Chapter 4

Sometimes, you can't let yourself be overwhelmed by their momentum—Albio Yurtel. A man who had earned the right to govern Yurtel through his battlefield exploits, granted directly by His Majesty the Emperor. He was the one who transformed Yurtel from a city known merely for its scenic beauty into the South's premier tourist destination. A knight of unyielding integrity and formidable martial prowess, yet he shocked everyone by appearing at official events in floral shirts, shorts, and sunglasses. Jovial, yet possessed of exceptional administrative skill and, at times, ruthless execution. That was the image of the count known to Yurtel's citizens. And since I shared that view, the shock I felt now was beyond imagination.

"So you're... the famous great oracle everyone's talking about these days! Haha!"

The grandfatherly figure laughed as if in good humor, but there was nothing cheerful about him. His haggard appearance evoked the image of a corpse grinning. The two knights who had escorted me here bowed politely and left the room, leaving just the count and me alone.

"Thanks to you, Yurtel's been drawing crowds lately. Haha! They say you're spot-on every time? Rumors are flying that you nail people's pasts and futures in one go! *Cough!*"

The count's voice started light and joking, but he suddenly hacked up a cough and slumped onto the bed. After a long bout of ragged breathing, he gave me a bitter smile.

"Sorry about that. My health's taken a sharp turn lately. Never been one to get sick like this before—first time's the charm, I guess. Hits harder than I'd expect. Haha."

I silently studied the count's face. Perhaps because of his age, the volume of past and future information I could read from him was immense. While mentally devouring that data, I kept the conversation going.

"It's an honor to meet you, Count. I'm not well-versed in noble etiquette, so please forgive any missteps."

My awkward greeting drew a feeble chuckle from him.

"I'm a knight who rolled through the battlefields myself—no expert on manners either. Don't sweat it. Etiquette's not what's important right now."

The count let out a dry cough. His weary gaze fixed on me.

"I called you here because I just can't make sense of it. Knights train in mana circulation from youth—no minor ailments for me. I've been active, exercising vigorously right up to recently. Never even set foot near a doctor. Then suddenly, this."

"Have you seen a physician?"

"Mages, priests, doctors—I called them all. They say it's just old age. Natural decline. But I know better. This isn't natural. Feels artificial somehow. Why... what could be causing it?"

The count kept coughing dryly.

"I'm grasping at straws here, calling you in. What do you think? Can you tell me the cause of my illness? Explain why this is happening?"

His tone was polite. But even without my Oracle, I could tell he didn't trust me. His speech and demeanor made it clear he held little hope.

His recent thoughts, visible through the Oracle, brimmed with negativity toward me.

About a minute passed. I ignored his question, focusing solely on reading his information. The count masked his emotions well, but his expression screamed 90% distrust, 10% faint hope.

And finally, I had it all.

The revelations were so shocking that my fists clenched involuntarily, sweat beading on my palms. But I feigned composure.

"Politicians, celebrities, hotshot businessmen—when big ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shots like that come as clients, you have to hit harder than with ordinary folk. They're tough nuts. And tough nuts steamroll you if your momentum falters. Lose the edge, and they won't buy your reading. You'll just look like a fraud."

Mom's advice as a shaman steadied me once more. I took a deep breath, pulled a side table to the count's bedside, set down my tarot deck, and scattered the cards haphazardly across it.

Once the table was covered in card backs, I made the same request I did with every client.

"Please place your hand on the cards."

"This is how you divine my future?"

The count snickered but complied. A self-mocking smirk twisted his lips—pathetic, having to rely on this nonsense. Yet it also showed how desperate things were for a staunch, superstition-hating ex-knight to summon a street diviner like me.

"That's good. Please remove your hand."

I gathered and shuffled the scattered cards, then slowly drew four and laid them before him.

The Dwarf Devouring Gold. The Blood-Stained Chalice. The Dagger in the Back. The Burning City.

"Alright, then. Tell me why I've fallen ill so suddenly. Let's hear the great oracle's wisdom."

His voice bordered on resignation, mingled with a weak laugh. Staring him straight in the eye, I pointed to the first card. The Dwarf Devouring Gold. The root of it all. Why the count had started falling ill.

"Twenty years ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ago, before you became lord of Yurtel, the previous count handed casino operating rights to a company called Calderan Brothers. Rights to run it in Yurtel for two decades."

"Yeah, that happened. The old count wasn't much. Short-sighted, obsessed with quick profits."

"Calderan Brothers is a shell company. The real owners running it? A crime syndicate. They call themselves the Black Hand Brotherhood."

For the first time, a crack appeared in the count's indifferent expression—he'd been half-listening ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠until now. His face hardened. But my story was just beginning.

"You asked why you're sick? Simple. The gold-devouring dwarves cursed you. With their twenty-year lease ending, they want you gone to reclaim the casino rights."

The Black Hand Brotherhood had rooted in Yurtel thirty years ago as a gang of thugs. For a decade, they exploited the incompetent previous count, devouring privileges and forcing unfair contracts to build a solid base. From then until now, they'd been the source of Yurtel's every vice and problem.

And the current lord, Albio Yurtel, wouldn't tolerate such parasites.

"You assembled an elite knight order from your old comrades. Hired ex-military for the police force. Over the past twenty years, you've relentlessly struck at the Black Hand—dismantling illegal drug rings, cleaning up red-light districts, restoring Yurtel as a pristine tourist haven."

The Brotherhood had tried multiple times to eliminate him: assassinations, threats, even targeting his family. But street thugs couldn't match ex-knights and soldiers. Slowly starved out over twenty years, their only stronghold remained the casino—legally licensed.

But that ended this year. The moment the twenty-year term expired, the count planned to revoke the rights, hand them to a trustworthy party, and banish the Brotherhood from Yurtel forever.

From their perspective, it was the worst nightmare.

I pointed to the second card: The Blood-Stained Chalice.

"They hired a sorceress. A casino employee named Laila—that's her. Killing an emperor-appointed lord directly would bring unbearable consequences, so they opted for subtlety. They chose to drink from the blood-stained chalice. And they found an accomplice."

My finger moved to the next card. The Dagger in the Back. Its meaning was clear.

"There's a traitor. Someone who slipped you well-disguised poison."

The count barked a hollow laugh.

"Lies. Doctors, mages, priests—all said no poison!"

"Of course. It's not literal poison. A curse medium won't register as toxin. Materially harmless. But channel a slow curse through it, and you die without a trace—looking like natural old-age death."

The count's eyes trembled. Confusion, fear, shock mingled on his face.

"Who... how?"

"Your head butler. Longtime servant, but a gambling addict. Cards since youth, loved betting. Owes the Brotherhood big—nose-ringed and owned."

"What's the medium?"

"Your pen. Every time you gripped it, you unknowingly withered away. Even sick, you pushed through work holding it. He knew your workaholic nature well."

The count's gaze snapped to the elegant pen on his desk. His face flushed—betrayal? Rage? I couldn't tell. To him, I revealed the final card. The Burning City.

"In two weeks, you'd suffer a fatal heart attack. Your eldest son, Richard, inherits. Apologies, but he's neck-deep in casino debt. Not just that—women, drugs... chains galore."

"You... you bastard."

"Your successor joins the Black Hand. They won't stop at the casino—back to devouring Yurtel whole, like under the old count. In five years, the tourist gem becomes a filthy, forsaken dump. Your name and legacy, buried in mud."

"You scum!"

The count roared, surging from bed. Sickly elder or not, his presence was terrifying—a battlefield knight who'd risen to lordship through merit. His aura crushed like a mountain.

I wanted to collapse, but Mom's words echoed: Lose momentum, and the reading rings false.

I shot to my feet, stepping close, locking eyes without flinching.

"I'll stay in this room. Until you say otherwise. Tomorrow, verify if my words are true or false. If lies, strike me down—charge of deceiving a lord with false divination. I won't resist death."

His battle-hardened glare nearly made me piss myself, but I summoned every ounce of grit, holding steady. In our fierce staring contest, I emerged victorious.

The count coughed dryly, staggering back to slump on the bed. His eyes shook ceaselessly.

"Haha... hahaha!"

He burst into laughter. By then, my legs gave out too—I crumpled beside him. But he didn't berate me, didn't scream about rude commoners.

"Everything you said... is it all true?"

He asked quietly. I didn't answer directly.

"On your first date with the countess, you gifted violets. Smart choice—matched her purple dress perfectly. She teased, 'Albio, turning me into Violet Woman, are you?'"

The count stared in astonishment. I smiled back at him.

"I don't lie, Count."

My body trembled from tension and fear, but I kept my face serene. He stared piercingly for a long moment, then abruptly rose, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grabbed the pen from his desk, and left me with one command.

"Stay put in this room."

Once he was gone, I finally relaxed, slumping.

"Everything you showed me is real, right? Otherwise, I'm fucked."

I muttered anxiously to my status window. Naturally, it offered no reply.