My Oracle Comes From Within

Isidore, holding the Soul-Calling Banner, crawled laboriously along the rugged ridge of Iron Peak Mountain. Through the Mask of the Departed, he witnessed the countless bloody slaughters that had unfolded around this peak.

A man with only half a face suddenly reached out a hand with two broken fingers, clawing from the mud to grab Isidore's ankle.

"#ααγ!"

The unintelligible language was filled with such hatred; countless eyes stared at the outsider who intended to bring wandering souls back to the mortal realm through a soul-calling ritual.

Swords, spears, and axes were aimed at every part of Isidore except for his mask.

He held high the banner of the Golden-Branch Giant Antlered Deer, painted in blood, and rebuked the spirits attempting to interfere with the ritual in a tone of majesty he could not have anticipated.

"Back down!"

The dead spirits, fearing the significance symbolized by that banner, retreated back into the mud, save for a few whose bodies were composed of dense ash and blood-flame—those spirits intent on driving the outsider away.

Isidore felt fear in his heart, but his footsteps continued to press forward. He knew this was a dangerous path, and the consequences of wearing this mask might be equally tragic.

But he was helpless... die now, or die later; he chose to die later.

He walked through the dust filled with iron sand, waving the Soul-Calling Banner, letting the roar of the wind catch the rough fabric to create a whistling sound that wandering souls could hear, while a long, sorrowful chant emerged from his lips.

"The stag that accompanied my life, the seed of pride, the child of sorrow.

When I chant of the suffering you have endured, please draw near.

Return, oh soul! Zagwell warrior chasing love in the Forgotten Grassland.

The Lady of Death, veiled in black gauze, her gaze calm, grants you the promise of eternal peace.

She brings tranquility to mortals, creating a valley for the suffering to dwell.

You, bearing the will to fight for the suffering, questioned the oracle of the Lady of Death...

Yet my blood kin, my soul Kas, your own glory regarding life, the sorrow of wearing the Oak Ring to defend your courage, has instead begun to chant the dirge of death.

Draw near, draw near, draw near, leave the canyon filled with the fragrance of Withered Roses, and return to my side..."

The soul-calling poem was something Isidore had improvised based on Morse's description; at the thought of the fate he was about to face, he felt endless sorrow in his heart.

The desolate and melodious tone of his chanting seemed to color everything, causing the restless spirits to slow their pace and listen to a sorrowful poem.

"Will he succeed..." Morse shook his head. The soul-calling ritual must be presided over by a shaman of the spirit path; the one wearing the Mask of the Departed must find the lost wandering soul among countless spirits.

This process was dangerous; many who attempted to perform the soul-calling ritual without authorization to step into the Yellow Springs ended up lost in death alongside their blood kin.

Some malicious spirits would also deliberately attack, and as far as Morse knew... quite a few of the Black Ember Tribe had died at the hands of the Zagwell Clan.

The Soul-Calling Banner was merely a protective tool; its crude manufacturing could only shield Isidore from the interference of some weak spirits, and it had no effect in guiding him to find the wandering soul.

Isidore could only attract the attention of the wandering soul and soothe the emotions of malicious spirits by chanting the soul-calling poem.

Seneya did not respond. She found a log, her claws dancing to kick up large amounts of wood shavings, carving the board into an arched mask.

Fresh blood dripped down again, staining the mask red. She held the mask and stared at Isidore, who was crawling laboriously between the peaks of Iron Peak Mountain, the red light in her eyes growing increasingly intense.

"Don't be foolish, we still have a chance... you know very well what the consequences are of wearing the Mask of the Departed!" Morse whispered a reminder, glancing at Kas, who was still in a deep sleep, and sighed inwardly.

Sigh, which eye of mine was blind back then to be fooled by this werewolf?

The red light in her eyes was not a stress reaction of beastly instinct, but rather the personality of another consciousness occupying her body—that personality had even split from the silly, cute Seneya into a distinct soul.

A scheming bitch, pretending to be weak and helpless to fool me...

The Ancestor stared at the red-eyed werewolf, already calculating how to lift the curse; he needed to ensure his descendant could walk that sacred path.

On the mountaintop, wreathed in the fragrance of Withered Roses, Kas, bound by thorny vines, slowly lifted his drooping eyelids. He had witnessed a dream he had experienced firsthand.

The bizarre perspective made it impossible for him to adapt; it was simultaneously seeing in the third person and doing in the first person, feeling that warm family life of the Her Tribe ten years later.

To dream was to insist that the dream originated from the brain's functional response, where memory unconsciously associated a coherent scene based on experience.

To see a dream was the concept of the Rishiman People—that it was something happening in another world.

"You truly have given me an unforgettable experience, Lady of Death." Kas took a deep breath, having already understood the cause of Tina's death.

Driven by multiple layers of madness, she had resolutely chosen suicide.

"Then what is your choice, Kas... you have learned the root of the tragic fate of Blackheart's daughters; their deaths have nothing to do with you."

"Yes, they firmly believed that even eternal suffering was full of glory. Seeing the dream, they believed this had already happened, discerning the oracle you revealed within it... but I still cannot accept their fate."

Lagrey strolled across the dead, silent earth, her tone as gentle as a mother's comfort: "You are seeking a reason from me, and I, too, am seeking a reason from you...

You deny the world after death, yet you worry that they, as the honor killings claimed, will suffer eternal punishment for failure.

You do not know them, and you have never understood anything about them other than their names. What is it that makes you willing to take actions that offend the gods for two unrelated, foolish children?"

Kas was silent for a long time. From the perspectives of morality, order, and self-interest... he knew his actions were superfluous.

But he had done it anyway.

He smiled contemptuously and retorted with the Lady of Death's own words:

"Yes... my honor, my dreams, my oracle, all tell me that I must do this."

"From where does your oracle come?" The Lady of Death's tone was indifferent, yet she paused slightly after hearing Kas's calm and firm reply.

"The moral imperative within my heart does not come from gods, nor from any invisible, intangible abstraction; it comes from the demands I place upon myself, from the pity that refuses to see two innocent girls suffer such a tragic fate!"

"Heh..." The Lady of Death chuckled, stroking Kas's face. Death covered his body like amniotic fluid, and he seemed on the verge of drowning in this tranquil void.

Lagrey's veil brushed against his cheek as she tilted her head to leave a cold, damp kiss:

"For the Rishiman People, there is no such thing as hallucinations, dreams, or oracles; they are all essentially the same thing—what is seen shall be believed, and what is believed shall be seen.

I shall forgive your offense for now, Kas, son of Malik Axe-Breaker."

The suffocating sensation of the giant serpent constricting him gradually faded. Knowing the hallucination was about to end, Kas reached out toward the Lady of Death:

"What of Tina and Delin's souls? And Isidore—he put on the Mask of the Departed..."

The chuckling Lady of Death elegantly folded her hands over her abdomen, stepped into the rippleless darkness, and vanished into the silence from whence she came.

Kas shook his head violently, only to find himself standing atop Iron Peak Mountain. Isidore, wearing the Mask of the Departed and holding the Soul-Calling Banner aloft, stared at him with flickering eyes.

His own wandering soul was still outside his body; to return, he had to tread, step by step, the Path of Soul-Summoning that Isidore had walked.

Stepping through the dust-choked air, the Barbarian patted Isidore's trembling shoulder: "You did well... not everyone has the courage to face a divine world head-on."