The Angry Miser

The madwoman's foolish eyes widened, as though her brain simply could not comprehend what the man before her was doing, nor understand why her good friend Salomon had put everything aside and was using that soul-piercing gaze to desperately penetrate the fog within her mind.

All he found was bluntness—cold, blunt simplicity, like a piece of pristine marble.

There was no damp filth hidden in the folds, only simple, direct thoughts. This poor woman's mind had been burned out, her soul thoroughly scoured by immense power, her personality ground into fine dust by vast truths. Salomon did not know what she had originally been like or what sort of character she had possessed. All he saw was dust covering marble, as though a slightly heavier breath could wipe it away.

She had become like this because of him. The thought made Salomon feel suffocated.

This woman had become what she was in order to convey certain information to him. If he gained this universe's support, then the madwoman would become his assistant, helping him interpret precognition and visions. He was furious—fury greater than anything he had felt when carrying out missions where he could not save everyone. Everyone he killed had earned their deaths; every sacrifice he chose had its reasons; every punishment he delivered was deserved.

Only this matter was different. This woman's existence constantly reminded him that if he failed to complete that great plan, anyone could become like her—a toy and tool of certain gods. He knew very well that this debt was on his head. He would take good care of her, because it was a debt he owed. He wanted to stay away from her not out of disgust, but despair—the despair of a fatalist facing fate. It was like scalding poison flowing through his