Thud, Thud.
Thud, thud. Legba walked through the crowd. The red moonlight bathed his pale face in an eerie glow. His blazing gaze swept over the faces gathered at the crossroads.
The expressions looking back at him varied wildly. There were the black-clad men who had stormed the museum, students from Florence, Han Dae-ho, and even spectators. Their faces mirrored a spectrum of shock—some stunned in disbelief, others frozen in confusion, and a few gripped by raw terror.
Legba raised his staff. Thump.
Then, some of the mingled crowd vanished. Only the black-clad men who had raided the museum remained in the crossroads.
Legba smiled at them. To the black-clad men, that smile was chilling. Before them stood an unknown, transcendent being beyond anything their faith had ever described. A smile from such an entity could only inspire dread.
Chills ran through them. It wasn't just Legba's smile or gaze that terrified them. Another "something" was watching them too—not Legba.
The gaze came from above, from the sky.
The leader of the black-clad men looked up. Thud. His mouth fell open at the sight unfolding in the crossroads sky, and his legs gave out, sending him crumpling to the ground. Saliva dribbled from his gaping mouth. His eyes bulged red and bloodshot, pupils twitching madly side to side.
Even in his terror, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the heavens.
"Ah, evil. Ugh, grrrk…!"
Scrape, scrape, screeech. Foam bubbled from his mouth as he collapsed, clawing at his eyes with his nails like he meant to gouge them out. He stabbed and scratched at his eyeballs. But they remained unscathed, emitting only the hair-raising sound of nails on glass.
At their leader's bizarre outburst, all the black-clad men looked up. And there, in the crossroads sky, they confronted the beings watching them.
Beings with red eyes, blue eyes, or murky white ones stared down. Their immense forms defied measurement. Each one embodied what humanity had worshiped: wind, lightning, plants. Rivers and water, the roots of civilization. Fire.
The black-clad men instinctively knew this was no land for the living—it belonged to the dead and spiritual entities. They recognized these colossal presences as divine.
Trembling in fear, they were also filled with ecstasy and longing. Gazing at these primal gods, they felt an endless beauty and thirst. It was humanity's instinct to seek the source.
Thud, thud. Legba approached. The frail old man he had appeared to be was gone. Now stood the supreme overseer of the crossroads and all spiritual realms there—vaster than anything else.
Legba lightly swung his staff in the air. Shrrrrr…
The darkness forming the crossroads swirled, coalesced, then dispersed into new shapes.
Two paths appeared before the black-clad men. Legba stood at their center, staff planted firmly.
"I have given you two paths."
Legba said. A pipe had appeared in his hand. He took a draw and continued.
"The path you choose is the one you desire."
Legba exhaled smoke. The round puff glowed red in the moonlight.
"Which path will you take?"
Thump. Legba tapped the ground impatiently with his staff.
The black-clad men hesitated, unwilling to choose. They craved only one thing now. But unsure which path led to it, they held back.
Red moonlight mingled with multicolored eyes, Legba's pipe smoke, and the crossroads' darkness, creating a grotesque palette.
Cautiously, the black-clad men stepped forward, inching toward the paths. One chose and walked; the others followed.
"Forty-six."
Legba counted them one by one with his staff as they chose the left path. Of the forty-seven black-clad men invited to the crossroads, forty-six took the left. Only one remained in the center, slumped.
The first to feel the Loa's gaze, the one who had foamed at the mouth—their leader. He was still clawing at his eye sockets. His face was a mess of tears, snot, and foam.
Legba approached him.
"So, is that your choice?"
Legba blew the smoke from his pipe onto the man's face. It enveloped his body. The goat sigil on his nape glowed faintly through the haze—but held no power here.
"Some lose their fleshly eyes to gain spiritual sight."
Drip. With Legba's words came the sound of a water drop.
*
Drip.
"…"
I opened my eyes. The crossroads vanished, replaced by the museum. It was deathly still, as if time had frozen. No one spoke. No one moved. Just like when Damballa had handed me the staff.
Time in the crossroads felt like an instant—or eternity. Even back in the museum, my sense of it remained blurred. Was this silence a moment or forever?
Click. Then came footsteps. One pair became two, then four, multiplying. The black-clad men encircling us began to move.
They released their grip on the detonators. Shoulders slumping, they walked in orderly fashion, filing out of the museum far more disciplined than when they entered. Some discarded their masks; others gently shed their bomb vests onto the floor.
Dozens left. Only one black-clad man remained.
"Ah, guh, ugh, grrrk…!"
Their leader, with the goat sigil on his nape. He groaned grotesquely, gouging at his eyeballs with his fingers. Blood trickled down his arm to his elbow, dripping in heavy drops.
It was horrific. Yet none of us gasped or recoiled. Kim Jin-seo, Yeo Min-seo, Kang Dae-man, Han Dae-ho—we all just blinked, regaining our grip on reality.
We had all entered and returned from the crossroads.
Thud, thud. Legba's footsteps echoed in the silent museum. All eyes turned to him.
Staff in hand, he crossed the hall, passed us, skirted the prone Han Su-ryeon—and playfully tapped her head with his staff. She remained facedown, oblivious.
"I'll come find you again soon."
Legba's voice rang out. It seemed meant only for me.
"Congratulations. You've claimed the staff."
Swish. Somewhere, Damballa stirred. I tried to track her with my eyes but saw nothing. Instead, an unfamiliar sensation filled my hand—or perhaps familiar. The hard, rough bark of petrified wood.
The Reverse Staff, Poteau Mitan.
It was in my grasp. I had obtained the staff.
But what had I lost here in exchange? Surely something—I felt it. Yet I couldn't grasp what.
Bang! The museum doors burst open as clergy poured in—responders to Han Dae-ho's call for backup.
Legba sauntered past them leisurely and vanished from the museum entirely.
*
Han Dae-ho couldn't shake the scene that had unfolded before him in that fleeting moment. Closing his eyes still conjured it vividly in the darkness.
A land forged of shadow, lit by an ominous red moon. The staff-wielding elder at its center. The forked paths. The crossroads.
"Voodoo has this thing called the crossroads. It's a key symbol for them—representing choice and freedom."
O Hui-jin, the religion expert who knew more about other faiths than Romanica, had said that.
Yes, it had been off from the start. Rain was possible here, but not a raging storm like that. The terrain forbade it. Yet thunder roared, lightning flashed, rain poured.
Voodoo prophets controlled weather, or so he'd heard. If Voodoo had been here, it explained the anomalies.
Thud, thud. Han Dae-ho watched the elder cross the museum. Shadowy silhouette only, but unmistakable—the same from the crossroads. The staff gave him away.
Bang!
"Seoul North Paladin Order Dispatch Team A! Where's Han Dae-ho, East Paladin Captain?!"
The late arrivals bellowed. But Han Dae-ho didn't answer. He lacked the wits for it.
His trembling finger pointed at the elder exiting the museum.
"Th-that guy…!"
The staff-wielding elder. Surely Voodoo's cult leader or prophet. Or both. Some pivotal figure, at least.
They had to catch him now—tell them. But his mouth wouldn't move. He could only watch the figure fade away.
Terror gripped him.
Once, he'd investigated what looked like a Voodoo-Satanist clash. The traces alone screamed fierce battle. It had unnerved him then, too—fearing war among Romanica, Satanists, and Voodoo.
"Ugh, grrr…! Kr, kaaaaagh—!"
"Mmph… What the hell's with this guy? Han Dae-ho, status report!"
"…"
"Hey, Han Dae-ho!"
But this fear was different. Before, it was abstract—war might come, with its inevitable sacrifices even in victory.
Now, he'd felt Voodoo's power firsthand. Or nearly so. Their true might might dwarf his imaginings—vast and perilous.
That's what terrified him.
"Voodoo…"
Romanica, Voodoo, Satanists. Collision meant Satanists first to fall. Then Romanica vs. Voodoo head-on… Victory uncertain. Or costly beyond measure.
"What's wrong with this? Hey, Han Dae-ho! If you're like this too, we're screwed. The students are—!"
"I know."
Han Dae-ho cut off the West Paladin Captain brusquely.
"I'll brief you on after-action. Help with cleanup."
He summarized events for the captain, then handled aftermath. Clergy escorted students back to the hotel first. Evacuated museum-goers. Collected abandoned bombs, guns, daggers.
Captured the lone remaining black-clad leader.
"C-Captain. Up ahead…"
During cleanup, a subordinate's report revealed the black-clad men's fate. All forty-six who left lay dead at the nearest well. Witnesses said they'd jumped in unison, suicides.
Han Dae-ho shuddered. The rain had stopped.
(To be continued next time)