The Devil is the Villainess (COMPLETED)

Chapter XLV: The Most Twisted Truth

Note: Long Chapter ahead!

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"My Lady, your cufflinks?" Her maid approached, holding a velvet-lined rectangular box that contained three pairs of exquisite cufflinks. The gems embedded in the cufflinks gleamed under the soft light of the room: a pair of fiery rubies, another of glimmering diamonds, and the last of deep, mesmerizing sapphires. Each one seemed to hold a different promise, a different fate.

Medea turned her gaze slowly to the box, her expression reflecting the exhaustion of her relentless contemplation. "The red ones," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and weariness. The maid nodded, carefully selecting the ruby cufflinks, their deep crimson hue catching the light as she gently fastened them onto Medea's sleeves.

Medea's long, obsidian-black hair cascaded down her back, loose and flowing, yet carefully tended to. A few strands were tucked neatly behind her ears, while her bangs were elegantly swept to one side, framing her face with an understated grace. Her appearance, though composed, held an underlying tension as if she were preparing for a battle she could not yet see.

After the maid had finished dressing her, Medea left the room, her footsteps echoing through the grand hallway. Her hands clenched and unclenched in a nervous rhythm, betraying the unrest that simmered beneath her calm exterior. As she walked, something caught her eye, causing her to stop abruptly.

Her gaze was drawn to a series of paintings that adorned the vast cream-colored walls of the manor. One painting, in particular, commanded her attention—a portrait of herself, or rather, of the body she now inhabited. The portrait depicted Medea seated in a high-backed chair, her posture poised and regal. She wore an intricate black gown that clung to her form. Her expression was one of cool detachment, her eyes sharp and calculating, with a hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface.

It was a striking image of power and elegance, yet as Medea stared at it, she felt a strange dissonance. This was the real Medea Falaguerra, the villainess whose life the Devil had taken over. The realization hit her like a cold wave, and she found herself moving closer to the painting, her hand reaching out almost instinctively.

As her palm made contact with the smooth, cool surface of the portrait, a vision surged through her mind with startling clarity. She stood before a desolate, burning landscape, the ground scorched and the air thick with the scent of ash. Flames leaped and danced in every direction, devouring everything in their path until nothing remained but smoldering ruins. 

It was a scene of utter devastation, a memory buried deep within her consciousness, a glimpse of a future that had already come to pass and was now lost in the annals of time.

Her breath hitched as she yanked her hand away from the portrait, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion. The vision left her shaken, her thoughts spiraling as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen. 

The words of the Great Deity echoed in her mind, resounding with an unsettling clarity: "You, yourself, are the mystery, and this world will serve as your answer."

Medea stared at the portrait, her heart pounding in her chest. What did it mean? What was the true nature of this person she had become? 

Caelus's voice drifted into her thoughts, his question lingering like a ghost in the air: "What is the true you?"

A sharp pain pierced her head, and she clutched her temples, trying to steady herself. The weight of the questions bore down on her, each one heavier than the last.

 "I don't know," she whispered, her voice trembling with the depth of her uncertainty. "Who... am I?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as Medea stood there, a woman caught between worlds, lost in the maze of her own identity.