Chapter : 72
“It’s ready.”
Having finished preparing the “stage” as requested, Azazel appeared before Saraka as if out of nowhere. Just in time, Saraka had also finished changing into the outfit he had prepared.
Dressed entirely in black, with every button fastened, she pulled a veil down over her face. From head to toe, she was wrapped in cloth—leaving only her hands exposed, which looked like those of an old woman. Even the lower half of her face, occasionally revealed when she ate or drank, bore burn scars. Anyone who saw her would naturally mistake her for Bishop Marik.
Saraka called out to Azazel in a voice she had refined her entire life to perfectly mimic Marik’s.
“Sir Astaroth, shall we be on our way?”
“Yes, Bishop.”
From Saraka came the dignified voice of a middle-aged woman. Her tone, choice of words, habits, and mannerisms—every detail was identical to Bishop Marik.
Even a demon would have to admire such flawless imitation.
It was as if Bishop Marik himself had possessed her.
Azazel let out a quiet note of admiration.
