Chapter 9

“It stung a little…”

“It stung?”

“Maybe it relieved my indigestion.”

Three Thousandth’s face distorted. Gart let out a refreshing sigh and yanked the dagger out. Blood gushed from the red wound, only to disappear without a trace moments later. Gart took off his blood-soaked top and tore down a fine tapestry hanging on the wall to wipe himself off.

To think that stabbing himself in the heart with a sacred relic—deadly at the slightest touch—could leave him feeling refreshed. Watching the calm grooming, Three Thousandth sighed. It was a sigh of both relief and disappointment—relief that it had failed again, and disappointment that it had failed again.

They call him the “Godslayer.”

Gart wore a chilly smile, his eyes as dull as a dead fish’s. He smelled of ashes, like a campfire reduced to smoke and embers.

Can he actually be killed?

After joining hands with him, Three Thousandth had tried every method imaginable to kill Gart. But Gart didn’t die. Not when beheaded, not from falling from great heights, not from starving for three months, not from drowning, burning, or poisoning. After every attempt to murder him had failed, Three Thousandth finally understood why Gart had come. Normal means couldn’t kill him. He needed Three Thousandth’s ability—to craft weapons that defied the laws of nature, weapons meant to strike down gods. For Gart, too, was a being that defied nature. And today, once again, it had failed.

“You seem more attached to life than I thought.”

At Three Thousandth’s remark, Gart let out a small laugh. “Do I?”

He lay down on a long sofa and put a pipe to his lips. The pain seemed to be intensifying. Three Thousandth had nothing more to offer him. He could neither lift the curse nor kill him. Enduring the pain was now Gart’s burden alone. Three Thousandth turned and grabbed the doorknob.

“Three Thousandth,” Gart called out just as Three Thousandth was leaving the room. 

Three Thousandth turned back to look at him. Gart, eyes closed, lit the pipe. Acrid smoke quickly filled the room. His voice, almost melting into the air, rang faintly.

“Tell them not to let anyone approach.” I might kill someone by accident today. 

With that, Three Thousandth closed the door behind him.

***

A candlestick broke, and the candle rolled across the floor. The dimly flickering flame of the wick vanished with a puff of smoke. Darkness filled the room. Gart let out a long breath. It was one of the times when the curse that visited him periodically grew stronger. His already-sensitive nerves sharpened like blades.

Whoosh. Wind blew in through the window. As he listened to it, Gart remembered the dying screams of the gods and monsters he had slain.

“You filthy, greedy being who dares to defy divine might—death shall be your curse…”

“I bestow upon you a curse that robs even life itself!”

With his forehead resting on the back of his hand, Gart chuckled. Even then, he had already been under the most agonizing curse. A curse so extreme it made the so-called curse of death—what they thought mortals feared most—seem meaningless. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t age. The pain wouldn’t fade. He would suffer, fully conscious, for years, centuries—perhaps forever.

It was a journey with no signposts. He didn’t know the destination—or if one even existed. Reaching the place he wanted to go was nearly impossible without extraordinary luck.

Extraordinary luck…

Gart scoffed. He was reminded of a bogus seer’s prophecy. He would meet the other half of his soul. That endless waiting and pain would finally come to an end… A statement vague enough to apply to anyone, and thus convincing.

Decades ago, he might have believed it. There was a time he had lived with hope—vague prophecies could have felt like a strand of salvation he was always waiting for. Maybe this time. Maybe I’ll truly find it this time. Clinging to baseless optimism.

Surely, there would come moments when hope felt almost within reach. He’d stretch out his hand. The result was predictable. Only after falling would he realize it was an illusion. It had happened countless times over the years.

There was no bottom to his fall. He had crashed into a pit of filth and sludge. He had fallen hundreds, thousands of times. By now, even the lowest cesspool seemed like paradise compared to where he was. Here, not even illusions remained to cling to—no light, no hope.

Gart stared into the darkness-drenched room. Then, moonlight trickled through the window, faintly illuminating the space. The strong wind had likely blown the clouds away. Clatter! The window rattled harshly.

A cold gust swept in. Gart turned his head toward the open window. At its edge stood someone. A woman with shimmering silver hair. On this snowy night, in a land harsher than anywhere else, she wore nothing but a thin tunic.

Eyes accustomed to the dark clearly drew her figure. Even in faint moonlight, her bright silver hair shimmered like opals in various hues. Her skin, transparent and white as if sculpted from ice. Her softly closed red lips. Every feature was exquisitely shaped like a work of art.

As a hero, Gart had seen countless rare treasures and beauties. The most beautiful women on the continent were as common as stones on the roadside, if one exaggerated. But this woman was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Almost unnaturally so. Even her wind-blown hair seemed to hum a melody, stirring an illusion. Her eyes met his, quietly glowing as if holding the moonlight. That surreal beauty made Gart realize: she was not human. She was not an ordinary being—and that was why she was so beautiful.

Unhurried, like she didn’t just break into someone’s room, the woman stepped through the window. She walked a few paces, then picked up the dagger lying near Gart’s feet and aimed it at his neck. The gesture was so smooth that Gart thought she might as well have been offering a flower.

He lifted his head to look at her face. With no expression at all, she resembled a statue carved from ice. Her lips parted slowly.

“If you stay still, I won’t hurt you.”

One of the most absurd lines he had ever heard. Gart, leaning against the sofa with his arms crossed, merely stared at her. After a while, she spoke again.

“You trapped the spirits, didn’t you?”

“Ah…”

A forgotten detail flashed through his mind—two thieving spirits locked in the basement. She must have come looking for them. Spirits that stole rare ingredients, and a god who scaled people’s walls. Birds of a feather, and a perfect match.

“Take me to them.”

Her voice was as rigid as her face. No variation in pitch, no pauses between phrases, each syllable came out with robotic regularity. She had learned human language, but it was like she was speaking it aloud for the first time. It made sense—she was a god. But still, it was unfortunate that their first and last conversation would be like this.

Gart slowly stood up from the sofa. The woman, who had been looking down at him, had to crane her neck to look up. Their size difference was obvious and could have been intimidating, yet she didn’t retreat even slightly. The dagger in her hand didn’t waver either.

Gart observed her graceful face. The great god seemingly couldn’t fathom that a mere insect of a human might harm her. That arrogance. How divine, truly worthy of one born to rule over lesser creatures.

Gart stepped closer to her. The sharp metal touched his chest. The tip of the blade slid past his clothes and scratched his skin. A red dot bloomed on his white garment. In the silence, their gazes locked—human and god.

“Come any closer, and I’ll kill you.”

At her threat, Gart tilted his head and smirked. “You’re not even aiming for the heart. How do you expect to kill me?”

Though the dagger pointed toward the left side of his chest, it was far from the heart. Even an ordinary person might survive such a wound. Yet her demeanor matched that of an assassin.

The woman took the advice. She moved the dagger toward his collarbone—further from the heart. One of Gart’s eyebrows twitched upward. Seemingly realizing she had picked the wrong spot, she adjusted again—this time, around the center of his chest.

“No, no… not there.”

Gart leisurely grabbed her wrist. Then, he drove the dagger straight into his heart.

“Here.”

The sharp blade pierced his heart. The resistance of his taut muscle transferred directly to her hand. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking her hand. Red liquid streamed thickly down her pale fingers.

The woman stared blankly at the dagger embedded in his heart. Even now, no emotion showed on her face. Like she was looking at a picture in a book she didn’t understand. A man with a stabbed heart in a book she happened to open. What could she feel? Just a casual thought: So there’s a drawing like this, huh. She wasn’t part of the story. Especially if the book was unfamiliar.

And that was exactly the expression she wore. There’s a dagger in his heart. Blood is flowing. A flat, surface-level judgment—like none of this had anything to do with her.