Chapter 50: Whose Prophecy

"Twenty years ago." I repeated coldly, "'The King's daughter will be the end of the Rift.'"

"That's what the gods told me." He raised his voice, trying to overpower me with his momentum, "That was one of the most important prophecies I ever received—it was divine revelation!"

I looked at him coldly, completely unmoved by such nonsense.

"That hour you spent at the sermon today." I methodically stripped away his disguise, "You repeated the same rhetoric over and over again. Every passage was deliberately vague. Every passage allowed the audience to fill in whatever they wanted to hear. Every single one of your 'prophecies' is this kind of psychological game."

"In your rhetoric, you never commit yourself to anything specific."

"'The King's daughter will be the end of the Rift.' That sentence isn't your style. That sentence is specific to the point where it can't be more specific—no ambiguity, no escape route."

"That sentence wasn't yours. That sentence was something someone else made you say."

The Grand Prophet's expression changed dramatically again. This time he couldn't suppress it—fear flooded into his eyes like a tide.

He tried to stand up, his chair scraping harshly across the floor. Rendell strode over from the door, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword, and a sharp killing intent instantly locked onto him. Under Rendell's oppressive presence, the Grand Prophet's legs gave out and he collapsed heavily back into the chair.

"Who are you?" His voice trembled, "What do you want?"

"The source of that money," I said.

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"That's between me and the gods." He said, his tone shaking but still trying to maintain that sacred facade, "Those who blaspheme against the gods will be punished."

I drew the sword from my waist directly and pressed the tip steadily against the center of his throat. My hand was perfectly steady, not moving a fraction. I kept my face absolutely calm, like an emotionless killing machine.

"I'll ask one more time." I said, my voice as soft as death's whisper, "The source of the money."

The Grand Prophet's face turned deathly pale in that instant.

His entire body leaned desperately backward, trying to put more distance between himself and that lethal blade tip, until his back pressed tightly against the chair with nowhere left to retreat.

I let the sword tip follow him forward another inch, the cold metal sensation piercing through the fragile skin of his throat, drawing out a thin line of blood.

"Please," he said.

His voice no longer held any of the solemnity and majesty from the sermon. What emerged from beneath that stripped-away disguise was a kind of groveling and begging I'd seen in Aldenmere's court—the kind that certain corrupt officials displayed only after being exposed.

"Please," he said again, tears and mucus running together, "I'll tell you. I'll tell you."

"Twenty years ago," he gasped, speaking rapidly, "I was living in a run-down little shack then. I didn't have this mansion yet. I was just a street fortune-teller, making barely enough to get by."

"He came at night. Knocked on my window."

"He wore a long robe. He wore a mask. That mask was pure white, without any expression."

"He was glowing."

"I'd never seen that kind of light before. That light didn't come from a lamp, didn't come from fire. That light emanated naturally from his body—soft yet piercing."

I let myself pause at that description, my heart contracting sharply.

A person glowing with light.

An image immediately surfaced in my mind. It was the elf holding a baby that I'd seen in the meditation water. That elf had been glowing and wearing a mask too.

"What did he look like?" I pressed.

"I couldn't see his face." The Grand Prophet shook his head, "That mask stayed on the whole time."

"Height."

"Taller than me," he said, "Taller than most people."

"Limbs."

"Longer than normal people."

"Movement."

"Fluid," he said, fear of the memory showing in his eyes, "Like—like there was no air resistance."

My hand trembled slightly. This description further confirmed my suspicion.

It was the elf from my dream.

That elf had appeared in Aethon twenty years ago, found the Grand Prophet when he was still a street charlatan, gave him a fortune, and had him spread that prophecy across the entire continent.

That prophecy about "the King's daughter."

"How much money did he give you?"

"Enough to last me a lifetime," the Grand Prophet confessed truthfully, "As you can see, I used it all for, I used it all for business..."

"How did you spread it?"

"Starting the day after he gave me the money," he said, "I began holding small sermons. I began inserting that prophecy into every sermon. I began having that prophecy spread through merchants and mercenaries passing through Aethon. For two whole years, I spread that prophecy like a virus to every inhabited place on the continent."

"Did you ever regret it?"

"I don't know if that prophecy was true or false," he said with a mournful face, "I only know I took the money. I was just a mouthpiece."

I let myself look at him.

I withdrew the sword tip an inch from his throat, away from that bloody mark.

I was done. I had gotten all the information I needed. This man was just a greedy puppet—he had nothing more to give me.

The instant I was about to sheathe my sword, Rendell strode past me.

He drew his sword, the movement lightning-fast, without a moment's hesitation.

I didn't react in time.

Rendell's sword, with his astonishing speed, precisely pierced through the Grand Prophet's chest. The blade tip emerged from his back, accompanied by a spray of brilliant blood. In that instant, the Grand Prophet's mouth fell open, a "gurgling" sound emerging from his throat, his voice catching there. His eyes stared fixedly at Rendell, filled with disbelief.

It all happened so fast that I experienced a sense of unreality.

I watched as Rendell coldly withdrew the sword, bringing out a string of blood droplets.

The Grand Prophet slid down from the chair. His hands grasped futilely at the air, trying to catch the armrest but grasping nothing. His entire body slid heavily to the floor. Bright red blood began spreading rapidly across the floor, staining the expensive carpet.

Having done this, Rendell didn't look at me. He was pulling out a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, methodically wiping the blood from the blade with an expression as cold as if he were cleaning a piece of cutlery.

Only then did I react, steadying my breathing and suppressing the shock and anger rising in my chest.

"What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"