Chapter 69
Gaewool was a quiet and desolate village. Not only was the population small, but most of its people were gentle by nature and disliked conflict, which made the place all the more silent.
But today—this very moment—never before had the village been so empty of people, never before had breath itself been so hushed.
“Because of the one who passed through here, look what’s happened, don’t you think?”
“…”
“Here, there are two boxes.”
Ollie recalled a verse from the doctrine he had believed in since birth.
‘There exists a god who appears only before those seeking vengeance.’
Evil and cruel, greedier than a wild beast, it devours souls.
“One box holds tragedy, despair, all manner of misfortune. The other box holds hope, love, mercy, and such things.”
The man who explained each one gently placed his pale hand upon the two boxes.
His long, pale-violet hair spilled to the floor. The darkness in his eyes, darker than his hair, seemed to swallow the entire space.
‘A god always grants two choices.’
One offers the strength to maintain a peaceful life; the other, the strength to fulfill vengeance.
“Now, which one will you choose?”
Ollie, for the first time, laid eyes on the Evil God.
His green-glinting eyes looked at the deity, then shifted to the ground beside him—where his wife already lay lifeless.
They had barely, barely begun to hope they could finally be together….
Clenching his fists tight, deciding something, Ollie rose without hesitation and touched the box said to contain despair.
“Grant me the power to kill the one who slew my wife. The power to cast that wretch into the abyss.”
At that, the Evil God tilted his head.
“I am not the sort of demon you imagine—who tempts with sweet words, lends power to curse another, and such.”
His calm voice flowed like a bedtime story as he opened the box Ollie had chosen.
Creak—the box opened. Inside, there was nothing. After letting Ollie see this, the man softly closed the lid again.
“Simply this.”
Suddenly, the house groaned and collapsed with a crash, the ground split, and flames burst upward.
“I merely have a knack for working miracles in the form of disaster.”
As the flames surged to engulf him, Ollie panicked and cried out toward the Evil God.
“Was this not to grant me power for vengeance? If an Evil God appeared, then surely…!”
“I never said I would grant such a thing.”
By the man’s side appeared a pitch-black shadow in human form, clutching a sword, eyes red as fresh blood.
The figure shielded the man, standing against the flames.
“I granted you, as you chose, tragedy and disaster. These flames will pursue you until they are quenched.”
“What foolish nonsense…!”
The fire swelled, waves of heat rolling to devour Ollie. His arm was scorched and he screamed.
“Aaagh!”
Grabbing his burned arm, staggering for balance, he flung out his other hand toward the box said to contain hope.
In that instant he completely lost his footing, clutching the box to his chest as he tumbled across the floor. The scorching heat seared the skin of his back.
Hope. A last hope.
With trembling hands, Ollie opened the box. Like the first, it was empty.
But unlike the first, nothing changed after it opened.
Hollow despair filled his eyes. In them reflected his wife being consumed by flames, and legs approaching him.
“I told you to choose one. I never said I would grant you both.”
He snatched the box from Ollie’s hands.
“And hope—unlike disaster—I never knew how to craft it, so I didn’t prepare it at all. Well, perhaps the fact that you survived opening the first box instead of perishing—that alone is the mercy and hope this box provided.”
Hearing this list of words, Ollie groaned bitterly.
“The fire will follow you.”
“…Ugh.”
“Run, if you wish, clinging to a thread of hope. Or accept death and throw yourself with your enemy into the flames. The choice is yours.”
Fire filled Ollie’s eyes. A gaze aimed at harm, the very gaze the Evil God desired.
“Go to Rosdet.”
There you will find the one you long to kill.
As if bewitched, Ollie rose and bolted away. For him there was no rest—rest, and he would turn to ash.
Watching his back retreat, the shadow who cut the flames aside with his sword spoke.
“Lord Rang. What do you intend now? It is well and good you performed the miracle of fire, but we lack water magic, and miracles take time to invoke.”
“How far to Rosdet village from here?”
“…Are you just ignoring what I said?”
Rang, whose hearing was fine, treated his words like air. With a sigh, the shadow replied.
“At his pace, he’ll arrive in about ten days.”
“Running without rest?”
“Yes. It seems Peyton treated him and tended his stamina.”
“You think he did that only for him?”
Muttering softly, Rang glanced at the mist twining about Ollie’s ankles, then at the fog draped over the village.
The mist was consumed by flame and cut apart by the sword, and one by one, it robbed the villagers of their faint breaths.
“So what will you do? At this rate, the whole continent will be a sea of fire.”
“It’s fine. Luckily, there’s a sea not far from here, one we can make use of. It won’t take long.”
“…”
“And as for Peyton, there’s no need to worry.”
His gentle smile didn’t match the chill of his eyes, fixed in the direction of Rosdet.
“That child survives no matter what happens. Even singed by fire, it’s no real loss to me.”
What, then, distinguished him from the very Evil Gods people spoke of?
Wheel stayed silent, unwilling to utter empty words.
“Let’s head for the sea, Wheel.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, and let’s stop by Silver as well. We need to know the boundaries to measure the damage.”
Wheel nodded and lifted Rang into his arms as if used to it. Held there, Rang murmured softly:
“I really must hurry and create a spatial teleportation spell.”
“Pardon?”
“Being carried like this is a bit… Hm, never mind.”
At the cryptic words, Wheel only raised a question mark in his mind before dashing forward.
I’d never truly been conscious of it, but….
‘My lady.’
‘They say you calm down when someone smooths your hair.’
The only one who ever smiled beautifully, looked at me with pure, untainted eyes.
‘…If such a time ever comes for me, I will save you no matter what it takes.’
‘Because giving up is more despairing than anything else.’
Rune.
Only you came to mind.
“Hey.”
As I shifted my gaze away from Rune, mumbling, Leon clicked his tongue again.
With the mural finished, all that remained was to return home the next day. Yet that night, Sophia could not sleep.
Peyton, who also had trouble sleeping, tossed and turned for some time before finally pulling the blanket over his head and drifting off. But Sophia fared even worse.
When all others had fallen asleep, she finally rose to take a walk outside.
She passed the mural she and Peyton had painted, bright under the moonlight, the empty wash place and drying racks, until she reached the quiet well. Then, behind her, footsteps approached.
“Well now.”
A man in an expensive-looking robe approached the well.
“I thought I was the only one who walked at night. Turns out there’s another who knows how to enjoy its charm.”
Though his hood was pulled low, the moonlight revealed skin so pale it seemed bloodless, and lips curved in a captivating smile.
“Do you live in this village?”
“…No.”
“Then?”
“In Rosdet.”
“Ah, there….”
The man fell silent, seemingly deep in thought. Then he raised his hand, counting on his fingers.
One day, two days, three, four….
Not one-two-three, but days being counted. Curious, Sophia watched until he spoke.
“When will you return to that village?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“And how long to get there?”
“About four days, I suppose…?”
“Hmm. Then… as fate has us share this walk, let me give you some advice.”
Advice?
“Tomorrow, the next day, and after that as well—you’d best not set foot in that village.”
“…”
“This place is fine. A painter I rather like lives here.”
The words fell like a prophecy, like a god’s fragile mercy.
“Why?”
She couldn’t help but ask. Who was he, to speak as if he knew everything?
“That nosy curiosity—you’d do well to keep it in check. Ever heard the saying ‘ignorance is bliss’?”
His hand reached for her hair. The touch felt like a snake brushing past, chilling and unsettling. Sophia recoiled, slapping his hand away.
“Don’t touch me, mister.”
“Apologies. A bad habit, that’s all.”
“…”
“When I see messy hair, I instinctively tidy it.”
He raised both hands in surrender, apologizing again and again. His approach seemed genuine, but a vague dread still clung to her—as though that hand might as well have gone for her throat.
“But ‘mister,’ hmm… I don’t much like that title.”
“…Then what should I call you?”
“Let’s see… Call me Skyle.”
“Skyle?”
“There’s only ever been one person allowed to use that name. Now, you’ll be the second.”
Such a meaningful name—Sophia would rather decline.
“But something about you makes me want to grant permission. Perhaps because you carry a similar air.”
Similar to whom? She had no chance to ask before he raised a hand in farewell.
As he turned and walked away, something slipped from his arms.
