Three "Prophets"

"What a magnificent rain..."

Tom spread his arms and let the castle's decorations come crashing down over his head. It was impossible to tell whether he meant the collapsing castle or the lava raging like a meteor shower.

The bricks and stones in the walls let out dying groans. The stone walls collapsed, revealing the whole island. Unlike the hellish sight Tom had witnessed when he first arrived, this place was instead shaded by green trees. Along the two rib-like rows of mountains stood unique houses in the styles of many lands, packed close together, with people coming and going in a bustling crowd. If Pythia had been here, she would certainly have recognized how much this island resembled the lone island where they had landed after the shipwreck all those years ago.

But it had long since been destroyed in a volcanic eruption, like a dream, and Herpo the Foul, who had finally found something to lean on, had once again become that displaced slave, living each day in constant fear.

Herpo the Foul had actually built a homeland on Sicily, made up of his servants and astonishingly similar to that dreamlike island. This was the last softness left in the depths of his heart, yet now it had shattered once more in a volcanic eruption just like the one many years ago.

That apple was still clutched in Herpo the Foul's hand. Its sweet fragrance mingled with the smell of rancid wine, forming an unacceptable sweetness, and mixed with the rich sulfurous stench brought by the volcanic ash, giving off a suffocating odor.

"It heralds the end of an age, the establishment of order!"

Tom's words and movements brimmed with emotion. At times he lowered his head and murmured softly, at times he declaimed at length; at times