Chapter 371: Regret
To avoid being assimilated by the "Frank" of this world—to keep himself from turning into that same kind of scumbag—Frank had always been extremely sensitive to changes in his own thoughts.
Especially when it came to ideas that didn't feel like they belonged to him.
Every time the ritual for making a deal with a demon surfaced in his mind, it came with a persistent whisper—reminding him, tempting him—telling him that a single wish could solve all his problems.
It sounded like his own voice.
Like he was convincing himself.
The feeling was eerily familiar—like staying up too late, then lying in bed the next morning, telling yourself, just five more minutes… just a little longer.
You know it's an excuse, but you still want to believe it.
Most people would give in to that voice without realizing it.
But Frank knew—
that wasn't his voice.
So he resisted it, instinctively and fiercely.
He had long realized that he'd already been affected. The nature of that ritual was far more insidious than he had imagined.
The moment he read Joseph's diary—the moment his eyes passed over those words—he had already been "infected."
That was his biggest regret.
Why had he touched that diary in the first place?
He should have burned it immediately.
He had never expected that mere written words—just recorded text—could carry such a strange, corrupting power.
Words, language, meaning… they were supposed to be nothing more than carriers of information.
And yet, this… was something else.
Frank had even gone to church, hoping to rid himself of the knowledge of the ritual.
It didn't work.
Neither priests nor pastors could help him.
He even tried calling John, hoping that someone with expertise in the supernatural might have a solution.
But no one ever answered.
Every call went to voicemail. No reply ever came.
At times, Frank even wondered if John had already died during some demon-hunting job.
He tried everything.
Nothing worked.
In the end, he simply stopped trying.
After all, the ritual only existed in his mind—it hadn't caused any direct, tangible harm.
It was like a mosquito buzzing around your ear—
not biting, just endlessly irritating.
And through his constant struggle against being "Frank," he had developed a kind of mental discipline—
the ability to ignore that inner voice.
Like letting words go in one ear and out the other.
You can keep talking.
I just won't listen.
Frank had never intended to use the ritual.
Not once.
Not even now—when he was terminally ill, when death was closing in—had he planned to rely on it.
Yes, the ritual could grant a wish.
No one knew its true limits, but if it could turn a penniless drifter into a billionaire, then curing something like liver cirrhosis would be trivial.
But every deal has a price.
And the price for this one—
was the soul.
No one knew what would happen once a soul fell into a demon's hands.
Because those who made the deal… were already dead.
The only thing that could be said with certainty—
was that it would not end well.
Some people might think the soul is nothing more than an abstract concept, something that may not even exist.
To them, trading it for a wish might sound like a bargain—something for nothing.
But Frank had seen too much.
Experienced too much.
He would never underestimate the weight of a soul.
For demons to scheme so carefully—to go so far as to grant wishes just to obtain it—
that alone proved its value.
After all, a deal is always about equal exchange.
And in this transaction—
a wish… equals a soul.
And for most people, stories about demons were something they had heard since childhood. Especially in the West, where Christianity was widespread, demons were seen as the embodiment of all evil.
At the mere mention of a demon, words like deceitful, cunning, and untrustworthy would immediately come to mind.
Demons never made losing deals.
They were always the ones exploiting others.
So if a demon was willing to grant a wish in exchange for a soul, that could only mean one thing—
in their eyes, a soul was worth more than the wish itself.
That was why Frank had never even considered making such a deal.
He had no intention of selling his soul just to cure his illness.
But Fiona's words that day—her pain, her heartbreak—had struck him deeply.
For the first time…
Frank wavered.
All day long, he hesitated. Perhaps there was even a trace of influence from the "Frank" he had been resisting.
That version of Frank lived only for the moment—drink today, forget tomorrow. He wouldn't care what happened to his soul after death. Hell, he wouldn't even think about tomorrow, as long as today was enjoyable.
Caught in that conflict, Frank eventually asked Castle and Carl to gather the materials needed for the ritual.
He didn't send Castle alone to collect everything. Instead, he deliberately split the task, leaving some common items for Carl to find.
Frank's body was weak now—he needed help with everything.
And this ritual… it wasn't something he could let the kids be involved in.
Only Castle could accompany him.
But if Castle had gathered all the materials himself, then upon seeing the ritual, he might realize what those items were for—and potentially recreate it later.
So Frank divided the materials between them.
In a way, it was also his way of protecting Castle.
After burying the metal box at the crossroads, Frank stood up and looked around.
Nothing.
He remembered clearly what Joseph had written in his diary—when he performed the ritual, the moment the box was buried, the demon appeared instantly.
"…Forget it."
The cold night wind brushed against him, clearing his mind.
Suddenly, Frank crouched down again, dug up the soil, and pulled the box back out.
He regretted it.
He didn't want to do this anymore.
"Let's go back," Frank said once he returned to the car.
He had made up his mind.
No deal. No demon.
And since nothing had appeared, it was as if none of this had ever happened.
Castle, though puzzled by the whole ordeal—driving all this way in the middle of the night, digging, burying, then undoing it all—said nothing.
He simply did his job.
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