(TLO) Chapter 169: A Single Decision (Patreon)

“Now, tell me, what did you tell my boy?” Russel Beltwich asked.

In front of him sat the famous oracle. The man wore one of those Hawaiian hats and a floral print shirt over cream colored shorts. He spotted a scattering of beards that cast his jaw in a mild shadow and listened to him with a lopsided grin that continued to annoy him.

“Have I suddenly become the government’s prisoner?” the oracle asked.

Russel frowned at the man’s bravado, his leathery face wrinkling more than it should.

Within the government there was a standing rumor that no one knew the man’s authority, not even the Barons. At silver, there was nothing he could do to gleam it. And he didn’t have the power to force it out of him. But while he had no power in soul mages, retired as he was, he had more than enough power within the government. The fact that he had the oracle sitting within an interrogation room was proof enough of it.

“Two years ago,” he said, doing his best to calm his voice, “you summoned my grandson, something you’ve never done with anybody. Whatever you told him when you met—whatever words were exchanged—remain a secret even till this day. He has told neither his father nor me.”

“And you came to me a week after,” the oracle said absently, picking at his nails.

“And I came to you. And what did you tell me?”

“Do remind me former Senator.”

Russel clenched his teeth, controlling his anger. Whatever the oracle had told Nosam had led the boy on a strange killing spree. It wasn’t anything unsanctioned but it was unnecessary. He killed when he could’ve handled the situation differently. Worse, he killed only Iron mages, even now that he was silver.

“You told me that for the sake of my boy it had to remain a secret until he was well and truly within the world crack,” he answered. “He’s been in there for more than eight days now. I think its time you tell me.”

The oracle nodded. “I think so, too.” He leaned forward and placed shackled hands on the table as if to emphasize them. “Your boy plays a momentous part in every timeline,” he said. “Greatly momentous. And it all leads down to a single point. A single decision. One he has to make without knowing that’s it.”

“I don’t care about what place he plays in your future,” Russel snapped. “I care about why he’s taken to killing people as if it’ll help him evolve.”

“That part’s simple. He needs to make sure all the Irons he kills actually stay dead. I informed him that if he wished to remain alive and grow significantly powerful, he needed to make sure than all the Irons he kills stay dead.”

“What the hell kind of prophecy is that?!”

The oracle shrugged. “If he kills an Iron and doesn’t do it properly, he won’t survive the crack. I guess rather than staying away from killing in total, he chose to make sure he knew how to make sure they stayed dead. Creepy.”

“But that’s not the prophecy, is it? You promised me you’ll tell me once they’re inside the crack.” Russel struck the table in growing anger. “Now, speak!”

The oracle looked at him as if he was a child throwing an unnecessary tantrum. He adjusted his place on his seat and leaned back. “Alright, old man. I’ll tell you. ‘Within a bloodied world, send no Iron steel away from this world without certainty of no return. For not all iron rusts, and its return would be worse than its departure.’”

Russel frowned at the man. He knew enough about the man to know that he riddled his prophecies by choice. Simply explaining its meaning was something he could easily do. When asked why he didn’t, his response had been: where’s the fun in that?

“So you sent my son of with a half-assed prophecy beyond understanding and left him killing Iron mages.”

“That one’s on him. I told him to make sure anyone he kills stay dead.” He paused. “Then again, it’s not like the prophecy actually addressed killing anybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“It spoke of sending Iron steel away from the world. Your son was right to assume it meant killing an Iron mage but he could’ve just stayed away from killing any iron mage. Your son’s killing spree is not on me. It was one path of two that he chose to follow.”

“And what happens if he fails to uphold his path?”

The oracle leaned his hair back and stared up at the silver colored ceiling. “I do not care.”

“You do not—”

“Do not misunderstand me, former Senator Russel Beltwich,” the oracle said in a cold voice. “The future I gave your son is not his. He simply plays a part in it. It is the future of this world. Your son is merely a passing character in this story. It is not his.”

The way he said it told Russel all he needed to know. He rose from his chair and walked away. At the door, the oracle stopped him.

“Seeing as you remain a grandfather, I’ll give you one piece of the future I never gave your boy. Should he fail, the world will break again, and this time, he will break with it.”

Russel opened the door and stepped outside. Now, he had to help his son begin the grieving process. After all, he knew Nosam well enough to know he had a higher chance of failure.

……………………………………………..

Nosam stood with his team of eighteen silvers. He’d insisted that twelve would be more than enough to handle the young priests but Nanabara had insisted he take eighteen this time, after his last failure to wipe them out.

So now, standing before all six priests, he taunted and goaded them. He did this not for himself but for his team. The oracle had already assured him of his continued evolution as long as all the Iron mages he sent from the world did not return. So each time he’d killed an iron mage, he’d gone over and beyond to ensure the person stayed dead.

Mocking the priests was the make them angry, and angry men made mistakes. But when the weakest of them, the mastermind, had spoken, his knowledge of his name had sent him into a mild panic.

A frown marred his face as he asked, “Do I know you?”

The priest opened his mouth to speak but didn’t. He seemed unsure of something, bothered.

“Too scared to talk?” he goaded, hoping his priestly pride would force him to speak.

While the same priest didn’t speak, another spoke in his stead.

“Not to spoil your fun,” a priest with hair the color of wheat said, “But we really don’t have to do this.”

This one he found hilarious and he laughed with enough noise to fill a tavern. A priest begging. Am I hearing this right?” he asked, turning to his colleagues. “Is a priest begging? You hear this, right?”

The wheat blonde priest let out a sigh. “We’re not—” he began, only to be silenced by another that cuffed him behind the head.

“This isn’t the time to talk too much,” the one who cuffed him said. He was a ginger with a squared jaw and amber eyes. And he watched them like a king watching his rebellious subjects.

The blonde priest frowned but obeyed, keeping his silence.

Then the priest that recognized him, the one with the night black hair with a smattering of brown, and silver eyes spoke again in a mumble.

“And what would you have me do?” he asked.

“Nothing, really,” Nosam said. All he needed from them was to die. As much as he hoped they wouldn’t put up a fight, he knew they would. But all he had to watch out for were the two large priests. The boy that knew his name was only a threat by thought. He’d watched his fight with Angel before the gold her killed her and knew he wasn’t a physical or magical threat in anyway.

As if affronted at the thought of not being a threat, the priest activated a skill.

[Heart of Winter]

He felt nothing change. There was no change in the ambient reia around them, and nothing happened. The only skills that didn’t do much to affect the reia in the atmosphere were mostly self applied skills. And these were usually skills used by close combat mages and tanks. And, as small as the boy was, he looked nothing like a tank.

“What’s that?” Nosam asked, smug. “A self applied skill?” he cocked his head to the side giving the illusion of thought. “You don’t look much like a tank to me, midget.”

His smugness remained on his face even as he realized something different in the young priest. Just as he’d done to Angel all of a sudden those days ago, the priest ignored Nosam and looked around him, taking note of his entire team.

It worried him slightly but he kept his composure. Then the boy priest activated another skill. This time, it was so quiet he didn’t hear it. And to his greatest surprise, the sheathed his weapons and stood unarmed. In a desire to uphold his bluster and uplift the spirits of his colleagues he laughed at the priest.

“A swordsman who won’t use his sword,” he laughed. “Hilarious.”

But judging from the faces of the other priests, the action surprised them more than it seemed to surprise his colleagues. It birthed a question in his mind. What’s happening right now?

The priest’s stance parted slightly, the toes of one foot inches ahead of the other so that they focused on him. Anyone with combat training knew the feet revealed the position of attack. Then the priest raised his arms in front of him and took a stance with open hands.

As terrifying as it was to watch a priest relinquish the use of his weapons to fight unarmed was, what truly took Nosam by the spine and squeezed was the detached impassivity in the priest’s face. It was devoid of anything. It was the face of a man that did what he was about to do for no more reason than the acceptance that it was inevitable. In this moment, Nosam realized that though the oracle had told him his evolution would continue on for years, he’d never said it would be in one piece.

The realization instilled a touch of fear in him. He now had three priests to worry about. It annoyed him to no limit.

“And what exactly--”

“You’ve made one miscalculation, Nosam…” the priest interrupted him, using his name in a way that continued to grate at him, then disappeared in a blur of motion.

Nosam wondered what had happened when someone fell to his side, hit the ground with a thud. He turned and found Mahmood lying motionless on the ground.

He looked to his fallen comrade, a tank with especially tough skin, and found the priest standing there, unable to figure out how he’d done it.

The priest turned to him with the same detached expression, and while Nosam took solace in finding the boy’s hands broken, it was taken from him as he watched them heal with the most unnatural speed. The priest’s expression remained empty, but his eyes seemed to look down on all of them. When he spoke again, it was in conclusion of the words before.

“…I am not a swordsman,” he said. His face was empty but his voice had ice in it.