Crossover: Monthly Character Templates in the Multiverse Chat Group — Chapter 73

Chapter 73: Dedicate Your Heart to Wiš’adel

Manfred gathered his personnel under the cover of night, slipping out of the stronghold to set off for Sargon alongside Gawain.

Their primary objective was the fabled Shah’s Treasure. With Gawain acting as their guide through the treacherous desert terrain, the expedition was expected to proceed smoothly. Frez wasn’t particularly worried; if the situation went south, he could cross the distance in an instant using his Limitless to handle the fallout. Before their departure, his only strict directive to Manfred had been to minimize casualties at all costs.

‘Can I finally get some sleep now?’

Frez stared up at the ceiling, lying flat on his mattress. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet hum of the base. Half an hour ticked by. He opened his eyes again, staring at the exact same spot on the ceiling.

Sleep completely eluded him.

Resigning himself to insomnia, he threw off the covers, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and decided to run a diagnostic on the soul furnace. His route took him down the quiet corridors, right past Wiš’adel’s quarters. A sliver of warm light spilled out from beneath her door.

He knocked twice. A moment later, the door swung open.

“Yo. Prowling around in the middle of the night?” Wiš’adel leaned against the doorframe, looking him up and down. “What do you want?”

She was dressed in sleek black athletic wear that clung to her well-proportioned curves. The shorts left her long legs exposed, though they were currently wrapped in sheer black tights that made them look exceptionally slender. She carried a distinct, dangerous charm—a seamless blend of feminine softness and the lethal efficiency of a veteran mercenary.

A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “Coming to see me this late? Can’t sleep alone? Why are you still acting like a clingy kid?”

“I genuinely can’t sleep,” Frez said, his tone flat. “I came to chat.”

Wiš’adel stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Her room was sparsely decorated, lacking any personal clutter. The space was dominated by practical items: a few scattered explosives, maintenance tools, and worn gear from her mercenary days. Sitting prominently on the central table was the Ancestor Launcher. The moment Frez stepped into the room, the Revenants housed inside the weapon began to vibrate furiously, emitting a low, angry hum.

Having been forcibly shut away and suppressed by Frez for so long, the ancient Sarkaz souls harbored a massive, collective grudge against him.

Frez ignored the vibrating weapon. He stood in the center of the room, and Wiš’adel stood opposite him. Silence stretched between them for a long minute.

Finally, Wiš’adel rolled her eyes. “Say something. Didn’t you just claim you wanted to chat?”

Was this guy seriously this bashful? She crossed her arms, realizing she would have to carry the conversation.

Her eyes darted around his face, gleaming with amusement. “You couldn’t possibly be…”

Frez gave a dry cough. His gaze drifted downward, landing briefly on Wiš’adel’s waist. It was incredibly slender—not quite as fragile-looking as Kiana’s, but possessing a firm, healthy vitality that demanded attention.

“What’s this?” Wiš’adel caught his look immediately, her smirk widening into a mocking grin. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of upright gentleman.”

Frez didn’t look away. He was always like this—shameless, but entirely honest about it. Wiš’adel didn’t find it annoying. In fact, she preferred it. Sarkaz rarely bothered with convoluted social dances, and Frez’s straightforward nature suited her tastes perfectly. He was willing to indulge her chaotic whims, but he also possessed the sheer strength to physically stop her when she went too far.

“I’m no saint,” Frez replied, his voice completely deadpan. “How could I possibly withstand such a rigorous test of character? The only thing I have zero resistance against is a honey trap.”

Wiš’adel snorted, fully aware he was joking. “Then why didn’t you go bother Ascalon?”

“She’s at Babel.”

Right. Ascalon had stayed behind at Babel and hadn’t followed them here. Wiš’adel clicked her tongue. The man was almost too honest, answering every probe without a second thought.

“By the way, I have a question for you,” Wiš’adel said, shifting her weight.

“What is it?”

“What exactly is your relationship with those other girls in your little group?”

“Friends,” Frez answered without missing a beat.

Wiš’adel threw her head back and laughed loudly, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. “Haha, you’re pathetic! Surrounded by all those girls and you haven’t succeeded with a single one.”

She seemed to completely forget that she was the first person to drag their relationship across the boundary of friendship. Still laughing, she reached out and pulled Frez by the collar, dragging him closer.

“Fine,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “I’ll give you a little charity. I am the Demon King, after all.”

“Dedicate your heart to Lady Wiš’adel,” Frez deadpanned.

“You certainly know how to read a script. But you’re not exactly the stable type. Don’t tell me you’re actually one of those ‘Pure Love Warriors’?”

“I am a Pure Love Warrior,” Frez countered. “But human constitutions vary wildly. I’m just afraid you won’t be able to handle me.”

“Hah? Are you kidding?” Wiš’adel’s eyes narrowed, her competitive streak flaring instantly. “I’m vastly stronger than I used to be.”

As the Demon King, her raw combat power had indeed skyrocketed. She was practically a different beast compared to her old mercenary days.

“Whether you’re the Demon King, a Stand User, or carrying the Ancestor Launcher,” Frez pointed out calmly, “none of those things actually improve your base physical stamina, do they?”

Wiš’adel’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t.”

“Then let’s battle!”

Her intent was clear, broadcasted like a high-definition close-up. The clash ignited instantly. Throwing sportsmanship out the window, Wiš’adel launched a vicious, sweeping kick directly at his midsection.

Before her leg could connect, a sudden jolt shot up her spine. Her slender tail was caught firmly in Frez’s palm. A strange, electrifying sensation flooded her nervous system, sapping the strength from her legs. She glared fiercely at him, her cheeks flushing. “Bastard!”

“Remember, Wiš’adel,” Frez murmured, stepping into her space. “You were the one who issued the challenge.”

Early the next morning, the sunlight filtered through the blinds of Frez’s room.

Wiš’adel lay flat on the center of the mattress, her eyes completely vacant, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her soul looked as though it had temporarily left her body.

Frez sat comfortably by her side, holding a steaming bowl of preserved egg and pork porridge. He had made a specific trip to the Government Department at dawn, catching the Yan chef at Yu Gang the second the doors opened. He had also purchased a massive haul of breakfast items, sending them directly into the chat group’s inventory for the others.

“Want some?” he asked, stirring the bowl.

“I have no appetite,” she croaked.

Her stomach immediately betrayed her with a loud rumble. The savory aroma of the hot porridge was overwhelming.

Forcing her exhausted muscles to work, she propped herself up on her elbows. The blanket slipped, revealing her smooth shoulders and the distinct, dark hickeys marking her collarbone. She opened her mouth obediently. Frez fed her a spoonful. The temperature was perfect, and the rich, savory flavor instantly brought a spark of life back to her lifeless eyes.

“Delicious.”

“Of course it is. Made by a veteran chef from Yan. I went out of my way to get it for you. Want a tea egg?”

Wiš’adel simply opened her mouth again, accepting his feeding with zero shame.

“I lost,” she mumbled around a mouthful of food. “I’m a… chew chew… good loser. I don’t care what you do, but I… chew chew… come and go as I please.”

She wasn’t a sore loser. Last night, two completely inexperienced people had relied purely on instinct and gone all out. Ultimately, it hadn’t taken long for her to surrender, entirely due to the massive gap in their physical constitutions. A normal person could actually die from that kind of stamina disparity.

Worse still, the ‘defeat CG’—a humiliatingly compromised photo of her exhausted state—was currently saved on Frez’s terminal.

‘This bastard,’ she thought, swallowing the porridge. Once she fully recovered, she was absolutely going to find an opportunity for revenge. But she clearly couldn’t do it alone. She would have to recruit an ally sooner or later.

“You kid,” she said, eyeing him as he peeled a tea egg. “You don’t seriously intend to gather a whole bunch of girls, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

Wiš’adel blinked. “You’re… surprisingly honest.”

“I’ve always been an honest person.”

Honest, her foot.

She continued drinking the porridge, letting the warm food soothe her empty stomach. Her physical energy was slowly returning.

“I feel like I need to improve my strength further,” she mused, shifting the topic. “My Stand hasn’t been properly developed yet.”

“If a Stand Arrow ever cycles into the chat group mall, you can buy it immediately,” Frez advised, handing her a piece of fried dough stick. “If the arrow chooses you, you can awaken Killer Queen: Requiem. The arrow forces a Stand into its next evolutionary stage.”

“What kind of effect does it have?”

“It varies wildly depending on the user’s deepest desire at the moment of piercing, but it’s always overwhelmingly powerful.”

“Speaking of which, can you obtain a Stand?”

“I would need a different type of arrow for that.”

Frez finished feeding her the last of the porridge, followed by the peeled tea eggs and a few steamed buns, making sure she was completely full.

Just as he set the empty bowl aside, heavy footsteps approached the corridor. A muffled voice called out from the other side of the door.

“Your Highness, the Nachzehrer Patriarch is looking for you.”