Chapter 3

On the other side, a man watched the crowd as if observing a stage play. He stood in a shadowy alleyway, removed from the sunlit plaza, leaning against a wall with arms crossed. He let out a quiet chuckle. It was none other than the widely praised hero, Gart.

I never thought I’d see the same kind of madness from the zealots of Libal here in Thul’mor…

Now that it had come to this, he found himself somewhat able to understand the mindset of the giant god Libal. Humans, throwing themselves to the ground and begging for salvation without even being told to—he’d have preferred the rocks rolling around underfoot. Annoying, sure, but at least they didn’t talk.

While the giant god had exploited foolish humans to his advantage, Gart wanted nothing more than to sweep them out of his sight. If anything, he posed a greater threat. Watching them pin such grandiose titles on him—great hero, divinely chosen protector—was laughable.

Gart took out a pipe and held it to his lips. A tiny flame sparked from his empty hand, setting the dried herbs inside the pipe alight. He inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. The pungent smoke seeped deep into his body. Despite the herb’s strong narcotic, sedative, and hallucinogenic effects, the searing pain that tore through his insides didn’t abate. Gart furrowed his brow faintly and let out a quiet laugh.

If it were an illness, he might have welcomed it. But neither esteemed doctors, gifted clerics, nor even miraculous gods could cure him. The pain had only ever temporarily eased. There was no known cause, no known cure. It only grew stronger with time. No word suited it better than “curse.”

All the mysteries of this world were remnants from the divine age of antiquity. Whatever this curse was, it too was likely tied to that ancient power. Gart had hunted monsters and gods, searched ancient ruins and sacred relics—but found no answer. No one could save him.

In a world where even thousands of omnipotent gods couldn’t save one man, the people of Thul’mor placed their hope in a mere mortal hero to save the world. Gart couldn’t recall anything more absurd. He pressed his aching eyes and chuckled.

“Oh, oh my! Oh heavens! Great Mother Goddess!”

A woman came tumbling into the alleyway with loud exclamations. She’d likely been pushed out by the parade crowd. After a flashy fall, she didn’t get up right away—clearly embarrassed. Gart casually nudged her fallen staff with his foot. It rolled toward her hand. Realizing she could no longer ignore the situation, the woman sprang to her feet.

“Thank you for your help.”

Gart replied flatly, “Don’t mention it.” The woman tucked the staff under her arm and brushed off her robe, one embroidered with ancient patterns and script. Gart tilted his head slightly. He’d never met anyone in such robes who spoke sensibly.

As expected, after straightening her clothes, the woman lowered her eyes calmly and smiled faintly. To ordinary people, it would have seemed mysteriously serene. She no longer resembled the flustered woman shouting “Oh heavens!” a moment ago.

“Can you hear it?”

The nonsense began.

“No, I suppose you can’t… the whisper of the wind…”

She extended her hand wistfully into the air, as if stroking the passing breeze. Here we go, Gart thought, exhaling smoke with a smirk.

“This wind brought me to you.”

More precisely, the crowd heading to a play at another plaza had spat her out here. She knew they had been in the same place, yet acted shamelessly.

“Shh, don’t be alarmed. The truth is… I possess a very special power.”

Just as expected. She was the type you saw at every festival.

“I can see things that others cannot.”

A swindler preying on drifters in the capital. Some might call her a seer or a prophet.

“When the wind woke me this morning, I had a good feeling. Even when I cast the lots, the result was the same—today, luck would be on my side. And the moment I met you, I knew that feeling was right.”

“Hmm, I doubt that,” Gart responded flatly. If she had a good feeling, it surely had nothing to do with him.

“I can feel something in the cool wind that surrounds you. Yes… perhaps this is why I came! What a clear vision!”

Occasionally, people were born with the ability to glimpse ancient memories or predict the future. They were called oracles, priests, prophets, or fortune-tellers depending on the region. Some communities kept them close and made important decisions based on their visions. In reality, half were fools confusing dreams with the future, and the other half dodged mistakes with excuses like “There were too many variables…”

“You must listen carefully to what I say. Soon, you will—”

She would no doubt start with something vague: a family misfortune, an illness, the end of the world. Predict good fortune, and you’re a fraud if it doesn’t come. Predict misfortune, and if it doesn’t happen, people just say, “We avoided it thanks to the warning,” or, “Thank goodness the prediction was wrong.”

“—meet the other half of your soul!”

Her cheeks flushed. Gart stared at her. Now this one’s creative.

“I feel a flutter in my heart—yes, she who arrived like the wind is the destiny you’ve searched for all your life! The long wait is finally over!”

The woman blushed with joy, completely unaware that the man before her was a mass murderer. A vein briefly bulged on Gart’s forehead. His jaw clenched, neck veins thickened. The pain had spiked suddenly.

One of Gart’s eyes turned red as he endured the agony. But the woman noticed nothing. From the moment they met, Gart had only worn a vague smile, arms crossed, unreadable. Her talk of “fate” didn’t even register. His reason was being ground to dust by the searing pain inside him. All that remained were rage and hostility—with no clear target. Everything around him provoked him: the wind brushing past, the babbling voices, the smell of street food. Everything.

There was another reason the pain was called a curse. Curses didn’t just harm the afflicted—they endangered everyone around them.

Gart looked at the woman with his reddened eye and smiled thinly, concealing the murderous intent in his gaze. Ash dropped from his pipe as he strode toward her.

He stopped right in front of her, staring at her slender neck.

After a long pause, he finally spoke.

“Then tell me. Where is my destiny? Do you know where I should go?” His voice was parched and rough, as if scraped raw.

“If there is one to ask, then surely there is one to answer,” she replied, gripping her staff as she mumbled gibberish in a supposed ancient tongue.

As the wind blew, she opened her hand. There was no flash of light, no levitating staff—just a pathetic thunk as it hit the ground. It struck a small stone and rolled slightly—pointing north. Coincidentally, that was the direction of Gart’s next destination.

Was it just picking one of the four directions? With a one-in-four chance, such coincidences weren’t rare. Her intuition for reading people was abysmal, but she was cunning in other ways. Gart stared at the staff for a moment, then swept his hair back and chuckled. He pulled something from his coat and handed it to her—a fist-sized lump of gold.

Her demeanor changed instantly.

“A divine customer! Ask me anything you wish!”

A blasphemy if there ever was one. As Gart passed her, he placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in close. His voice, tinged with laughter, brushed her ear.

“You really are lucky.”

After Gart left, the woman opened her half-lowered eyes wide and clutched the gold.

“Jackpot…! A jackpot customer!”

She bit into it, confirming the dent. Her eyes grew moist. A customer is a god. And the words of a god… are always true. Today really was a lucky day.

***

Mariax’s daily routine was simple.

“Mistress.”

“Mistress, please wake up!”

Two devoted clerics pulled back the threadbare curtains, signaling it was time to rise.

“You’re beautiful as always!”

“Even just-woken, you look like a painting!”

While hearing a new compliment every day, she washed her face with water chilled by floating ice.

“Today, we’ve boiled reindeer meat with herbs, yak’s milk, and wine.”

“It’s healthy and delicious, right?”

And then she dined on a meal prepared with her loyal clerics’ utmost devotion.