KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess Chapter 167: [167] My Wife, My Weapon

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Xavier spun toward the entrance, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. The journal pressed against his ribs like a guilty secret, its unnatural cold seeping through his shirt.

Duke Cedric Haverford stood frad in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the corridor’s amber light. Two guards flanked him—not Heartho soldiers with their fla insignia, but n in unmarked steel whose faces remained hidden behind visored helms. The Duke’s dark hair caught the volcanic glow from the chamber’s crystal matrices, and his blue eyes held the satisfied gleam of a chess master who’d just achieved checkmate.

He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t angry. He was smiling.

"Thank you, Thornslayer." Haverford’s voice carried the smooth polish of aged wine, each syllable perfectly asured. "I had my theories about what our dear High Burner was hiding down here, but I needed confirmation."

The cage is closed, little king, the Gaze whispered, its voice resonating with cold amusent. Probability of tearing your way out through these two guards and the Duke is 3.2%. Their probability of turning you into a more permanent specin for study is substantially higher. I recomnd you learn to smile on command.

"Shut up," Xavier muttered, earning a raised eyebrow from the Duke.

Haverford stepped into the chamber, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor. His gaze swept across the ritual circle carved into the ground, the crystal matrices humming with volcanic energy, the laboratory equipnt that spoke of years spent perfecting impossible magic.

"To think," the Duke continued, his tone conversational as though they were discussing the weather over dinner, "a vessel capable of containing a divine spark. Torval sees a second chance for his beloved niece. I, however, see an opportunity to control a god."

Xavier’s blood turned to ice water in his veins. The casual way Haverford spoke about Calypso—about controlling her—made every protective instinct he possessed scream for violence. His hand tightened around his dagger’s hilt.

"You knew." The words erged as a growl.

"Oh, my dear boy, I’ve suspected for years." Haverford approached one of the crystal matrices, running his finger along its surface with the reverence of a collector admiring a prized artifact. "Lady Selene’s miraculous recovery from her ’fever’. The subtle changes in her mannerisms, her speech patterns. The way she flinched from fire despite being a Flaheart. People don’t simply beco different people overnight—unless, of course, they literally beco different people."

The Duke turned back to Xavier, his smile never wavering. "But suspicion isn’t proof. I needed to understand the chanism, the stability of the binding. How does one control a displaced soul? How does one ensure compliance from a consciousness that rembers being sothing greater than mortal?"

Xavier’s mind raced through the implications, each realization hitting like a physical blow. "The dinner. The betrothal announcent. You’ve been—"

"Testing variables, yes." Haverford’s interruption carried the patient tone of a professor correcting a slow student. "Every interaction between you and Selene was carefully orchestrated. I needed to observe the bond between her current consciousness and the vessel she inhabits. How strong was the connection? How much of the original divine nature remained intact?"

The chamber’s heat pressed against Xavier’s skin, but he felt frozen from the inside out. Every mont of tenderness between him and Calypso, every whispered conversation, every desperate glance across crowded rooms—all of it had been theater for this man’s entertainnt.

"The caravan attack was convenient," Haverford continued, his voice taking on an almost dreamy quality. "I’d been wondering how to arrange for Selene to encounter soone from her previous existence. Then you appeared, bearing soul marks and dinsional scars, practically announcing yourself as one of the displaced. Perfect."

Xavier’s vision narrowed to a tunnel focused entirely on the Duke’s face. "You orchestrated the Thornbeast attack."

"Heavens, no. I’m not omnipotent, rely observant." Haverford waved a dismissive hand. "Though I did ensure the surviving caravan mbers were directed to Heartho rather than the closer settlents. A few coins in the right pouches, a suggestion to the right ears. Simple economics."

Hot rage built in Xavier’s chest, but the King’s Gaze whispered cold calculations. Subject displays tactical superiority. Guards positioned to prevent escape. Recomnd feigned compliance until—

"Get out of my head," Xavier snarled.

"Talking to yourself?" Haverford’s smile widened. "How fascinating. I’ve read about soul marks, of course, but to see one in active use... Tell , does the entity provide tactical analysis? Strategic recomndations? I imagine having an ancient intelligence as an advisor would be quite useful."

Xavier said nothing, but his silence apparently confird the Duke’s suspicions.

"Marvelous. Another variable to account for in the final calculations." Haverford gestured to the journal Xavier had tucked against his ribs. "I assu you’ve read that man’s confessions? Touching, really. A father’s love driving him to commit magical atrocities. Though I suppose ’atrocity’ depends entirely on one’s perspective."

"Seven children," Xavier said through gritted teeth. "Seven souls ripped from their bodies and cast into the void."

"Seven volunteers for a greater purpose," Haverford corrected. "Though admittedly, volunteers who weren’t consulted about their participation. Still, what are individual lives weighed against the opportunity to harness divine power? To reshape reality itself according to human will rather than cosmic whim?"

The Duke moved to another crystal matrix, his fingers dancing across its surface with practiced familiarity. The device responded to his touch, humming louder as energy patterns shifted within its crystalline structure.

"You see, Xavier—may I call you Xavier? Xavien seems so... limiting for soone of your actual nature—you’ve provided with invaluable data. The bond between displaced consciousness and borrowed vessel. The retention of otherworldly abilities. The psychological triggers that activate divine mories."

Haverford turned back to face him, and for the first ti, Xavier saw sothing genuinely frightening in the man’s eyes. Not malice or cruelty, but the cold, clinical fascination of a researcher who’d discovered the perfect test subject.

"Your infiltration tonight wasn’t a theft," the Duke continued. "It was a diagnostic procedure. I needed to confirm that Selene’s current consciousness was stable enough to survive what cos next."

"What cos next?" Xavier’s voice ca out rougher than he’d intended.

"The Masquerade, naturally. Where I’ll announce my betrothal to Lady Selene Flaheart—and simultaneously trigger the binding ritual that will place her divine essence under my direct control." Haverford’s smile took on the quality of a blade. "A god as a wife, a goddess as a weapon. Imagine what one could accomplish with such a tool."