A Name, Redemption?
Hearing such suggestive words, Rosie instinctively shifted her gaze to the neatly arranged parchment and quill on the dining table.
Hannah did not pause and continued reading aloud.
“My Lord has mercy, redeeming the world.”
“In His name, with her blood, sins are cleansed.”
“Each night, write a name on the parchment, offered to the one who lingers between life and death, the immortal.”
Hannah frowned, lifting her eyes from the parchment in her hand to explain to the group.
“The words here are smudged.”
“That’s not important, Miss Carter. What else does it say?”
Dwight Nell, the middle-aged merchant, keenly sensed a chance to escape and urged her on, disregarding gentlemanly manners.
“The chosen one will remain in this room, awaiting our Lord.”
“Others must not leave their rooms at night, and before the bell rings, no matter what sounds are heard or what is encountered, they must not open their eyes.”
“Five days of repentance will wash away sins, and the lost shall find redemption.”
“One redemption, one name.”
With the ancient text on the parchment fully translated, no one spoke, and the room fell silent.
Amid the silence, a more eerie emotion began to brew and fester.
In His name, with her blood.
In this world where religion exists, Rosie couldn’t help but associate this phrase with one word.
Sacrifice.
Having already experienced all sorts of bizarre events, even transmigrating herself, who could say for certain what was true about gods and ghosts?
Five days, one name sacrificed each night, meaning only three would ultimately gain “redemption.”
This was bad.
Rosie’s heart sank slowly, sweating for herself—no, for her, Mr. Sandek, and Hannah’s predicament.
The ritual seemed simple, a vote where the minority submits to the majority, but people are complex, as are their relationships.
She, Hannah, and Mr. Sandek, this familiar trio, had now become a deadly blade.
The remaining five would not sit idly by and let the three of them “survive” past the third night, for then, the “redeemed” would be certain.
No matter whose name was left tomorrow, tonight, one of Rosie Moulton, Hannah Carter, or Dennis Sandek would remain here forever.
And within this trio, who was the outsider?
Human nature doesn’t withstand scrutiny; this was a dead end.
Rosie wasn’t the only one to realize this.
Dwight no longer hid his intentions, grabbing his lover Bev Hardy’s hand and looking at the nearest person, Jesse Holmes, saying directly, “I think we should work together for now.”
Herman Rhys, the young man, watched this clique-forming behavior with amusement, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing.
Donahue Bobby glanced at Rosie Moulton beside him, hesitated, and then distanced himself from her.
Trust collapsed, suspicion ran rampant, and human selfishness was magnified to its fullest.
What now?
Sit and wait for death?
Impossible. What about teaming up with Mr. Sandek to subdue the others?
Rosie was no saint; in such a dire situation, her thoughts inevitably veered toward darker, more extreme paths.
Yet the conscience shaped by years in a lawful society gently clawed at her heart, resisting such ideas, leaving her tormented.
“This is a conspiracy meant to sow discord among us.”
At that moment, Hannah spoke up.
Her gaze was clear, her expression resolute, her spine straight, her entire presence like an unsheathed blade, unyielding to anyone or anything.
After speaking, Hannah walked straight to the dining table, gripped a quill, and swiftly wrote on the parchment.
Then, she raised the parchment, head held high.
“As a follower of the God of Fate, I will not compromise with any demon or sacrifice my friends and companions.”
“Tonight, every parchment will bear only this name.”
On the dark yellow parchment was a dark red name.
Hannah Carter!
Rosie looked at Hannah’s face, dotted with freckles and youthful innocence, and couldn’t help but marvel inwardly.
This girl was radiant!
Dennis Sandek frowned, speaking in a low voice, “Miss…”
Hannah turned her head and smiled at him.
“Mr. Sandek, you don’t need to persuade me.”
“Truth above, I will not dishonor the Carter name. I will prove this so-called ‘redemption’ is nothing but a vile, clumsy deception.”
The crisis was averted; someone had willingly stepped forward.
Dwight resumed his gentlemanly demeanor.
He removed his hat, placed it over his chest, and bowed slightly.
“Miss Carter, your character is as admirable as Baron Carter’s.”
Then, he made the prayer gesture of the Church of Truth.
“Truth above, may the God of Fate protect you.”
Rosie thought to herself: Why didn’t you bless Hannah earlier?
While self-preservation is human nature and understandable, having witnessed Dwight’s actions, Rosie had plenty to say about the middle-aged man.
Hannah, as always, showed no trace of disdain, graciously accepting his goodwill, touching her forehead and chest before resting her palm on her left shoulder.
“Truth above, may the God of Fate protect you too, Mr. Nell.”
Miss Hannah?
More like Lady Saint Hannah!
Next, in unison, everyone wrote Hannah Carter’s name on the parchment.
For Rosie, this was a peculiar experience.
She had worried about being an “illiterate” unable to write, but when she picked up the pen, words flashed in her mind, and her hand naturally formed the text.
So, her—no, “Rosie’s”—memories were in an ambiguous state, not gone but hidden or temporarily forgotten, only surfacing when triggered?
As she pondered, a soft male voice sounded nearby.
“What do we do now? Stay here?”
Rosie turned her head.
The speaker was the usually quiet Jesse Holmes.
Seeing everyone’s eyes on him, the man instinctively ducked his head, staring at the floor.
Herman shrugged and answered, “Obviously, we each return to our rooms.”
“The parchment says that, except for the person whose name is written, everyone else must return to their rooms—probably where we woke up.”
“Then close our eyes and sleep until the bell signaling the next day rings, and only then can we leave.”
Good thing he didn’t add “each to their own mom,” or Rosie would’ve had to respond with a line like “Before my bed, the moonlight glows.”
Though, knowing her luck, he’d probably counter with “On the floor, two pairs of shoes.”