Booming Business and a Lord's Summons
The fortune-telling shop had hit it big, so Alexandra Lily and Jonathan Colson completely scrapped their summer vacation plans. They rushed back to their residence and headed straight to a nearby hospital for a thorough checkup. In this era where magic had advanced enough to invent airplanes zipping through the skies and every household owned a car, sophisticated magitech made it easy to confirm that what they'd heard at the fortune shop was true.
"It's thyroid cancer. Discovering it this early is nothing short of a miracle. You're incredibly lucky."
The doctor explained that at this stage, they wouldn't even need surgery—just a few simple procedures to eliminate the cancer cells and achieve a full cure. After booking an appointment, the two returned to their shared apartment. They sat on the bed, hands clasped, staring blankly for a long while.
"I've... I've never experienced anything like this. Sure, I've gone to fortune-tellers for fun now and then, but they always spouted vague, idiotic nonsense... I never dreamed it could be real."
Jonathan gripped Alexandra Lily's hand tightly. After a long silence, he looked at her with resolve etched on his face.
"Tomorrow, I'll tell Boggs I'm turning down the promotion."
Alexandra Lily's eyes widened in shock.
"Honey! You've always said you wanted that promotion!"
"Yeah, and I really do. But... if I get it and you're not by my side, it won't mean a thing. My success was all for you. What's the point if you're gone?"
Alexandra Lily gazed at her boyfriend, deeply moved. Without a word, Jonathan pulled a small ring box from his pocket and offered it to her.
"I wanted to buy you something fancier. I got this one because you said you liked it before... I planned to get the promotion, build my skills, get a better place, and propose with an amazing ring. But this incident made it clear. What if we'd been so buried in work we never even planned that trip?"
If they hadn't gone to the fortune shop. If they hadn't received the warning. What would have become of them? Jonathan quietly slipped the ring onto Alexandra Lily's finger. It was a simple silver band—the one she'd called beautiful. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Will you marry this guy who turned down a promotion?"
His voice was playful, yet brimming with worry and affection. Instead of answering, Alexandra Lily kissed Jonathan. They lingered, unwilling to part.
A few days later, Alexandra Lily arrived at the magazine office. When the editor mentioned needing a summer-themed article, she raised her hand without hesitation, her ring glinting on her finger.
"Editor, how about running my story?"
She pushed hard for it.
"Shamans? That's all bullshit, dude. If they could really see the future, wouldn't they buy lottery tickets first thing? Every week? You ever hear of a shaman winning the lotto every week? No? Exactly—it's all fake. They can't see shit!"
That was a story I'd heard from a middle school friend back on Earth. When I told Mom about it, she replied:
"Can you see what your own guts look like?"
"No."
"That's how it is. You can cut open someone else's belly to look inside, but slice open your own and you die. Shamans can't read their own fate. That's just how it works."
Only now, in this life, did I truly understand those words from my middle school days. My reincarnation perk, the Oracle, didn't show me my own past or future. Even staring in a mirror or desperately trying to use the skill on myself yielded nothing. While I could see others' childhoods, near futures, or even distant confirmed ones, my own path was like a foggy road— I had no clue what tomorrow held, or even the next hour.
Because of that, I had zero idea if my shop would thrive or flop, or when success might hit—if it ever did. I did get some customers, but after rent and fees, barely anything stuck to my pockets. Sun's Tear? No way I could afford that.
With this level of business, it's hopeless.
Should I put up billboards around the tourist spots? Hand out flyers? The thought crossed my mind, but I shook my head.
"For a fortune shop to succeed, it needs word-of-mouth. Shamans who hustle for promo look desperate—and desperate looks bad. No one comes. A shaman has to be classy. People should seek you out. I've never seen a self-promoting shaman make it big."
Mom's advice proved golden again. Stuck in limbo, I anxiously fretted over when customers might pick up—or if I'd just scrape by with small change from ordinary folks until I kicked the bucket.
Then one day.
"This the place? The one from the magazine?"
"Yeah, yeah. This is it. The Grand Seer."
"The guy's here really that legit?"
Without warning, customers surged. What used to be a max of ten a day doubled overnight. The next day, tripled. Soon, a massive line formed outside my shop, people waiting patiently.
And hilariously, that line became the best advertisement ever.
"What's that line?"
"Why's it so long?"
"Something fun going on? Let's check it out!"
For tourists flocking to Yurtel for fun, the queue was a magnet. In just two weeks...
"...At this rate, it'll be overwork, not Mana Dispersion Syndrome, that kills me."
I seriously worried I might drop dead tomorrow. Opening the shop each morning filled me with dread. People camped out with tents, waiting their turn. Scalpers even popped up. Vendors swarmed, hawking snacks to the hungry masses, and rental services for portable chairs and mats appeared. Everyone awaited my arrival like hawks.
Walking to open up meant hundreds of eyes locking onto me like bullets—the pressure was brutal for an introvert like me.
I had to make changes. Under the sign reading,
Grand Seer: I Will Read Your Future
I slapped on "500 runes per reading"—an absurd price. A typical office worker's monthly salary was around 2,000 runes; this was insane. Plus signs for 9 AM open, 10 PM close. That should kill the pointless lines...
"Selling my spot! 30 runes for my turn!"
"Two mats and three chairs, please."
"Five skewers here!"
...It didn't. Why? Price hiked, hours posted—why?!
"Abandon your obsession with success. It's eating you alive. You asked why life feels so harsh? There's your answer. The poison of 'you must succeed' that your parents drilled into you has tainted your soul."
"Make time to talk to yourself. Understanding who you are is priority one. Rushing blindly without self-knowledge leaves you exhausted. Know your destination, and even a slow pace won't tire you."
And my consultations? Nothing flashy—just steady, pinpoint advice based on Oracle visions, explained via tarot cards. Compared to Mom's lifetime of eloquence, mine was pathetic.
Yet reactions exploded. Some staggered out pale as ghosts. Others sobbed,
"Thank you! Sob! Thank you so much! Thank you, Grand Seer!"
pouring out their souls. Sure, some left politely or grumbled about wasted money, but rarely.
Those folks spread the word like wildfire: lives changed, grudges lifted, new selves born. One wanted criminal even turned himself in!
"I'll surrender. This life isn't right."
In his interview, he credited my reading—and crowds swelled more.
"Stay open till dawn!"
"Dawn!"
That was the daily chant from street crowds as I approached. Physically impossible, of course. Excluding meals and bathroom breaks, I slaved 12+ hours. More would kill me via overwork.
But the payoff? A month later, my account hit 300,000 runes—a fortune.
Late at night, alone in my tiny shop, I stared at the balance.
"I'm saved."
300,000 runes. Enough for Sun's Tear? This was all to survive—missing doses because of work was ridiculous. Shop closed tomorrow. Crowds sighed at the "[Closed Tomorrow]" sign, but oh well—I had needs too.
Closed for One Day Tomorrow
"First thing tomorrow, alchemy guild."
I mumbled, pulling my blanket over and crashing right there. The shop doubled as my bedroom now—fans stalking me home forced it.
Gazing at the ceiling, excitement bubbled. Regular Sun's Tear doses—once a pipe dream, now tangible. Body wrecked, but hope shone.
Guess dying isn't mandatory.
With that thought, eyes closed, exhaustion crashed in. I drifted off peacefully.
"Aiden? Aiden!"
...Only to jolt awake. Pounding knocks. Past closing, yet some jerk? First time—infuriating. Swallowing rage, I opened the door.
My eyes bulged.
"Wh-who are you?"
Sleek plate armor, intricate magic runes, hilt sans blade at the waist. Magic knights—noble guards, monstrously strong—stood before my shop.
"We serve the House of Yurtel. May we come in?"
Polite, but commanding. I stepped aside, gesturing them in. Two knights entered cautiously.
"Sorry for the late hour, Aiden."
"N-no, it's fine. Didn't expect the count's men. What brings you?"
Taxes? Too early. Shutting down my chaos? Anxiety rising, they approached, voices low.
"Could you come with us? The lord seeks you."
"Why me? Did I do something wrong?"
They shook heads.
"The count desires a personal consultation."
"We know it's rude, but he insists."
"If you agree... he'll offer more than mere payment."
"Will you come?"
Their calm barrage left no refusal. To keep eating in Yurtel, I had to.
"Lead the way."
Instinct screamed: massive opportunity. Per Mom, politicians and celebs were shamans' eternal VIPs.