Chapter 9
Scoffing laughter. Revelry. The giggles that had filled the air vanished in an instant. In their place, murmurs and stunned expressions began to spread.
Sabernak said nothing for a long while after my words, then suddenly stepped even closer, his voice grave. "Human. Look me in the eye."
At that, I hurriedly glanced at Cornac. Eye contact? This isn't some invitation for guy-on-guy action, right? He wants to fight?
Reading my expression perfectly, Cornac flashed a grin. "Normally, yeah, but when receiving a prophecy, they lock eyes too. For dark elves, prophecy is one of their most sacred rituals. It's one of the rare exceptions. It means he's dead serious about accepting your words as a great sage."
Reassured, I met Sabernak's gaze. His face was solemn.
"How did you know? I never even told my lover those things."
"I read it."
"Read it? Impossible."
"I can."
His eyes shook like there was an earthquake.
"I'm going to die three days from now?"
"Yes. Up on that wall, fighting—you'll dodge every spike the monsters hurl, except one. The one flying toward your side. You won't block it, and the poison on it will kill you."
The dark elves' mood shifted.
"The monsters are coming in three days?"
I nodded at the elf who wasn't Sabernak but had asked, turning to face him. "158 of them. 92 crawling on four legs, 30 with tentacles sprouting from their backs. The rest hopping on two. Hidden beneath the bellies of the four-legged ones were those 30 tentacle variants. They'll sneak up to the wall and burst out, spraying spikes. One hits Sabernak, and he dies."
The murmurs grew louder. I ignored them, keeping my eyes on Sabernak.
"Strap a few more steel plates to your side. You won't die."
His expression hardened. "What trick is this?"
"I just read it."
"Can't believe it! No way I'm trusting some human's prophecy!"
Even as he spoke, his pupils quaked comically. I shrugged.
"I'll still be in this city three days from now. If you die, it means you didn't believe me. If you live, you did. The rumors will tell me either way."
With that, someone shoved Sabernak aside—a female elf strode forward. A warrior too, by the longsword at her waist and the cluster of javelins on her back.
"Hey, human. Do me next. Spill what you know about me."
Easy enough. After a quick scan of her info window, I met her eyes steadily.
"Jubea. Curved Leaf Tribe, same as him. Daughter of Tala, granddaughter of Junia. Your first three shadow spirit contracts: Dul, Dara, Tilmoa. Sealed in the pile of dried mushrooms on your rooftop."
Her face paled. Her eyes trembled wildly. Past done—now the future.
I recited flatly from the window. "You won't die in the monster attack three days from now. But you'll get into a spat with another female elf, Juloa, over who kills a two-legged one first. Duel breaks out. You lose by a hair, and that's how the scar ends up on your face."
Jubea unconsciously touched her cheek. I pressed on.
"Juloa will say she could've taken your head but spared you for the time you covered her back at Kisshak."
Jubea turned, entranced. There stood another female elf, pale as death, staring at me.
"How... how did you...?"
Jubea and Juloa repeated the words mechanically, voices quivering. And with that, the reaction exploded.
"H-hey! Great Sage! What about me?"
"Me! Do I die in the attack three days from now?"
As demands flooded in, Cornac deftly wedged himself between me and the elves.
"Alright, that's enough! We don't know if the prophecies are accurate yet. Three days from now, we'll see if the great sage is right—then we talk more!"
But the dark elves clung, refusing to let go. In the end, I read the futures of over a hundred, pinpointing the five who would die in that battle three days hence. I told them exactly where they'd be hit, and only then did they release me.
And three days later.
"Attack! The Betua are coming!"
The monsters battered the Wall of Blood.
Betua. Living plants infesting the Shadow Forest. Bark-skinned brutes with strength to rip dark elves apart. Along with earthquakes, they were one of the chief threats to the dark elf kingdom of Kaien—hence the Wall of Blood.
"Betua incoming! Everyone, wake up!"
The problem? These forest fiends struck at total random. No one knew when or how many. Prophets and shamans predicted massive invasions at best—small raids like this? No chance.
A swarm under 200 should've triggered chaos: watchtowers spotting them, warriors scrambling into gear, rushing to the wall. But not today.
No one panicked. The wall defenders were fully armed and positioned atop it already.
"It's real."
"The great sage was right."
"The Betua really attacked."
Murmurs faded. Warriors prepped efficiently. They summoned their contracted shadow spirits into javelins from their backs. Blades spun wildly, building power—then:
"Loose!"
Power unleashed. Javelins—solid metal from haft to tip—hurtled near supersonic. Dozens of Betua shredded.
But plenty remained. They roared, charging the wall. More volleys swept through, but the clever ones dodged.
Then the tentacle Betua under the four-leggers sprang their ambush as the wall neared, ready to spray spikes. But the warriors atop, forewarned, nailed the moment—javelins ripped the ambushers apart.
No surprise attack. Four-leggers and tentacle variants mostly wiped.
Last came the two-legged Betua, roaring as they scaled the wall. Javelins poured down, but they morphed skin into shields, blocking as they climbed vertically at terrifying speed.
"Throw! Keep 'em off!"
Concentrated fire pierced some shields, killing outright. But survivors crested the wall, spraying spikes, arms morphing into blades, swinging wildly.
Warriors outnumbered them. Forewarned, they crushed the Betua handily. No casualties.
The great sage's prophecy was wrong. And perfectly right.
"Hey, Sabernak!"
A warrior called. Sabernak sheathed his sword and checked his side—the exact spot prophesied. A spike had embedded there, chillingly precise. He yanked it free. Blue venom oozed from the tip, its foul stench wafting—unentered.
He eyed the others prophesied to die. The one fated for a backstab: thick steel and leather saved him. Neck spike? Neck wrapped too bulky to turn—untouched. Gut stab, severed arm and bleed-out: both unscathed.
Without heeding the sage, they'd have died exactly as foretold.
No cheers on the battlefield. Just eerie silence, all eyes on those five warriors.
"A prophet."
Sabernak muttered unconsciously. No one denied it.
No vagueness, no room for interpretation. Chillingly precise. Terrifyingly certain.
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was in Yurtel or the dark elf kingdom of Kaien. The dark-skinned, pointy-eared men and women in ragged, revealing garb screamed Kaien.
But the endless line, elves with mats and chairs, vendors hawking:
"Roasted mushrooms for sale!"
"Freshly caught beetle skewers! Spicy sauce!"
This was straight out of my dingy Yurtel shop, tourist hordes and all.
Overwhelmed by the mob, I faltered—but Cornac handled the crowd like a pro.
"I wanna see the great sage! Money's no object!"
"Prophesy for me! My daughter's marrying soon—will she thrive?"
Amid the clamor, Cornac boomed calmly, authoritatively: "The great sage can't see you all now! It's physically impossible! Go home orderly! And if!"
His voice thundered, defying his age. "Anyone forces their way in! I swear, the god who granted his power won't let them be!"
Superstitious folk bought it. They grumbled, retreating. As Cornac moved to shut the door:
"Earthquake! When's the quake?!"
"My granny said a big one's coming!"
"Our tribe's prophet too!"
"Our shaman!"
"But no exact date!"
"When's the quake?!"
The shouts reached me. Not everyone needs a personal reading. A big event like this? Fine to share.
I signaled Cornac to stop, stepping forward. Every eye bored into me. Overwhelming for a total nerd like me.
Still, gotta say it.
Confirmed one common future phenomenon all gathered beings before me will experience.
Handy status window. I reread it, then raised my voice.
"Eight days from now, at dawn! A quake hard enough to topple dishes shakes the ground for three hours! Prepare!"
Silence—then explosion.
"Great sage! My prophecy too!"
"Money's no issue!"
"Consult on our tribe's future!"
Chaos. I looked to Cornac in panic. He sidled close, eyes serious, and proposed:
"No telling when we'll see the queen anyway. Might as well kill time—wanna do some business?"
After Yurtel's nonstop grind, rest tempted. The last three days had been bliss. But why was I here? Counseling elves built buzz, trust, influence—key to re-requesting queen audience. For Soul Flame resumption. For Sun's Tear. Life extension.
No rest for the weary. Mom was right—I'm fated for this grind.
"Knight Captain Marco."
I called the three guards looming protectively.
"First, get the elves lined up. Orderly, or no readings. Marco, guard me. You two, maintain order."
Marco smirked, nodded. The other two calmed elves, forming lines.
"Guild master. Consultation fee: 500 runes. Make waitlist numbers, call 'em in order. Profits..."
"80-20. I'm good with that."
"Got it."
Cornac whipped up a numbered list and ledger instantly. Alchemist guild master—impressive.
I settled in my lodging. First client entered soon.
"Will my business boom? Just bought a new mushroom farm."
A stunning female elf. I smiled warmly, gestured to sit. Tarot. Status scan. Consult.
"Drop the greed, halt expansion. Overreach dooms new and old ventures alike."
"Th-thank you! Thank you!"
Reactions fired up. The line grew endless.
And eight days later, at dawn—the earthquake struck.