Originally, you and Vangibia would share a heavy, silent fast-food meal, like chewing cardboard under a gray, rain-soaked sky.

No one would smile; words would freeze like frost on metal.

There’d be nothing worth saying, nothing to pass on, just gloom spreading like damp mold from wall to wall.

Then she’d leave, quiet as a tide slipping back; the only difference now is whose stomach swallowed that sad burger.

After that—who knows, the road curls like smoke in the wind.

“…You think I’d storm the ritual site and drag Vangibia out, like a wolf tearing through a fence?”

Stini glared with lifeless eyes, eyes like dull blades catching no light, trying to cut down the young man across the table like a paper target.

Even without a feud, the air sparked like flint and dry straw.

For Stini, words sharpened to hurt were already a call to bare fists, like drums beating before a storm.

“That’s why the truth isn’t popular,” he said, shrugging like a puppet pulling loose strings.

Or maybe he forced that fake shrug, a painted smile set under a broken lantern.

“Hey, even if I can save Vangibia, then what?” Her voice rose like a wave hitting a pier.

“I shatter the ritual that balances the sea, and Vangibia and I become sinners, two stones flung into dark water.

Where do I hide her? We run like fugitives in cold rain—does that count as a good ending?”

“Good or bad, light or ash, that’s yours to measure,” he said, his tone flat as a calm tide.

“Are you hoping I hand you an answer, a silver coin everyone accepts?

Hahaha—tell me, are you the Hero, or am I the Hero?” His laugh fluttered like a crow in winter wind.

“So you’re useless, all talk like smoke that stings the eyes…”

Stini folded her arms on the table, then dropped her head onto her forearms with a thump, like a stone in wet sand.

“I’m just a messenger, a bell in the fog; I can only pass on what’s been entrusted, like a leaf borne on current.”

Clunk—an echo rang from the tabletop, heavy and muffled like a drum under a blanket.

She lifted her head and saw a stack of documents rise like a half-meter cliff of paper.

“What… is this?” Her question hung like a thin reed in still water.

“Has anyone told you,” he said, voice smooth as polished wood, “that such pure ‘what-is-it’ questions push the story forward like a broom on dust, yet feel a bit silly?”

The young man pulled another thick stack from the white lab coat, as if his coat were a bottomless pouch, like a magician’s sleeve swallowing moonlight.

Where did all those papers come from? The coat looked like it couldn’t hold that much, like a net trying to carry a waterfall.

“I’ve said it: don’t fuss over stray details, like counting every raindrop.

Are you that high-above spectator outside the tale, perched like a crane on a cold cliff?

Think about the real question, the one burning like a coal in your chest.

I won’t refuse any question—as long as you have patience, like a fisherman waiting at dusk.

Alright, listen.”

He plucked a sheet from the paper hill like picking a leaf, no, a map, pale as fish skin.

With his other hand, he conjured a pen from nowhere, like a twig snapped from shadow, and pinned the map to the table, drawing in swift strokes that flowed like a mountain stream.

“This is the fast-food place we’re in now, red dot like a lantern.

And here, and here—these mark the ritual site, not too far, close like a gull’s flight; with your pace, you’ll reach it fast.”

He tugged out a few more pages, clean and spare like bleached bone—three-view diagrams easy to read.

“Facing south-to-north, this is the temple in orthographic view, neat as stacked bricks—three floors, offices and quarters.

The true place for sacrifice lies beneath, a sea cave running straight to the ocean, a throat of salt and echo.

The rites begin directly below, under our feet like a secret drum.

Which means—”

He marked point after point on the diagrams, spots glinting like stars on a chart; the spatial ties settled into her mind like stones set in clay.

His hand moved with impossible finesse, like a falcon’s dive; he barely glanced, yet drew as if the lines lived in his bones.

…Truth is, Stini envied people like that, tall and sure like pines that never bend.

He felt like Andor, carrying a bright, fixed star inside his chest, steady as iron.

Unlike her, who often wandered like mist lost in a valley.

“Ms. Stini? Are you listening?” His voice touched the air like soft rain.

“I won’t be hurt if you ignore me; but if you want to act, a blink of distraction could cost you, like missing a wave.”

“Mm… yeah, I’m listening,” she said, words sluggish like syrup.

“If that’s how you take it, fine,” he went on, calm as still water.

“I can repeat myself; time isn’t a whip yet, not until our talk ‘ends.’

I’ve given you the basics, the bones of your decision, laid out like maps on a table.

So, Ms. Stini, can you choose now, can you give an answer?”

“Mm…” Her thought crawled like an ant across a leaf.

“You’re thinking? Good, that’s good. Only what your mind weighs becomes yours, like steel tempered in flame.

Come on, give me your answer—no need to tell a stranger like me, just have an opinion, a lamp lit in your own hand.”

“…What should I… no, what can I choose?” Her voice was a pebble tossed into shallow water.

“Put simply, I’m glad you didn’t ask me for advice,” he said, tapping the paper pile like a drum.

“I’m not like Mr. Andor, a gentle guide holding your hand.

These are all the paths you can imagine, all the branches a human mind can grow.

Don’t doubt the authenticity; our time is enough but not abundant, like sand that pours yet doesn’t flood.

If every step needed proof, the story would stall like a cart mired in mud.”

“And then? I speak a plan, and you tell me how to walk it?” She narrowed her eyes like slits in a shutter.

“Wait—maybe you’re a fraud, hired by the Demon King, a fox in priest’s robes?”

Stini snapped awake, springing out of her thoughts like a cat from tall grass, eyes alert and bright as flint.

“There’s bias in your words, and things worth pointing out,” he said, steady like a lighthouse.

“In truth, I stand with no one—no person, no demon, no Divine Being.

I only replace a messenger, carry a bell between towns, and speak the lines.

Rest easy; besides pressing you to choose, I’m fair, balanced like a scale set on stone.”

“Oh—devils also praise their fairness,” she said, a smile thin as a blade.

“They don’t lie to humans, or so they say,” he answered, tone cool as moonlight.

“Their fairness is a mountain you don’t understand yet.

I don’t want your regret turning to complaints; complaints look ugly, like mildew on silk.

So decide now—wait here and pretend nothing happened, a pond with no ripples; or strike the temple, break the rites, and haul Vangibia out like a net from surf; or rally a crowd, march against the sacrifice, a torch-lit river in streets.

I’m here to help, to hand you tools like nails and string.”

“These booklets and pages—are they all your methods?” Her finger hovered like a moth over flame.

“All of them,” he said, voice level like a flat sea.

“Everything within human scope—thoughts, schemes, daydreams—bundled here like harvested sheaves.

If you want to push a cart of popcorn to a solemn temple, or pitch a new fish-scaler to the sacrificers, those sit outside the joy and sorrow of the involved.

For those, you’ll think on your own, like a stray dog picking its path.”

“I can’t trust you,” she breathed, cold as dew at dawn.

“Then use your reason,” he said, crisp as winter air.

“Judge my words by logic, not gut feeling.

Intuition isn’t forged by human effort, like rain you can’t weave; I won’t build our baseline on it.”

“Mm…” Stini lifted her soda with vacant eyes, as dazed as someone in fog.

She didn’t even notice the overturned table—why was her cup still here, sitting like a survivor after a storm?

“Thinking leads you to conclusions and resolve, like walking a ridge to reach the pass,” he said.

“But you can’t use ‘thinking’ to dodge thinking, like circling a tree forever.

Maybe you believe no one knows if you’re daydreaming or grinding gears; fine, I’ll admit I guessed the daydream.

Tell me—did I guess right?” His smile flickered like lantern light.

“I don’t want to know this much! Enough!” Her anger flared like sparks on dry straw.

“I don’t even know who you are; why do you get to press me like a magistrate?

You meddle like an autumn wind; even my father never scolded me like this!”

“That’s why I said, I’m not gentle,” he replied, tone clean as steel.

“I won’t hug you warm; I’ll show you the real, like pulling back a curtain at dawn.

That’s why the great ones asked me to be the messenger, a bell carried across valleys.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, voice thin as mist.

“It’s a slap, not a lullaby,” he said calmly, “dragging you out of a sweet dream like pulling a fish from a net.”

“…”

“In this tale, don’t expect Andor’s warmth, don’t expect Augustus’s shelter, don’t expect the guidance of any Divine Being, a star that won’t rise,” he said, eyes clear as ice.

“Only a fraud will explain cause and effect to you, like chalk lines on a slate.”

“What do you even know?” Her question shot like an arrow in twilight.

“From how you talk, a random messenger couldn’t fill your seat,” she added, voice steady as a blade.

“No kindness, no malice—so what are you? A devil? Or something I don’t have a name for?”

“You’re not the first to ask, and you won’t be the last,” he said, mild as rain.

“I am human, a person doing what humans can do, like hands and bread.

As for the role revealed now—messenger—that’s only because I speak well, clear as a bell.

You wouldn’t want a stammering passerby, or a star spirit with blazing light on his back, to narrate this tale.”

I’m only a suitable fit, not the most suitable, he said, voice faint as smoke.

Somehow, the mood cooled and thinned, like fog sinking over marsh.

Time near him slowed, untying knots like warm water.

Impulse, rage, hysteria drifted off like leaves; talking felt easier, light as late-afternoon sun.

Stini couldn’t help it; Heroes are easy to catch the wind of a room, like sails filling.

She began to talk, slow and steady, even if she disliked him, like rain tapping a window.

Hate or boredom didn’t stop the words; they flowed like a stream finding its bed.

The clog in her chest, the flame in her ribs, turned to language and spilled out like embers, while her mind kept its path and carried sense like a compass.

“You’re really not a Divine Being?” she asked, suspicion like a cat’s tail.

“Even if I were, I wouldn’t admit it,” he said, voice cool as stone in shade.

“You feel like you’re playing god, stirring smoke and mirrors, talking in circles like a spider weaving,” she said.

“But if I guess with a Divine Being’s angle, it tracks like stars in a clear sky.”

“That’s only a trick a fraud uses,” he answered, a half-smile like thin ice.

“I don’t lie; this is as far as my deceit goes, street magic under a pale moon.”

“Mm… want another burger?” she asked, hunger gnawing like a rat behind a cupboard.

“I keep saying ‘there’s not enough time,’” he said, gaze steady like a mast.

“But you treat ‘we won’t be late before the talk ends’ as a clock to game, a sandglass turned again.

Maybe you’re right; maybe your instinct hit the mark like an arrow.

But I don’t depend on instinct; I won’t grade your stalling, not anymore.”

“Is it ‘time’s short,’ or ‘the talk’s end’ that starts the event?” she mused, voice like a ripple.

“Maybe you’re the Divine Healer who presides over the sacrifice,” she said, eyes sharp as glass.

“If I chain you here with words, does it never start, like a tide that won’t rise?”

“Bold guess,” he said, amused like wind playing chimes, “though it has no sturdy logic to stand like a pillar.

I’m glad you’re thinking, even if it’s play; thinking is thinking, true as breath.”

“As for the answer…”

“Looking at your lazy posture, I know these papers are wasted ink,” he said, pointing at the stacks like dunes.

“So, then…”

“Fraud, musician, storyteller, or messenger-for-now—call me whatever, like choosing masks in a chest,” he said, shrug soft as cloth.

“Messenger, then,” she nodded, eyes calm as quiet water.

“Talking with you, it should feel sad, like rain over graves, but I’m not sad.

Is that normal?”

“You can’t judge it one-size-fits-all,” he said, voice patient as evening.

“Usually I stay silent, because language can’t carry all, like a basket with slats.

But this time, for you—it’s normal.”

“Really?” she asked, guilt creeping like ivy.

“I feel guilty for not being sad.”

“That guilt isn’t proper,” he answered, firm as a judge’s mallet.

“Humans should face their steps and turn from past to future, like a boat lifting its sail.

You don’t need to be sad; sacrifice isn’t made to be grief, like winter not made to be tears.

But that heaviness of longing, the weight of memory—I hope you keep it, store it like a sealed jar.

Use it later as proof when you choose, a stamp on your heart.”

“Another prophecy of yours—or, in your words, a guess?” she said, eyebrow lifting like a birch leaf.

“Guesswork, forethought—that’s human habit, like breath and bread,” he said.

“If we meet again, tell me what that proof did, that inner scorch, unease, and sorrow mixed like stormwater.

Tell me what it helped you confirm.

Well then, if fate turns, let’s meet again.”

They talked a bit more, stray threads like smoke after a fire.

He called it “background,” details you should know by now, and even if you feign ignorance, they ought to be named, laid out like stones on a path.

He poured everything out in a flood, all kinds of fragments, not caring if Stini’s bowl could hold it.

When the girl asked, he told a long tale—mist-blurred in memory, yet sensible once you stepped inside it.

It spoke through a storyteller’s mouth.

Cause and effect stayed intact; the steps kept their order.

Shift the angle, and the tale was a different moon over the same river.

When he left, the fast-food door hinge creaked like a blade.

It split two worlds: one where nothing had begun; one where everything was already too late.

No dodging. Look straight. Wake to it. Measure, then choose.

“…That guy’s brutal,” Stini breathed, the complaint slipping out like a winter draft.

Stini let the sigh drift, slow as incense smoke.

Meanwhile, the dozen burgers he’d paid for landed before Stini like a small hill.

With star-sprinkled tears, the girl smiled and swallowed them down.

“Boss, a few bottles of beer.”

“No need; that young man already covered your tab, neat as a lid.”

“Alright, bring them over; I’m staying put tonight.”