Sara Lorojin, the Shell Game Girl (1)
The young shell game hustler Sara Lorojin was an orphan of the back alleys. Raised by the hands of prostitutes according to the alley's unwritten rules, she had scraped by on a wretched existence until the age of fifteen, and now she was just another commonplace slum-dweller old enough to fend for herself. That was the shallow extent of her identity.
But her personality was bright and cheerful. If even her surname Lorojin had been something she slapped on herself just because it sounded cool, it would be easy to understand her temperament. It was the result of faithfully following the madams' teachings: Even if you have nothing, never lose your smile. Sara always kept a sly grin on her face.
Thanks to that—perhaps—she had grown resilient enough to shrug off most hardships, and it seemed to spark a boldness in her, sharpening her silver tongue. It was a positive change for her shell game business. With a mouth that could talk its way out of anything, she easily drew in customers, turning the gambling setup into a reliable daily earner.
Of course, like any job, shell gaming wasn't easy. Being inherently a scam, she often got beaten by sharp-eyed, vicious customers, but even more frequently, her youth as a little girl nearly dragged her into real peril. Her straightforward personality let her brush it off quickly, but that didn't reduce the number of close calls.
For Sara, her encounter with Lenoir was just another incident in that vein.
"No, really, ugh! He was insanely hot, like jaw-dropping gorgeous, but he looked kinda headache-y, y'know? Then outta nowhere, he sees me and starts bawling his eyes out and hugs me tight! So I figured, yep, this guy's totally lost his marbles, and I was gonna drag him over here..."
"Did he look loaded? If he's hot and can pay up, this sister's snatching him right up...!"
"Right?! His clothes looked pricey too, that's why I was bringing him to you, sis, but aigoo... he just bolted like he was running for his life!"
As dusk settled over the Hilton Back Alley, the prostitutes who had carried Sara on their backs laughed uproariously at her tale. Buoyed by their reaction, Sara poured more oil on her tongue.
"Anyway, next time he shows up, I'll bring him straight over! He'll strip down to his skivvies for you, and don't forget to tip your girl here!"
"Pfft, as if that'll happen. Just try bringing him. Way better than dealing with these shabby old geezers!"
The banter was in full swing when...
"Aigh, gotta head out now. Sara, you should get inside too."
"Yeah, sisters, hustle hard today!"
"Alright, and Sara."
The eldest sister, Selbes, approached and smeared mud from a puddle across Sara's face. It wasn't bullying. Selbes's smile carried a subtle undercurrent of worry.
"Always cover your face nice and thick. Don't forget. This ain't a place that goes easy on unripe flowers."
The back-alley prostitutes sold their smiles and vitality to survive. But they didn't want the kids they raised inheriting that life. To them, Sara was their most precious treasure—exceptionally clever, beautiful, and fierce. That's why they kept her in the brightest spot of the shadowy alley, where filthy hands couldn't reach. They hid her beauty to thwart any lecherous gaze.
"Make sure you're home before nightfall. You know that, right?"
It was the nagging Sara had heard without fail every day of her fifteen years. So, as always, she gave the same reply.
"Yep! Obviously!"
Her smile flashed white teeth. With that, Sara parted from the madams. The twilight-tinged scene of the back alley etched itself onto her retinas.
Whiton’s outskirts back alley always had this vibe. Amid the gloomy underbelly of the world, fleeting laughter from those living only for today danced about. A place where despair etched across a lifetime could be forgotten, if only for a brief smile, allowing them to live for the now. Sara loved it here. It was the pride of a frog in a well who knew no other world—but so what? Tell joyful things joyfully, sad things joyfully, and the pain fades quick.
Drunks' steps brimmed with merriment and romance. Shouts from somewhere carried the grit of reality. Where all the world's emotions crossed paths—that uniqueness existed nowhere else.
A tune hummed from her nose unbidden. As she headed to her sleeping spot, her mind wandered to the odd passerby from earlier.
What a weirdo...
He'd been strikingly handsome, full of life. Taller than Sara by more than two heads, with a razor-sharp jawline. His black hair, half-covering his eyes, gleamed like a beast's pelt despite being unkempt, and those stern eyes held golden irises. But for all his striking looks, his eyes were dead.
Figuring someone like that wouldn't spot her tricks, she'd called him over. He startled, then wept and embraced her—that was bizarre.
Didn't seem like he had bad intentions, though.
Sara knew the leering glint of depraved pedophiles all too well. The light in his eyes was different—more like the madams' affectionate gaze, but fiercer in some way.
And that hug? Like cradling something utterly precious. As far as Sara knew, only the madams had ever hugged her like that. A weird thought, but it felt warm. Good, even.
She pursed her lips, then shook her head to clear it.
Psh, why bother getting tangled up. Looked like a headcase anyway.
A brief episode. Like all the other oddballs who'd passed through, intense for a moment, then forgotten. His fancy clothes meant he'd never show up in the back alleys again anyway.
With that, Sara curled up in her shack that night and fell asleep.
And so the next day arrived.
"...Milord?"
Same spot, same time. At the shell game setup. The handsome headcase from yesterday had reappeared.
* * *
Lenoir hadn't slept a wink all night. As a being for whom sleep held little meaning anyway, it was still unusual—even in his recent life—for him to forgo it entirely, when he'd spent most of his time dozing to escape reality.
The reason for his sleeplessness was one: the shell game girl before him.
"Y-you're back again...?"
The girl scratched her head awkwardly, grinning sheepishly. Outwardly, nothing special. But cruelly, the moment Lenoir reunited with her, his soul screamed.
There is your master. She is the mother you have longed for.
The words echoed like hallucinations. His heart was in turmoil.
She is human.
Human through and through. Her soul was unmistakably that of Immaculate Fate, yet what he saw was a slum girl devoid of radiance or authority. Reincarnation—that's what you'd call it. If it stemmed from her self-dismantling of the divine throne, it made sense. For one so great, this fallen form was utterly despairing.
That fueled his unrest. Why return in such a wretched state after promising eternal rest beyond? Why meet again like this?
Yet amid the rising resentment, another emotion surfaced.
Very well, acknowledge what must be acknowledged.
"...I committed a discourtesy against thee yesterday."
Lenoir felt joy. A fish cannot live without water, a bird without sky. Without his creator, Immaculate Fate, Lenoir could not exist.
See? Simply sharing breath in the same space filled him with ineffable fulfillment. So much so that he wished this moment eternal.
Then the girl spoke.
"Uh, um... you seem fine today...?"
"The previous eve, I was inebriated and thus discourteous."
"No booze smell, though... more like flowers..."
"When intoxicated, I emit a floral scent."
"There's a constitution like that?"
"Mine is such."
Lenoir answered firmly. He could hardly tell this vessel of the goddess's soul—lacking her memories—that he'd wept from longing for her.
She was truly bleached of everything but the soul's essence. Otherwise, how could she have told him yesterday to roll in the gutter with a prostitute? She who had taken Lenoir's vow of purity.
At any rate, he was certain now. What to do with her? Lenoir had no answer.
Tossing sleeplessly, all that arose was the desire to meet her again and converse—leading him here without a plan.
Thus, silence lingered.
His addled goddess blinked, and Lenoir gazed down at her expressionlessly. She broke it first.
"So, what brings you here?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
Only gazes exchanged wordlessly.
"...Uh, if you're free, wanna play dice?"
She slyly offered the dice. Hide them in a cup, shuffle positions swiftly, pick the right cup. Lenoir felt anguish.
How could the goddess, nobler than any, sustain herself with street gambling?
"Not particularly..."
"Then, begging your pardon, could you step aside? I'm in the middle of business..."
That suggestion irked him. Lenoir furrowed his brow faintly, then plopped onto a filthy wooden chair.
"...It piques my interest somewhat, little one."
"Didn't you just say not particularly?"
"'Not particularly' means it piques my interest somewhat."
Sara's eyes narrowed. To her, he was just a handsome lunatic, suspicious as hell.
But a customer's a customer. His clothes looked antique-fine, speech archaic and elegant. Not all there mentally? Perfect. If his pockets were fat, her job was simple: fleece him.
Chrrrk!
She scattered one die on the plank table, covered it with a cup. Added two empty ones, then grinned impishly.
"Alright~ place your bet and win big~"
This was Sara's favorite moment. Her hands danced dazzlingly across the table with a chrrk, then she pointed to the shuffled cups.
"Pick one, milord! Guess right, you win money! Wrong, you lose!"
Her voice trilled with excitement, and Lenoir asked,
"Money is unnecessary."
"Huh?"
"If I guess right, tell me thy name."
Sara hesitated blankly, then realized it wasn't a bad deal and nodded. Straightaway, Lenoir pointed unerringly at her chair.
"The die is there."
"Eugh!?"
"What is thy name, little one."
Lenoir asked flatly. Sara felt cold sweat trickling down her back as she thought,
Damn, looks like I hooked a weirdo by mistake.