81. The Magician
"Fors?!" I called out, catching her midway. She let out a scream of pain as her hair lengthened at a visibly unnatural rate. The nails of the hand clutching me also grew longer, their sharp tips pricking my skin. Worse still, her complexion began to twist into something unsettling.
In one sense, it was the mark of madness—an omen of losing control. Yet in another, I understood the cause: the day had surrendered to night, the blazing sun had yielded to the Blood Moon.
"I'm… fine?" she answered with difficulty, though her voice betrayed uncertainty. As her grip on me finally loosened, Fors seemed to claw back her sanity. She sank to her knees, clasping her hands together in a posture of prayer.
If only she were wearing a nun's… No—that thought never crossed my mind, I swear.
"Great God of Steam and Machinery…"
"You are the artisan, the protector…"
"You are the glory of technology and…"
Her voice trembled as she recited the prayer, clinging to it as though each word might dull the agony tearing through her. I knew the cause behind her suffering, but I had no means to ease it. All I could do was…
"Great God of Steam and Machinery…"
"You are the artisan, the protector…"
"You are the glory of technology and…"
—I repeated after her, praying alongside her, if only to share the weight.
***
For Fors, it was something that had happened before, yet no matter how many times it returned, she could never grow used to it. Desperation drove her prayers into a frantic cycle—first to the God of Steam and Machinery, then to every other orthodox deity she could recall. It bordered on blasphemy, but she no longer cared. In the end, no prayer brought salvation, no divine hand reached out to ease her misery.
"Ughh!" she screamed again as the pain surged, sharper and more unbearable than before. Her body gave out, collapsing—yet once more, someone caught her. But even in their arms, her anguish was relentless; her elongated nails dug deep into her helper's flesh, making them both stumble and crash against the surrounding furniture.
"I'm going to die… I'm going to die..!" The thought echoed through her mind with every wave of agony. Each time the torment came, she was certain it would be the end—yet somehow, she always endured, surviving those eternity-like minutes.
But this time was different. The pain struck harder from the very beginning, fiercer than ever before, as if she had already crossed her limits. Her screams tore through the room.
Amidst her thrashing, a book toppled from a nearby shelf—History of the Loen Kingdom's Aristocracy. As it hit the floor with a dull thud, a slip of paper slid halfway out from between its pages, catching her wavering gaze.
It reminded her of her friend's foolishness. Yet she, cornered time and time again and stripped of hope in the so-called orthodox gods, was ready to reach out to any being—no matter how unknown or dangerous—so long as it could offer relief. Had she been in her right mind, she might have recognized her folly. Sometimes, death itself would be kinder than dragging on such a wretched existence.
But she had no such luxury now.
Her trembling hand seized the slip of paper, and in a fleeting glance she confirmed its contents.
"The Fool who doesn't belong to this era…"
Murmuring the epithet, she steeled herself. Yet before she could continue the chant, a voice reached her ears—so sudden, so close—that it nearly made her leap from where she knelt.
"The Fool who doesn't belong to this era…" Her words echoed into the room.
No—it's not hers. Someone else had repeated them.
Fors froze, staring blankly at the culprit. Her expression screamed What the hell are you doing?! Shock flashed across her face, but it was already too late to stop.
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog…"
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog…"
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck…"
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck…"
The two voices overlapped, entwining into a single desperate prayer.
"Save me, save me…" Fors abandoned all else to the agony tearing through her, casting aside hesitation and shame.
"Please save her…" The other voice followed, steady and resolute.
Those words cut through the haze of torment, anchoring her to a fragile thread of sanity. When she turned toward him, she found nothing but a warm smile on his face—calm, unwavering—as he gazed at her.
Then, as if it had all been a cruel illusion, she snapped wide awake. The pain, the madness, the despair—gone without a trace, as though they had never existed. Did I survive again? The doubt flickered in her mind.
But soon she realized something was wrong. This was not her room. Instead, she found herself standing within an endless expanse of gray mist, stretching without end in every direction.
Now, it's the perfect alibi. Chris smiled warmly at his helper.