Shell Game Hustler Sara Lorojin (3)
Lenoir had lived for the goddess from the moment of his birth. After her dissolution, he lived on in longing. He had never once forgotten the master of his life. And so, the instant he conceived the method, an indescribable thirst gripped him. A plan took meticulous shape in his mind.
Faith can be gathered anytime, anywhere.
Mortals would worship even a mere spirit if it were paraded before them. How much more, then, for one who bore the soul of the Creator?
Lenoir had lived for a very long time and learned humanity along the way. He had acquired a profound disgust for them in the process, but it had also taught him exactly how to command their faith.
Make a religion and set this girl as its symbol. The process will not be difficult.
Start with the poor. They were the ones who sold their faith for a single loaf of bread. Then, nurture the paltry authority born of that faith, growing it step by step until it manifested in reality. By then, the greedy fools swayed only by what their eyes could see would bow their heads.
It was the simplest of instincts. The Orin Church was already exploiting it to great effect. Lenoir could do better. He could offer more than they did, create greater wonders. His life might have been one of mere drifting, but he had accumulated much before that—he was different from them. Above all, the pinnacle of the religion he would build would not be some shallow spirit feeding on belief, but a goddess who truly existed.
And if faith in the girl reached its zenith? If true devotion to her took material form? The goddess of that day would shatter this pitiful girl's shell and return.
Lenoir could finally reproach her for that misguided choice, and she would return to the arms of a master who would never again sacrifice herself.
At that thought, Lenoir erased the confusion from his aimless encounter with Sara. He escaped the aching pain that pierced his heart.
And so, the next day, Lenoir sought her out and said,
"Little Sara. I can make you glorious."
"Huh?"
"I can end the life where you sell your steps for a single silver coin and elevate you to a seat of radiant glory."
Lenoir's golden eyes blazed brighter than they had in centuries.
"I shall place you upon the heavenly throne. Will you not follow me?"
He extended his hand.
Sara eyed it tearily for a moment before replying.
"M'lord, have you been drinking?"
"?"
"You smell like flowers."
The floral scent was natural for him. It intensified especially when his emotions ran high—a quirk of the goddess who had shaped him. Unaware of this, Sara—knowing only that he "smelled like flowers when drunk"—pondered briefly, then grinned cheekily.
"No dice game today, then! But you're a top customer, so I'll let it slide as a favor!"
"I know not what you mean to let slide, little Sara. I..."
"You're a good guy, m'lord. Extorting money when you're drunk would be dishonorable."
For some reason, Sara looked proud, her lips curling up. There was a hint of seeking praise in her smug demeanor.
Lenoir sighed and said,
"...Very well, you are an honest child indeed."
"Hehe... Then take care going home!"
"I have not drunk. My abrupt manner was unbecoming, so let us speak again tomorrow."
"Sure!"
It was a bright, carefree reply. Absurdly, even that contextless cheer became nourishment that warmed Lenoir's heart.
It had been three weeks since Lenoir became a regular customer. Sara now headed to the alley outskirts not just to run her daily gambling scam for money, but because Lenoir would surely be waiting there as if it were the most natural thing.
Her steps were light. It wasn't solely because he handed over sums beyond her wildest dreams so easily.
He was remarkably refined. He often spouted odd remarks—especially in the last week, suspicious things like "We must build a religion, and I need you"—but he never forced or berated her about it. If anything, he gently urged deeper reflection.
The madams had warned her to beware adults who gave money without demanding anything in return. But to Sara, Lenoir didn't seem the type.
Of course, she considered the chance her judgment might be wrong, leaving a sliver of wariness...
"M'lord! Come on in!"
"Little Sara. You seem in high spirits."
"Learned a new trick today! Today's the day I fool you for sure without getting caught..."
"You intend not to leave it to honest chance, then."
"That wouldn't be shell hustling! And leaving it to chance ain't honest anyway!"
"...True enough, you speak rightly. Here is your coin."
Clink!
The satisfying sound of the coin dropping melted away any tension, as always.
"Hehe..."
Sara beamed ear to ear. It took little for an orphaned slum girl to become a greedy hustler. Sara loved coins. So much so that her nightly ritual was hugging the pile she'd stashed in the deepest corner of her home and rolling in it.
With symptoms that severe, the logic "money-giver = good person" was ironclad. Her enthusiasm only grew with each passing day.
"Alright! Here we go!"
Buoyed, Sara swiftly shuffled the cups. Of course, no "new trick" could evade Lenoir's uncanny insight.
"Today you hid it beneath your foot, little Sara. Pressing so hard will scar your sole—release it now."
"Ugh, how...!"
A clean loss. Sara briefly pondered if she lacked true talent as a hustler.
Regardless, their usual cryptic exchange began.
"Even if I provide warm bread at every meal, meat, clean clothes, you say you will not follow me. So I wondered: if I gave you gold coins, would you come with me?"
"G-Gold...!"
Lately, his questions revolved solely around "What would make you follow me and lend strength to the church?" They were so reasonable (enormous sums to Sara) that she answered them.
Anyway, gold coins. Gold. Sara had never imagined holding one in her lifetime. But a shiny gold coin gleaming like Lenoir's eyes—she could display it at home and gaze at it forever, pure bliss. Her lips twitched. Her eyes softened.
"Hm, so that is the answer. Then, how many gold coins would..."
It was then.
Dooong—!
Dooong—!
The city bells tolled. Sara startled and looked skyward. Evening was falling.
"Ah! Time to head back!"
"In such haste? Have you business?"
"No, just gotta get home!"
Oh no, that sounds weird.
"Sisters say the turf wars are heating up lately. Uh... yeah."
She started to explain but hesitated, gauging his mood.
He hates church talk, right?
Sara was quick on the uptake—it was how you survived. She sensed Lenoir disliked people in general, especially those lumped under "church," with something akin to loathing.
Telling such a man about the church assigning rations to one of the alley gangs, sparking internal wars, would sour his mood terribly. Sara didn't want this unique, kind customer leaving with a displeased face.
"Fights are getting fierce, so dangerous! Gonna hide at home!"
"Wise indeed. No need to face every wave. If anything, such times make it all the more reason to come with me..."
"Sisters say don't follow you!"
"...Yes, that is truly wise. The most educational lesson they've taught you."
"Hehe..."
Lenoir occasionally offered such straightforward praise. Sara loved hearing it and grinned broadly.
It was at that moment.
"Ah, and take this."
Lenoir suddenly proffered something. Sara tilted her head, then her eyes widened round.
"Shoes?"
"You always go barefoot. The streets abound with things to wound your feet. Wear them well to protect yourself."
"Th-This is..."
"I give them because they discomfort my eyes—no need to fret. You are no precious devotee."
Sara clutched them dazedly. Peeking up at Lenoir, he seemed utterly unconcerned by the gesture.
But the giver's indifference didn't make it any less momentous for the receiver.
Sara's fingertips fidgeted. Plain leather shoes. Yet, palpably new—untouched by anyone. Brand new. For her. In Sara's life, nothing like it existed. She'd worn discarded rags scavenged from somewhere, lived in a hovel of stacked scrap planks.
The moment she held them, something welled up from her chest—warm, ticklish, soft and squishy. So unfamiliar, she stammered,
"Th-This is too precious..."
But Lenoir replied as if it were absurd.
"By value, the silver I've paid for your answers outstrips those shoes a hundredfold. Yet you buy none with it, so I must purchase them separately."
Then he stepped closer. A faint floral scent wafted from him.
"Enough. Be off. Hide well inside your home."
Thud. He pushed her back gently.
Sara stumbled into the alley. After three steps, she turned. He was still there. Five more steps, turned again. Still there. Staff planted, as if asking why she dawdled. Only then did Sara bow deeply—a belated thanks. Lenoir waved it off.
Finally, Sara turned and headed deeper into the alley. Lenoir remained until then.
Sara grinned back once more before vanishing inside. She cradled the shoes all the way home, still scented with his flowers.