Though her dance had ended, many of the surrounding guests still remained dazed, captivated by the lingering charm Adèle had left behind.

“It’s over…”

Letting out a long breath, Adèle quietly thought this to herself. Soon after, Dorothy’s voice rang in her mind.

“Looks like… everything’s been resolved. Congratulations, Adèle. It seems that in the end, the charm of a veteran star outshines the rest.”

“Heh, give it a rest, little detective. Charm had nothing to do with this. The deciding factor in this incident wasn’t stage presence—it was your schemes and abilities. No matter how well a dancer performs, she still has to follow the direction of the choreographer. I had a great director—she didn’t. Maybe I should start calling you ‘Little Director’~”

With a light chuckle, Adèle replied playfully. Dorothy responded without missing a beat.

“Call me whatever you want… But really, you went a bit hard on her. That one’s not getting back up…”

“There was no other way. Our duel of desires was mutual. Throughout the dance, she constantly used memories of my teacher to provoke my own murderous urges. It’s impossible to come through something like that unscathed.”

Staring coldly at Sandrina’s fallen body, Adèle added.

“Still, as a White Ash-rank Chalice, even a fatal wound isn’t necessarily the end. As long as there’s still spirituality, she might not die immediately. If you use your puppet thread to feed her some Chalice, she might survive. If she’s too hard to control or not worth the spiritual cost—but you’ve got the tech—you could try linking the thread only to her head, cut off the rest and throw it away. No body, no resistance. Then you’d only need to feed enough spirituality to keep a head alive. Efficient. Easier to interrogate later too.”

With chilling logic, Adèle laid out the strategy while staring at Sandrina’s limp body. Hearing her, Dorothy pursed her lips, thinking:

“There’s definitely some personal vendetta in that suggestion…”

Without replying further, Dorothy turned her attention back to the matter at hand. While Sandrina’s body was still viable, she sent one of her corpse marionettes forward to place a marionette mark and establish a spiritual thread link. But just then—something unexpected happened.

In the Dome Hall, Sandrina’s body suddenly began to convulse violently. Her exposed skin rippled and distorted grotesquely. She gagged and retched uncontrollably. At the sight, Dorothy immediately had her corpse marionette retreat several steps.

Moments later, Sandrina’s skin burst open in rapid succession, releasing a thick cloud of bloody mist and a swarm of tiny, blood-drenched insects. They flew outward in all directions, seemingly trying to attack the surrounding guests. Adèle, seeing this, pulled out a small iron canister and tossed it into the swarm.

The canister exploded mid-air into a burst of flame, engulfing the insects in a blazing inferno—almost all of them were incinerated at once. It was a combustion grenade fused with a sigil, obtained through church channels.

Once the smoke and fire faded, peace returned to the scene. All that remained was the mangled wreckage of Sandrina’s body—torn flesh, missing limbs, and exposed, bloodstained bones.

“Parasites…?”

Adèle asked through the mental link, and Dorothy nodded slowly.

“She was most likely implanted in advance with a large number of parasite eggs or larvae by the Filth Coven. These eggs must have some sort of trigger mechanism. Once the host loses motor function, the parasites consume the host’s body to rapidly grow and reproduce—killing the host as they burst out. It’s probably an insurance method the Filth Coven uses on their own operatives…”

Dorothy had seen similar things before. In her first encounter with the Crimson Wolf that attacked Tivian’s Hymn Cathedral, she’d found a parasite capable of transmitting messages. It wasn’t unusual for there to be parasites with other functions. A high-ranking Wolfblood member would never agree to such internal threats voluntarily—but lower-ranked personnel had no choice but to comply.

“So… the Filth Coven really was involved in this. They’ve always had a hand in researching the Desire Path. The Wolfblood Society likely handed your teacher over to them, giving them ample material to produce results. This dancer was one of those results…

“Still, it seems their success wasn’t entirely stable—there were flaws and secrets in her body, which is why they planted parasites as a failsafe.”

Dorothy explained further, and Adèle nodded at first—then added thoughtfully.

“That might all be true… but I’m still not entirely convinced Sandrina was from the Filth Coven.”

“Oh? You’ve got another theory?”

“Just before she snapped her own neck, she said: ‘Save me, Matron… my Matron.’

To my knowledge, none of the three sects of Placenta refer to their superiors as ‘Matron.’ The Filth Coven, for instance, uses titles like ‘High Priest’ or ‘Chieftain’—but never ‘Matron.’”

Dorothy’s brow furrowed slightly at this.

If the Filth Coven doesn’t use “Matron” as a title, then the woman Sandrina cried out to wasn’t one of their leaders. Could it be that Sandrina wasn’t from the Filth Coven at all?

Yet if none of the three factions within the Afterbirth Cult used such a title, then where exactly did this “Matron” fit into the structure?

Sandrina had clearly been a direct subordinate of this “Matron.” Among the “Chalice” branches—Beast, Tides, Plague, and Desire—Desire was the only one that fit her abilities. But Afterbirth had only recently obtained Desire-Degeneracy Path knowledge. It wasn’t even clear whether their advancement system was complete or if they’d relied on flesh-tech black boxes. Producing a Crimson-rank result already? Highly unlikely.

So if this “Matron” wasn’t affiliated with any of the four known Chalice branches, then who… or what… was she?

Dorothy’s mind worked furiously. As she eliminated the usual possibilities, a far more terrifying thought crept into her mind—one that startled even her.

“No… it can’t be… But if it is… then perhaps it would explain why, lately, the three factions of Afterbirth—once fragmented and hostile—have suddenly begun cooperating again…”

Her expression grew solemn as she followed that line of reasoning. Just then, Adèle spoke again.

“What’s wrong, little detective? Did you figure something out?”

“Ah… I’ve got a few ideas. But now’s not the time to discuss them. We should focus on cleanup first.”

Dorothy replied calmly, and Adèle exhaled softly, nodding. She then turned toward the opera hall and said:

“Alright. Then I suppose it’s time I go have a proper conversation with our honored Consul.”

“Yes. I’ve already put precautions on him earlier. Now’s the perfect opportunity.”

Dorothy affirmed. With that, Adèle stepped down slowly from her water lotus stage and began walking toward the Opera Hall.

…

Outside the Temple of the Goddess of Beauty, in a distant forest, a figure in a long black robe and cloak raised his head from the shadows. Beneath the hood, his eyes pierced through the gaps between the trees, gazing at the golden dome of the temple glowing beneath the evening sun. After a moment of silence, he muttered with barely restrained emotion.

“Hmph… useless trash…”

After that, he looked up at the dimming eastern sky and, recalling the blinding light that had just torn through the heavens, he continued muttering.

“So… the rumored Heaven’s Arbiter Sect… really does exist. To be able to call in that kind of reinforcement… I underestimated you, Adèle…”

With that, the black-robed figure turned and walked away. Within the dense forest, his body gradually became translucent… and eventually vanished into nothingness.

…

At sunset, back inside the Temple of the Goddess of Beauty, the once-celebratory Audience Banquet had descended into chaos. Fully armed guards had spread throughout the palace, locking down all entrances and exits. The banquet had been suspended, and all performances canceled. No guests were allowed to leave. Everyone was herded into a common area, confused and exchanging whispers.

Most of the ordinary guests were dazed and chattering among themselves, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Some with mystical abilities stood silently in the corners, eyes solemn as they observed the scene—analyzing the recent events while watching the Consul’s guards who had sealed them in.

While the front of the temple bustled with confusion, the rear halls were deathly quiet. Inside the vast and opulent Hall of Glory, only two figures stood. One was Adèle, still dressed in the Splendor King’s stage costume but with her mask removed. The other was Falano’s Consul—Samson.

“Greetings, Your Excellency the Consul. I believe this is a secluded enough place, yes?”

Adèle gave Samson a formal Falano court curtsy, smiling slightly. Samson stood with his hands behind his back, and after glancing at the elegant woman before him, finally opened his mouth.

“I’ve read the Anti-Mystic Security reports about you, Adèle Briouz. Among the known overseas remnants of the Bourbon royal line, you’re ranked among the highest in terms of attention—not just for your influence, but your pure bloodline and high legitimacy. Some of the royalists I’ve locked up even wanted to bring you back as queen…

“Now that I’ve seen you in person… they weren’t wrong. You’re easily the most exemplary Bourbon I’ve seen in years. If you showed up dressed like this in front of those people, I imagine they’d cry as they dropped to their knees.”

Samson’s tone was dry, and Adèle responded with a teasing smile.

“Them? Oh, I remember. A few years ago someone did come to Tivian to ‘invite me to conspire for a great cause’ and ‘join in glorious revival.’ But I turned them down. Compared to their pathetic dream of restoration, I thought my performances were more important. That was my breakthrough period—I wasn’t about to waste it on something so pointless.”

“And yet… you still came back.”

“Yes,” Adèle replied breezily, “I heard there might be a chance to inherit something from my ancestors, so I came to try my luck—and while I was at it, I figured I’d study Falano’s performing arts market. I never expected that I wouldn’t inherit anything, but would end up saving a Consul instead. Isn’t fate funny like that~?”

Hearing this, Samson couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Heh… Your wit is very Bourbon. I’ve spent half my life fighting the Bourbons, and in the end, I owe my life to one. Fate truly is full of irony.”

“So… now can you tell me who exactly wanted you dead, Consul?”

Her tone turned more serious. Samson paused for a moment before replying.

“It was, of course, one of my political enemies—another Consul. Only another Consul could initiate an impeachment against me that strips me of my powers at such a critical moment.”

“Consuls can strip each other’s powers with impeachments? Wouldn’t that make internal power struggles among you a game of first strikes?”

Adèle narrowed her eyes slightly. Samson shook his head.

“It’s not quite that simple. When one Consul initiates impeachment against another, both sides temporarily lose their authority. And impeachment must be done through formal procedure—openly proposed during a Council of Consuls or in Parliament. It’s not easy to pull off.”

“Then are you saying that while you were attending the banquet, another Consul initiated impeachment in Parliament?”

Adèle raised a brow. Samson shook his head again.

“No. Parliament isn’t even in session right now, and I never received a notice for a Consul meeting. This impeachment… must’ve used a special procedure.”

“Special procedure?”

Adèle looked puzzled. Samson was silent for a moment, then looked out the window of the Hall of Glory. Across the large lake beyond the glass, a small chapel stood on the far bank.

“The special procedure for impeachment… If a Consul receives the sacred sanction of the Archbishop of Falano, they can bypass Parliament and initiate an impeachment unilaterally.”

Samson’s tone turned grim. Adèle blinked, surprised.

“The Archbishop of Falano? He has that much power?”

Samson continued gazing out the window at the distant cathedral.

“Falano’s current state-endorsed mystical system was rebuilt after the Cold Moon Revolution—largely thanks to the Church. Among all the nations on the main continent, Falano’s official mystical structure is one of the most heavily influenced by the Church. In our system, the Church-appointed Archbishop holds several exceptional privileges.”