The Mage of Stars and Scales (1)
On the day a meteor fell, Grandmother told me a story.
A shooting star is the tear of the goddess.
Stars are the traces gods carved into the heavens. An unreachable ideal that mortals crawling on the ground dare to dream of. The constellations that should rightfully shine with arrogance from their lofty heights.
Yet to the goddess of justice who loves humanity, those stars are eyes that look down upon the earth. From that immeasurable height she gazes upon the world, observing every cause and effect. And what she inevitably witnesses are the sighs of the unjustly wronged, unfulfilled wishes, and love that could never be delivered. When the sorrow rising from the earth reaches the sky, the grieving goddess sheds tears—and those tears become shooting stars.
That was the origin of the folk tale claiming you must make a wish upon seeing a shooting star. Within that falling light dwells the goddess’s fierce desire to comfort human sorrow. The moment a wish is made, a miracle manifests.
“Leon, what wish would you like to make?”
When Grandmother asked me that, the child I once was answered:
“I want to become a shooting star!”
A person who shines brilliantly, then burns their entire being to grant someone else’s wish. If that could deliver a miracle to someone drowning in grief, if it meant the goddess would shed no more tears, I would gladly abandon the sky and plummet to the earth. That was the image of a hero in my eyes.
Of course, it wasn’t the sort of thing you could do just because you wanted to.
Anyway.
The reason the story of shooting stars suddenly flashed through my mind was probably some kind of life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment.
“Uwaaaaaah——!”
My scream ripped through the empty air of the Mite Mountain Range. The old man had shoved me from the cliff, and I was in the middle of a vertical freefall. I’d said I wanted to become a shooting star, but I had never meant it this literally.
This crazy old man…!
He’d muttered something about chasers, and now I understood why he was treated like a criminal. The eyes of the gods that judged people were never wrong.
—Whooooosh!
The roar of air hammering my eardrums. The ground rushed closer, the sky grew distant. Yet for some reason it felt like I was drawing nearer to Grandmother. Was that just my imagination? Wait, was that the ferryman Charon waving at me? That had to be my imagination too… right? Maybe not.
—Grab!
“Kuhuk!”
Right before my first and last kiss with the dirt, something snatched me out of the air and landed lightly on the ground.
“Ugh… uuugh……”
I was dumped onto the ground like a piece of baggage. Still half-dazed, I struggled to open my eyes. The person in my blurry vision was the old man who should have been at the summit. He had already descended to the base of the cliff and was calmly brushing dust that wasn’t even there from his clothes.
He had covered dozens of meters of sheer cliff faster than a falling body and caught up to my descent speed to grab me. Physical ability that completely transcended human limits. Under normal circumstances I would have been speechless with awe.
“Urk… bleeegh!”
“Are you still alive?”
“You……”
I forced my trembling legs to stand, bracing myself against the ground.
“You insane old fossil pushed a person off a cliff?!”
Politeness and honorifics flew out the window as a raw scream tore from my throat. My heart was still jackhammering wildly. If he had been even a second slower, there would have been no “Leon”—only “the meat paste formerly known as Leon.”
“You wished for it as well. You said you wanted to test the possibility.”
“How are those two things related?”
“Do you know what an oracle is?”
“An oracle?”
An oracle was a divine covenant in which a god bestowed a fragment of their authority upon a human—a contract between deity and mortal. Effort or talent meant nothing. It was an inviolable realm governed solely by a god’s whim and choice. Humans who formed such contracts and wielded divine power were called mages by the world.
“I know what an oracle is. What about it?”
“Research suggests that the more earnestly one longs for the will of the gods, the higher the chance of receiving an oracle. Therefore, I conducted an experiment.”
Death. The moment a human comes closest to the divine and becomes most honest. He had tried to shove me to death’s doorstep by force in hopes of drawing out an oracle. It wasn’t even certain—just a hypothesis. No matter that the other party was an old man, anyone who didn’t get angry after hearing this wasn’t human.
“Then you should have at least warned me! I really thought I was going to die!”
“If you know the future, the desperation fades.”
“I was so panicked I couldn’t even think to beg for my life!”
“I see. Then once more—”
“Absolutely not.”
I’d have to be insane to do that again. Over my dead body. Actually, doing it would result in a dead body. I wouldn’t receive an oracle—I’d go straight to the afterlife and see a god’s face in person.
“Now that I think about it, if you leave, the chasers won’t come, right?”
“A prophecy is absolute. Besides, you have already touched the fire of the gods and caught their attention. Even if I disappear, you will not be able to live as an ordinary person.”
“Fire of the gods? I’ve never touched anything like—”
A memory from yesterday flashed through my mind. To draw the Titan’s gaze, I had run while holding the torch the old man carried. It had been no ordinary flame in many ways.
“Don’t tell me that was the fire of the gods?”
The old man didn’t bother confirming it aloud. But his silence was confirmation enough.
“Instead of plotting escape, you would do better to devote every ounce of strength to surviving. The gods who have found an amusing toy will not sit idle.”
“……”
I never should have gone there yesterday.
A week had passed since Prometheus began staying at my house. If the villagers had learned of his presence they would have driven him out at once, but that never happened. It wasn’t only because the residents paid no attention to me and therefore never visited the hut. Even when they encountered him in the village by chance, they simply failed to perceive his existence.
“It is the power of this cloak. It suppresses the presence of the wearer. Unless there is direct contact, ordinary people cannot even notice it exists.”
Prometheus added that objects with such abilities were called divine artifacts.
If magic was a miracle only those who had received oracles could perform, then divine artifacts were sacred tools only those same chosen ones could create. Some could summon lightning, others were necklaces beautiful enough to enchant a goddess, and still others were shoes that let their wearer fly through the sky.
Listening to the old man’s explanation, a related story suddenly occurred to me.
“I heard that in a certain volcano live dwarves who follow the god of smithing. You said their craftsmanship is extraordinary.”
“This cloak was also made by them.”
“Have you seen them yourself? Are they really short?”
“Indeed. Short and sturdy. They enjoy drinking, so they are close to the faction of the god of wine as well.”
“Wow.”
When I first heard Grandmother’s tales I had been skeptical, thinking she invented fairy stories for a grandson who had never left the mountain. But learning that those imagined things were real filled me with excitement. If the stories alone were this fascinating, how many wonderful things must exist beyond the village? The urge to leave the mountains and see them for myself rose naturally.
That thought gave birth to a question.
How did Grandmother know about any of this?
Her knowledge far surpassed that of the other villagers. She must have traveled the world and gathered countless experiences.
Could Grandmother have been a mage?
I had never seen her use magic, yet it suited her mysterious aura perfectly. Moreover, the fact that she had reached this remote mountain village—infested with giants—alone made the possibility seem high. I didn’t know why she had hidden it, but I assumed she must have had her reasons.
Over the following days I finished cutting every last piece of Flame-heart Wood and distributed the firewood from house to house. It wasn’t unpaid labor; in exchange I received daily provisions from the villagers, a satisfying trade.
The old man’s brutal trials continued. Whenever he had the chance he pushed me from cliffs, threatening my life. Even after experiencing enough near-death moments to exhaust several lifetimes, I still did not receive an oracle.
“At this point shouldn’t we just give up…?”
It had been an absurd method from the start. If life-threatening danger alone could summon miracles, the world would have ended in a wave of suicides long ago. Of course the attempt was only possible because of the old man’s power, but regardless, I no longer wanted to fall.
“Hm……”
When I said that, the old man finally stopped shoving me off cliffs. After all, the night of the true ordeal was almost upon us. My diaphragm still ached.
Beneath the moon hanging over a peak of the Mite Mountain Range, I sat beside a grave and gazed at the night sky. I was alone. The old man who had been following me like a spectral roommate had, for once, not come along. Thanks to that I could enjoy the stars in peace for the first time in days.
While watching them I reflected on my recent life with the old man—especially the trials and the oracle.
Countless gods existed in the world, and those gods chose their own followers. Mortals had no say in the matter and could not even dare to hope. Being chosen by a god was glory in itself.
Yet after suffering the old man’s harsh trials, one particular deity came to mind, so I reached a hand toward the night sky.
Libra. The legacy left by the goddess of justice. If I received her oracle, if I could wield the power of the stars, perhaps I could find Grandmother’s star among the countless others.
With that faint hope I stretched out my fingers as if to grasp the stars, but only cold night air brushed my palm.
“Tsk.”
Embarrassed, I scratched the back of my head. The world was full of extraordinary people; why would any god bother choosing someone like me? I needed to know my place.
“Time to head home.”
I skillfully descended the familiar mountain path. In the distance the village lights twinkled faintly.
What’s going on?
Why were the lights on? Was it that old man again? At that rate the villagers would notice him. Anxiety quickened my steps.
When I finally reached the village the sense of wrongness I had felt swelled dramatically. The lights were bright enough to illuminate every outline of the houses, and the villagers were kneeling outside. Standing before them were cloaked figures. Their garments, similar to the old man’s, marked them as outsiders.
Sensing danger, I hid near the hut on the hill and watched.
“Speak the truth. Has an old man with brown hair and a beard come to this place?”
“We truly know nothing. Why would an old man come to such a harsh mountain village? I can’t even remember the last time an outsider visited.”
“An obvious lie. I can feel that bastard’s presence in this very village.”
I quickly grasped the situation. These were undoubtedly the chasers Prometheus had mentioned.
“So they’ve finally come.”
“Old sir?”
Prometheus appeared behind me. His face was deathly pale. Cold sweat beaded on his skin and he frowned as though in pain.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“It is a curse. The curse the gods carved into me.”
As he spoke, Prometheus pressed a hand to his right diaphragm.
“So it really is them?”
“They are the followers of the goddess Bia.”
Mages of Bia, deity of force and violence. These were the chasers who had come to carry out their lord’s will by pursuing Prometheus through bodies possessed by the god of violence.
“What do we do?”
“Discovery is only a matter of time. Gather only what you need and we leave at once.”
“What about the villagers?”
“They follow the god of violence. Their safety will be difficult to guarantee.”
“You want us to run away even though you know that?”
“If you wish to die with them, I will not stop you.”
Prometheus turned his back on the village and began to walk away. As I stood frozen between the village and the old man, a scream rang out. The followers of Bia, unsatisfied with the answers they received, had begun to practice violence in the name of torture.
I instinctively grabbed Prometheus. He stared down at my hand with deeply sunken eyes.
“What is it?”
“I can’t leave like this. Take responsibility.”
“Are you saying you’ll hand me over?”
“No. I’ve never considered that.”
“Then will you risk your life to fight them?”
“That’s……”
If I placed a hand over my heart and asked whether I liked the villagers, I would answer no. No one knew better than I how they treated me—like a convenient errand boy, nothing more and nothing less.
But pretending not to see them was another matter entirely. I hated the thought of innocent people suffering, and every one of them carried memories of Grandmother. They were people who remembered that she had existed in this world. If they all died and became stars together, wouldn’t Grandmother grieve? A meteor shower might fall.
I might want to see a meteor shower, but setting aside such twisted wishes, I hoped at least a few more people who remembered Grandmother would remain.
“Captain, there’s a house on that hill as well.”
“He may be hiding there. Go and check.”
The chasers had noticed the hut on the hill. Time was running out. I spun my normally unused brain at full speed.
“I have a plan. Follow me this way.”