The Sponsored Heroines Are Coming for Me

Oscar held a scalpel in his hand.

How to describe him… It was an image that suited him remarkably well.

An unhesitant, confident posture.

A professionalism emanating from the way he held the scalpel.

Even the unwavering smile etched on his face.

If I had seen him for the first time here, I might have thought, Is he a ‘prodigy boy doctor’?

His demeanor was that flawless.

The kind of trust he exuded made it seem like you could entrust him with any surgery.

But the real problem lay elsewhere.

— Clink, clink!

And this wasn’t a typical operating room—my hands and legs were bound securely, forcing me into a reclined position.

So there was absolutely no way for me to escape Oscar, who was approaching step by step, his heels clicking against the floor.

“…”

This guy might very well be aiming to peel my skin off layer by layer.

Oscar stood still in front of me, the scalpel resting in one hand as he gave a slow, deliberate smile.

— Screeeech.

He turned the torture rack upwards.

The shift straightened my vision, as if I were standing upright. Bound as I was, I came face to face with Oscar.

“I noticed you were straining your neck too much, so I raised it for you to make it easier.”

“… Should I thank you for that?”

“Haha, no need for that.”

Whatever he found so amusing, he laughed joyfully, as if genuinely pleased.

His smile was… unsettling.

The kind of smile that didn’t improve the mood but instead left you feeling filthy.

He leaned in a little closer to me.

A faint fruity scent hit my nose.

Now that I noticed it, his body smelled like something bittersweet—like grapefruit.

Mixed, curiously, with the faint scent of blood.

That, too, was unpleasant.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

No, rather than unpleasant…

“Don’t be too afraid, Ian. There’s still time before the main event begins.”

Yes, fear.

The pure smile of a madman.

I couldn’t predict how far Oscar would take things, and that’s what made it terrifying.

‘If it gets to the point where he severs an arm or leg… not even Super Regeneration can handle that.’

All I could do was hope it wouldn’t come to that.

Oscar Javert, an inquisitor who could fabricate evidence out of thin air.

The most crucial thing now was figuring out what level of information he was after.

‘Well, at least he won’t kill me before the witch trial.’

Ssshhh.

Oscar’s hand, holding the scalpel, moved toward my upper body without hesitation.

“Hah.”

A short sigh escaped his lips, carrying with it an unmistakable trace of madness.

His scalpel and hand moved without reservation, closing the distance.

Just when I thought they were about to touch me—

— Pop!

He undid the buttons of my shirt.

One by one, meticulously, as if he were taking great care.

“… What are you doing?”

“That shirt looks expensive. It’d be a shame if it got stained with blood, wouldn’t it? What? Did you think I’d cut into you right away?”

“Yeah.”

He chuckled, clutching my shirt in his hand.

“Ahahaha! Ian, the human mind doesn’t break when the body is in pain.”

“Then when?”

“It breaks when imagining the pain about to come.”

Thinking about it, he wasn’t wrong.

When you’re hit, you’re either in pain or too agitated to think about anything else.

Oscar tossed my shirt aside and continued speaking.

“Or when false hope appears and then vanishes.”

Ahahaha!

He let out a light laugh, his eyes gleaming.

“I’ll take my time with you, Ian. Feel the pain and the fear of it fully. I don’t even need to ask you anything. Everything you say will be important. That’s just the feeling I get.”

“If you’re curious about something, why not just ask?”

“Now, of all times?”

“Yes.”

“Puhahaha! Where has the confident Ian gone?”

“My confidence comes from being able to answer anything, not necessarily the truth.”

Oscar’s eyes gleamed sharply.

“That’s a lie. Ian, you’re hiding quite a lot, aren’t you?”

A perceptive demon of a man.

Always laughing like a fool, yet his insight was razor-sharp.

He shrugged.

“Well, I’m quite used to lies myself. You can speak when you feel like it, Ian.”

“There’s nothing I’m going to say.”

“Hmm.”

The corners of his eyes curved into crescent moons.

At the same time, the scalpel in his hand touched the skin of my chest, cold and unyielding.

Press.

The chill of metal sank in, biting and frigid.

Despite the smile on his face, his movements were mechanical and professional, amplifying the iciness of his touch.

Press.

The scalpel pressed against my skin.

My skin resisted, its elasticity holding firm against the blade.

Oscar adjusted the pressure with uncanny precision, giving just enough to suggest that with the slightest bit more, the skin would give way with a sharp pop.

“Do you think my actions are too sudden, Ian?”

Sudden? More like insane.

You’re a natural disaster wearing human skin.

Ssshhh.

The scalpel slid over my skin as though it were inspecting me.

The sensation was eerie, the chill unsettling. But still, no blood was drawn.

His movements were precise, flawless, as if he’d done this countless times before.

“But there’s a very suspicious smell about you. It’s as if you’re hiding something enormous.”

“There’s nothing.”

“No, there is. Whether it’s memories, predictions, or something else… But if you don’t want to speak yet, that’s fine.”

Press.

The scalpel pushed a little deeper into my skin.

Snip!

There was a sensation of something snapping.

The scalpel was sharp and cold, but the feeling faded almost instantly, replaced by warmth, a stinging ache, and a trickle of blood.

A crimson line dripped down.

“I’ll unravel your secrets slowly, Ian. One by one.”

Press.

The scalpel began to trace a longer line down my chest when—

— Knock, knock!

A knocking sound interrupted.

Oscar’s eyes, filled with sharp, maddening clarity, shifted away from my torso toward the door.

He opened it, revealing a messenger.

“What could it be?”

“What is it?”

“There is an order to bring them to the council chamber.”

“I’m in the middle of an interrogation.”

“His Holiness has decreed that this witch trial proceed without interrogation.”

“Ahaha.”

Oscar laughed his usual laugh, but I could sense his emotions this time.

His hands trembled ever so slightly, betraying his agitation.

“There will be another chance later.”

He muttered under his breath.

◆

I followed the knights up the stairs.

The marks left on my upper body by Oscar’s scalpel had already been healed by the magic of a healing priest.

At this point, I was a little dumbfounded.

I had braced myself for worse, prepared to lose at least some dignity or flesh. But instead… this?

Regardless of my innocence, facing Oscar Javert meant having to brace for anything.

That’s just the nature of this game. A mindset that says, ‘As long as I don’t die, I’ll be fine.’

So, the fact that salvation arrived just before I was about to become “freshly dissected” was nothing short of a miracle.

But why, all of a sudden, did the Pope summon me—or rather, the witch candidates?

There are some parts of this that don’t sit well with me.

‘It’s not like the Pope sent the Holy Knights to rescue me, specifically.’

If that were the case, they would’ve unshackled my hands and feet first. The fact that I’m still in chains means I’m still being treated as a criminal.

Regardless, as long as I can meet the Pope, there’s a way to survive.

I wouldn’t have walked into the Vatican willingly without some kind of plan.

Sometimes, you have to take risks to gain the advantages you need.

And since there’s no straightforward way to approach the Pope, this audacious plan is worth the gamble.

“This way.”

Led by a holy knight, I was taken to the council chamber.

Another council chamber? I almost blurted it out, but the atmosphere here was different.

The chairs and tables exuded an opulence that was hard to measure in value.

Beyond one open wall was a space that looked like a stage, as though it was ready for some kind of grand performance.

As for my own seat, it was in an awkward corner.

Sitting on a cold wooden chair, my cuffed hands resting primly on my lap, I looked every bit the perfect picture of a criminal.

“We will conduct a brief search.”

The holy knight began inspecting me again.

They had already searched me twice—once before I got into the transport wagon and again after I disembarked—so there was nothing left to find.

The knight swept me with divine power, as if scanning me, then nodded and stepped away.

My gaze wandered to the two empty wooden chairs beside me.

‘Who’s going to sit there?’

The answer came quickly.

The sound of footsteps approached, and two figures entered—a middle-aged man and a woman I had seen in the transport carriage.

The woman looked frightened but otherwise normal. The man, on the other hand, had his lips sealed tight—probably silenced by magic.

See? That’s what happens when you run your mouth carelessly.

I sat quietly, keeping my mouth shut and staring straight ahead.

Before long, the room grew busy.

People bustled about as if preparing for the arrival of someone significant.

Then, one by one, they cleared out, leaving just the three of us prisoners.

A silence fell, heavy and absolute.

It was broken only by the soft sound of a door opening.

— Creak.

The door swung open.

Through it entered a figure clad in a dazzlingly white, luxurious, and sacred priestly robe.

The one who stepped into the room was none other than the spiritual leader of tens of millions of Deus Church followers, the father of the faith, the highest-ranking priest, the master of the Vatican, and the ruler of Holy Constantine.

Pope Daios II.