Are you actually a legitimate evil god?

The monastery under the veil of night was quiet and serene. Moonlight, thin as gauze, spilled down from between the stars, brushing away the final vestiges of the day's clamor.

Only loneliness remained.

A silent, deathly stillness was the natural state of this ancient building. Yet, at this very moment, in one of the rooms, a fierce confrontation was taking place that stood in jarring contrast to the atmosphere outside.

Click, click, click...

The room was so silent that the falling of a pin could be heard. One could clearly distinguish the subtle sounds of gears grinding, turning, and clashing within the mechanical clock.

And the sound of a pen tip racing across paper.

Scratch, scratch, scratch!

"..."

Herbert looked on with a blank expression as his left hand gripped a quill, dancing rapidly across the parchment and leaving behind a trail of ornate, sinister script.

Once his left hand came to a halt, he flipped through the heavy dictionary beside him, struggling to translate what "he" had written.

"What."
"Afraid."
"You... tch!"

[What are you afraid of?]

Looking at the translation he had finally deciphered, Herbert felt the mocking tone of the words and his mouth couldn't help but twitch. Annoyed, he used his right hand to write a retort.

"Afraid of what? You don't know? How could you not know???"

Hah.
Look at you, asking a question like that. Not a shred of technical skill in it.
I’m here in the middle of the night, not sleeping, playing a solo game of spirit-pen-and-ouija-board chat with you.
What do you think I’m afraid of?
Obviously, I’m afraid of you!

After several rounds of testing, Herbert’s heart finally sank—he had to accept the reality: he wasn't suffering from a split personality; he had truly encountered a ghost.

Having a left hand capable of such ornate calligraphy was one thing, but there was no way he could possess knowledge of six or seven alien languages out of thin air.

Admit it!
He had been possessed by something unclean. He was no longer pure. Woe is him...

Scratch, scratch, scratch!

As the text reverted to the common tongue, the writing sped up.

[You couldn't possibly be afraid of me, could you?]

The entity was not only completely unfazed by Herbert’s mildly offensive, sarcastic tone, but seemed even more intrigued; a sense of amusement practically surged from the writing.

[No way? Really? Are you serious?]
[You are a Paladin, after all! How could you be afraid of me?]

Damn it, the ghost is a smug brat.

The two engaged in a passionate back-and-forth using the same pen for several rounds, filling several sheets of paper with aggressive literary art.

Not long ago, when Herbert was alerted by his Stigmata and realized his thoughts had been silently influenced, he knew something was terribly wrong—the sealed entity beneath the monastery had broken loose!

This world was not safe. Evil gods, demons, vile entities, devils, monsters... it was filled with all sorts of dangerous existences. The primary purpose for which all monasteries were built was to seal and suppress those special entities that could not be destroyed or killed.

Herbert didn't know exactly what was sealed beneath the Mist Monastery, but he was certain it was not something he, in his current state, was qualified to deal with. There was no need to act tough and face it alone. Possessing a healthy sense of self-awareness, Herbert’s first instinct was to seek help from the outside.

Are you kidding me?
This is the Mist Monastery, guarded by several legendary powerhouses. Even if the sealed entity escaped, it wouldn't be his turn, a rookie Paladin, to show off.
With the big shots around, all evil would eventually be brought to justice!
If I can just leech a bit of experience, that'll be enough.

Unfortunately, while the idea was sound, it was useless.
He tried to call for help, but his throat could produce no sound; even breathing was an immense struggle. He tried to pound on the door to create a racket, but his palm went limp before it even made contact, ending up as nothing more than a soft caress against the wood.

After all his attempts failed, Herbert was guided by his "rogue left hand" to the desk, where he had been in conversation with the hidden presence ever since.

Finally, Herbert was the first to concede. Raising a white flag of truce, he wrote with a hint of exhaustion:

"So, what exactly do you want?"

After half a day of verbal sparring, although Herbert still knew nothing of the entity's identity, he had at least clarified one thing. Judging by the attitude flowing from the text, while it was hard to say if there was no malice, the entity didn't seem to have any intent to kill him.

He tried to call for help? Forbidden.
He tried to die? Forbidden.
He even tried to beg for mercy? Forbidden!

No, seriously, you're just forcing me into a written shouting match with you! Are you sick or something!?

[Oh? Have you finally realized I'm not just a figment of your imagination?]

"Yes, yes, yes, I believe you, okay? So, oh great being, what exactly do you want me to do?"

In his past life, Herbert had seen too many tragedies caused by blindly trusting others. Naturally, he didn't believe the claptrap that the entity was just "lonely at night and wanted someone to chat with"—that sounded like a five-day-long scheme at the very least.

Except for one's closest kin, anyone who shows you abnormal enthusiasm must have an ulterior motive—be it power, money, or looks... there were no exceptions.

[What I want to do isn't important. You will understand eventually.]
[Heh, but you, young Paladin... have you really thought through the implications of dealing with an Evil God?]
[Are you truly prepared?]

An Evil God.
Seeing that glaring term, Herbert instinctively narrowed his eyes, his expression turning grave.

Deities of the evil faction, the true enemies of righteousness, who spread blood and fire across the mortal realm and bring endless death and suffering—they were the existences all Paladins would stop at nothing to eliminate.

After a long silence, he finally lifted his pen, his face solemn, and slowly wrote down the biggest question currently in his heart—

"This Evil God... are you for real?"

Slash!
[?]

Looking at the enormous question mark that covered half the page, Herbert curled his lip.

See? Getting agitated again.
Not steady at all.
You’re an Evil God? More like a Jester God.
Let’s put everything else aside—tell me, what kind of proper Evil God keeps someone up in the middle of the night, forcing them to engage in a heated shouting match?

Perhaps the lethality of that remark was too great, as the Evil God child was silent for a full minute.

[I see. You still don't believe me.]
[Fine.]
The entity said:
[I will let you experience the terror of an Evil God firsthand!]

Hm?
Hmm???

A very ominous premonition flashed through Herbert's heart. Too panicked to use the pen, he hurriedly blurted out:

"Wait! What are you going to do to—"

Thump.

Before Herbert could finish his sentence, his consciousness was abruptly severed, and his head slammed onto the desk.

He had fallen asleep.

That night, Herbert, who hadn't had a good night's sleep since arriving at the Mist Monastery, drifted into a deep slumber.

And he had a dream.

A dream of extreme debauchery and absurdity.
In the dream, he was surrounded by beautiful, enchanting women from dozens of different races, engaging in profound academic research.

But just as the discussion reached its climax, those monster girls suddenly transformed into something else!

"Wait, wait, wait!!?"
"No, no, no!"
"Don't come near me—"
"Don't come any closer!"
"At least, not a Goblin!"
"Even a female one is a no-go—"