If those gods of heaven and earth were the ones who'd yanked me into this unforgiving world, I'd unload a whole harvest of curses on them just to even the scales—but for now, I've carved out a niche, adapting with the stubborn grit that's kept me breathing. It's not luxury, but it's steady enough: a shop that pays the rent, a routine that dulls the edges of homesickness.
Surely a war won't erupt across the entire Central Plains, right?
The thought flickered like a bad omen, but I shoved it down. If chaos did swallow the land, I'd scramble for an exit—some hidden path or desperate gambit—but for the moment, it felt like distant thunder, not worth the fret. What demanded my focus was the cloaked woman across the table, her presence a quiet storm in the incense-dim room.
"Hmm..."
Let me pause here to unravel how I weave these fortunes for the living. When a reading calls, I tap into the heavens' vast energy or skim the edges of some cosmic ledger—a revelation that floods in like starlight through cracks. Then comes the translation: distilling the ethereal into words a mortal can grasp. That's where the thorns dig in.
The notion of "leaking heaven's secrets" is a capricious beast, arbitrary as a gambler's dice, hinging on the whims of those aloof divinities. Instinct guides me—"This much is safe; beyond lies peril"—but without a fixed compass, it drains like blood from a fresh cut. Customers grumble sometimes: Why lavish details on that merchant but feed me shadows? And the old line about the heavens' fairness? Pure drivel, a balm for the naive.
In my sight, the heavens tilt like a rigged scale—the most partial arbiters imaginable. Every so often, though, I encounter souls they plainly adore: threads of fate rich with silver linings, barriers to disclosure lax enough to let good tidings flow free. Unfettered, I can paint their tomorrows in broad, hopeful strokes.
Among everyone I've glimpsed so far, Tang Ayeon might qualify—blessed in ways that make the rest of us envious.
I mention this now because the woman before me radiated that same celestial favor, her aura a golden haze that loosened the gods' grip just a fraction.
...
...
"Do you perhaps have someone you hold in your heart often?"
"...What?"
"Oh, there might be a misunderstanding," I clarified, catching the faint crease of her brow beneath the hood. "Not a romantic rival—literally a person. Someone who lingers in your thoughts, whom you care for deeply."
"Hmm..."
The Sword Empress let the words settle, her mind drifting to a silhouette etched in memory's steel. If one soul haunted her days and shadowed her nights, it was the Heavenly Demon—his image unbidden during sword forms, meditations, even the quiet lulls of rest. She fretted over the Huashan elders too, of course, those steadfast pillars of her sect. But since beholding his transcendent might, not a dawn had broken without her weighing his shadow against the world's fragile peace.
"There is."
"That person will take something precious from you."
"...!!"
The pronouncement landed like a blade's chill kiss. For the Heavenly Demon to claim something dear? Her thoughts snapped to the inevitable: the Central Plains rent asunder, Huashan's peaks besieged by demonic fury.
Tremble tremble.
The mere whisper of it chilled her to the marrow. She'd forged her body and blade in endless seclusion precisely to bar that door—yet here he spoke it plain, as if naming tomorrow's weather.
...No. Not yet.
Too soon for dread's full embrace. It might not tether to the Demon or her sect at all. He hadn't named names, after all—fate's veil still draped thick.
"...What will they take from me?"
"Hm... something akin to your life, you could say. Like a lifelong companion?"
"..."
A piece of her essence, then—a constant, irreplaceable. Huashan itself, the mountain that had birthed her steel? Or her sword, that faithful extension of will, sundered in the clash she'd long steeled herself to face?
The latter she'd welcome, grim as it loomed. Her heart had braced for that duel years ago; better to shatter on his edge than watch her home crumble. Even in defeat, the Central Plains—Huashan—would endure, a bastion unbowed.
...But what if it's the former? Or both?
The possibilities coiled like smoke, acrid and unyielding.
"...Are your readings usually accurate?"
"I get things wrong plenty," I admitted, the mask muffling a sigh, "but... about eight out of ten times, they're on the mark."
Eight in ten. A strike rate that demanded reckoning. She couldn't surrender full faith to this shrouded seer, yet his renown echoed true— a rare hand attuned to the heavens' subtle pulse.
"Personally, I'd advise you..." I leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial thread. "Fate isn't forged in iron. The gods of heaven and earth always spin alternatives, branches unseen. And from what I sense... this is a path you can absolutely avert. If you pour in the effort."
"...How do I do that?"
"Hm... you need to focus more on yourself."
"Hm..."
The words lingered, a quiet directive. She'd redouble her vigil, then—plunge deeper into the forge of training, honing blade and spirit until no shadow could eclipse her light.
...
...
"Wow, I basically recited it verbatim."
What a rare gem of a customer. With the Eight Trigrams, visions come in shards, not tapestries—jagged hints that demand careful stitching, all while dodging heaven's jealous barbs. But for her? The floodgates yawned wide, secrets spilling with minimal restraint. A luxury I hadn't savored in ages.
She must be loved by the heavens.
What deeds had she sown in past lives to earn such indulgent grace from those finicky arbiters? The gods played favorites like jealous lovers, doling clarity to the worthy few.
She's definitely got some serious karma going for her.
She thanked me with a murmur—polite, unadorned—and pressed a silver ingot into my palm before gliding out, the door sighing shut in her wake. Something akin had unfolded a month back, I dimly recalled, though the details blurred like morning mist. No matter; coin was coin, warm and weighty in the hand. Who dissected a gift horse's teeth?
It's probably no big deal.
By the way, I should probably start messing with this.
My fingers wandered to the pocket's depths, closing around a fist-sized orb—smooth as river stone, cool against my skin. Master's cherished bead, pilfered on a whim before I fled the peaks. She'd miss it little in her endless seclusion; better it gather dust in the wilds than a forgotten drawer. Tools begged for use, after all—idleness was the true thief.
The snag? It eluded me, stubborn as a locked cipher.
I can mix its energy into my fortune-telling to some extent.
I'd watched her wield it like an extension of will: coaxing visions, bending fates with a flick. She'd even plumbed my threads through it once, unraveling the knots of my shattered dantian.
So at the very least, it serves readings...
Yet when I funneled qi into its heart, it slumbered on, inert as carved jade. Think back—how did Master wield it for mine?
Oh, right. My hair.
A single strand, laid reverent upon its surface, had ignited the glow. Then maybe if I use mine...
The memory guided me: plucking a lock, draping it across the bead's crown. Still—nothing. No hum, no shimmer.
...Does it not work for the caster?
It tracked; a seer's gaze bent crooked on their own reflection, fate's mirror ever fogged. Snagging a stray hair from the shop's floor tempted—a vagrant soul's echo—but the thought curdled, too intimate, too unclean.
Then the sole candidate nearby, the one whose strands I'd trust...
...There's only one.
I'd broach it with her later. Tang Ayeon wouldn't balk at a harmless tuft, not for curiosity's sake.