“One price: ten silver coins. No haggling. Ten means ten. If you object, turn right and leave.” His blond voice was iron-straight, like a drawn blade.
“Why not just rob me?” The thought flared in Lucimia’s chest like a struck match.
This world’s coins stacked like pagoda steps in the rain: 100 copper to 1 silver; 100 silver to 1 gold; 10 gold to 1 crystal.
Ten silver was a ripple to Lucimia, but to common folk it drained a pantry dry like a long drought.
Near the Royal Capital, a household’s month held a few gold like bright suns; farther out, only a few silver like pale moons.
Go beyond, and the sky thinned to copper drizzle, a rust-colored rain over barren fields.
Vittor’s cake had cost just 20 copper, a sweet slice like morning dew; reading here cost ten silver, enough for fifty dew-bright cakes.
This bookstore was gouging like a hooked fish, scales flashing in murky water.
No—this wasn’t guile; it was folly, like a merchant sailing blind into fog.
“Here. Ten silver. Give me the book.” Lucimia flicked coins from her Storage Ring, cold scales ringing on the wood like winter hail.
Alright—she was the fool, a lamb trotting toward the stall under a quiet sun.
The blond man’s eyes sparked like fireflies; he grinned, pinched each coin like a magpie, and stuffed them away like stolen seeds.
Seeing that, Lucimia’s brow tightened like a drawn bowstring, a shadow pooling behind her eyes.
“My book?”
She feared he’d swallow the money like a snake, but that bite never came, the air easing like wind after thunder.
“Don’t rush. Books on Dark Deities, second shelf, first column.” He pointed like a spear-tip. “There are nuts on the table too.”
“Do they cost?” Her voice brushed the wood like a reed over water.
“Relax. The nuts are free.” His smile spread like oil on a quiet pond.
That felt better, a small lantern lit in the dusk, warm but wavering.
Lucimia left him like a drifting cloud and moved toward the second shelf, steps soft as falling ash.
Between the shelves, the air sat heavy as damp wool; in the oil-lamp glow, dust floated like gray mist in winter marshes.
How long since anyone swept, she wondered, the thought settling like silt in a slow river.
She worried the books were rotting like old bark and the nuts were stale as last year’s leaves; suspicion clung like spider silk.
Free food from that man felt wrong, like sweet wine with a bitter seed; she should never have thought he had a heart of warm clay.
She wouldn’t eat them, steel-set, like a gate barred at night.
She looked up at the spines, bare as dry bamboo; no titles, only silence, a row of mute faces.
With no clues, she had to pull at random, her breath steady like frost on glass.
She tiptoed, stretched, strained like a willow in wind, and drew a red-bound book, patting the dust like powder off a drum.
“The Origin of Dark Deities.” The title gleamed like ink on fresh snow.
It might help, she thought, tucking it close like an ember saved in her sleeve.
She grabbed a green-bound one, a leaf-dark cover smelling of old rain.
“Relations among Dark Deities.” Perfect, a rope across a ravine, taut and sure.
Then more followed like beads on a thread: “Compendium of Dark Deity Information,” “How to Identify Evil Entities,” “The Purification Church,” “A Study on Dark Deity Authority Powers,” and so on.
Lucimia smiled, moon-curved, and hugged the stack like a basket of warm bread, laying them on the long table like bricks of quiet fire.
A plate of nuts sat there, brown and dull as river pebbles; she scraped the wooden rim and lifted a clod of dust like gray clay.
Better not eat, she decided, letting the thought fall like a shutter in wind.
She brushed chair and table, dust drifting like dandelion fluff, then opened the “Compendium of Dark Deity Information” with care like unfolding a silk map.
It cataloged known Dark Deities from all lands, surnames and Authority Powers, traits and Sacrificial Rituals, like constellations pinned to black velvet.
The content ended at Se’an Year 146, ink dried like an old scar; the Kingdom of Sipan stood at year 150 now, four winters since.
She didn’t mind; any flame in the dark was welcome, even a small lamp under a storm roof.
She searched by surname first, hunting Olivya like a heron stalking ripples.
Page after page, to the book’s edge like a shoreline, she found no Olivya, only entries with Authority Power but no surname, like masks with no faces.
“Maybe she wasn’t noted four years ago?” She bit her finger like a fox worrying a thorn, then eyed the nameless list, a night with no stars.
She recalled her dream, images rising like smoke from wet incense.
First, the followers dressed risqué, lace and straps like spiderwebs at dawn, every one a woman, a field of pale lilies.
Second, the ritual splashed red liquid across a Magic Array, a crimson rain beating a painted sigil.
Third, the offering was a dead pig alive with maggots, a white swarm like rice in rotten flesh.
She found few matches, the lines cold as river stones under a winter boot.
Only one felt near: a Dark Deity with Authority Power [Charm], a honeyed thorn; but its followers were men and women, and they wore nothing, a bare field under noon sun.
It appeared far away, in demon lands like a horizon beyond ten thousand ridges, too distant to touch.
“Maybe it’s a new Dark Deity, so a four-year-old book misses it?” The doubt tangled like vines. “But how does a new one gather followers like locusts?”
Was there news in this world, she wondered, notices like town drums, the Purification Church broadcasting that it found so-and-so Dark Deity?
She sighed, a reed bending in wind; thinking in circles was rain in a bucket, serving no thirst.
She scanned the nameless again, and one entry pricked her like a hidden thorn, quick and bright.
Surname: Unknown, like a name washed away by rain.
Authority Power: [Exemption], a gate opening where others close.
Trait: Unknown, like mist clinging to river reeds.
Follower traits: Unknown, a crowd behind a paper screen.
Sacrificial Ritual: Unknown, a drum silent under moonlight.
Offering: Unknown, a plate covered by a black cloth.
First appearance: Town of Tranquility, a small harbor in quiet fog.
Last appearance: Town of Tranquility, the same shore under a pale sun.
First and last times: Unknown, like clocks with covered faces.
Followers: Unknown, footsteps erased by blowing sand.
Disasters brought: Unknown, storm stories swallowed by the sea.
Witnesses: Unknown, eyes turned to smoke.
Recorder: Unknown, a hand that left no shadow.
Discovery method: Unknown, a path of footprints ending in water.
Beyond that string of unknowns that buzzed like gnats, four words flashed bright—Town of Tranquility, a lantern lit in her own street.
That was where she stood, a stone at her foot, familiar and cold.
Same place, endless blanks—she wondered if this Dark Deity with Authority Power [Exemption] was her own shadow in the water.
Was it true? The question hung like a heavy bell, silent but weighty.
If all was unknown, how was it written, she thought, a riddle like a knot in wet rope.
She had too many questions, leaves packed in a spring torrent, and no one to answer; she marked the [Exemption] entry and turned the page like turning a season.
Next, she sought the Authority Power [Disguise and Deception]—the Deceiver Elyssus, a smoke-curtain she hoped could shield her from the Church’s gaze.
Elyssus was easy to find, the name inked in bold strokes like a spear-tip on parchment.
Name: Elyssus, a shadow stitched to the page.
Authority Power: [Disguise and Deception], a mask set over a flickering face.
Trait: Causes confusion in those who meet its gaze, a whirlpool pulling thoughts down.
Followers: Unknown, a crowd in cloaks under moonless night.
Sacrificial Ritual: Unknown, candles snuffed by a wet thumb.
Offerings: souls, persona, memory, despair, emotions of deceit… to be added, a ledger with blank lines.
First appearance: Never, like a ship that never left harbor.
Last appearance: Never, a story never told by dawn.
First and last times: Never, a calendar with empty squares.
Followers exist: Yes, footprints real as mud after rain.
Disasters brought: Deceiver followers once defrauded the Purification Church, a false star that led a hunt astray.
The Church misjudged in a crusade against other followers, and several Holy Knights fell, white plumes torn in blood wind, an event called “Knights’ Dead End.”
Witnesses: Unknown, eyes veiled by smoke.
Recorder: Unknown, a scribe whose ink vanished at dawn.
Discovery method: After “Knights’ Dead End,” the Church probed the false trail like fishermen checking nets, excluded moles, and deduced a Dark Deity with deceit, naming it from shadow like a face in mist.
