Ⅵ
Bette Territory, Bette City.
After seeing off their last customer, the couple who owned Smith's Tavern began closing up.
Mrs. Smith, who served as the bartender, was a slim, fairly tall young woman. Her hair was neatly combed back into a ponytail, exposing her broad forehead.
"Smith, put the stools away and wipe down the tables, then hurry upstairs-the fruit wine I brewed should be ready to taste."
Mr. Smith, who was busy working, froze at his wife's call.
Unlike the tall, slender Mrs. Smith, Mr. Smith was tall and stout, with thick arms and broad shoulders enough to make anyone think twice.
In fact, when Smith's Tavern first opened, the street thugs had all experienced what it meant to be put to sleep with a single punch, dropping straight to the floor.
After Mr. Smith took on ten men at once, peace settled over Smith's Tavern.
But even Mr. Smith, who could fight ten men at once, felt his lower back ache when he heard his wife's hint.
Was this really about fruit wine?
This was about bringing me to my knees!
Just as Mr. Smith tried to fob his wife off with the feeble excuse, "I'm too tired today. Let me owe you one," a vision suddenly flashed before his eyes.
The vision vanished in an instant.
But Mr. Smith had already seen that one of his few remaining... no, one of the rare believers who still worshipped him in this day and age had died.
To be precise, the believer had been sacrificed.
Sacrificed to someone else.
That fellow was extremely cautious and had obscured his sight, preventing him from getting a clear look.
Still, that did not stop him from breathing a sigh of relief.
That fellow did not want to be discovered.
Neither did