Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
The radio crackles. Then, the announcer's distorted voice cuts through the static.
"A terrible quiet has fallen over thousands of people."
"Yesterday morning, authorities from both the police and the church made a joint announcement: the former Pontiff had been laid to rest in a private, secret ceremony."
"However, that official statement was contradicted in the afternoon by eyewitness accounts placing the former Pontiff alive within the central tower."
"And as it turns out... they were right. The former Pontiff Ishmael—or, perhaps we should say, the Pontiff Ishmael, who was still alive as of yesterday evening—did reappear before the public. But the manner of her return... was horrifying."
"Last evening, onlookers watched as the transparent elevator descended, but it was not a normal descent. The car was filled with blood. Inside this 'fish tank,' as some are calling it, was Ishmael, collapsed, suffering from a severe wound to her neck."
"Even more notably, there was another passenger in that elevator, who emerged completely unscathed: [player name], a member of the Inspectorate General of Kerentos. [player name] has now been named a suspect in this homicide attempt and is in police custody."
"At the scene, Pontiff Ishmael was confirmed to be in critical condition and was rushed to emergency care. Currently, she remains in a life-threatening condition."
You raise a hand from the corner of the cell, pointing at the radio.
You buying any of that?
Your fellow inmate, a man thrown in for robbery, scowls and shoots a mocking glance toward the cell's reigning kingpin.
Not a word. This one's in here for something way heavier than my rap. I can smell it. Hey, you're the one who did it, aren't you?
Working with that assassin... what's her name... "Lesti"? It's all over the news. Hell, everyone in Thebesia knows that name.
Funny thing is, soon as they tossed you in a cell, the people hit the streets, saying that the whole "assassination" was a scam. That the Pontiff faked it to dodge a trial. They're saying we've got no right to send troops into Kerentos.
And it's not even these "well-meaning peace activists." Everyone's screaming at the government, demanding proof she's even alive. Real-time medical updates, can you believe it? The whole nation's about to tear itself apart.
Lesti's Kerentosian. And so are you. You're in on it together. Typical Kerentosians, always playing your little games.
Pfft. You think the boss was paying you a compliment? Dream on. Even if you could prove they wanted a war before the assassination... nobody who matters would care. Especially not the Thebesians who've been itching for a fight.
A wanderer's struggles in Thebesia are truly inescapable, even behind prison walls.
You stop explaining. Your glance flicks to the "tentacles" being eagerly twirled between the two inmates' fingers, then you lift your head to resume listening to the radio broadcast.
Don't get so high and mighty. You know what I did? I killed a useless apprentice in my shop.
But you? You're in here with me. And
The radio drones on with updates: protests, strikes, and warnings for citizens to stay indoors and avoid the commotion. Security forces, it announces, have been deployed to maintain order.
Areas affected by protests and strikes include the southeastern region, southern transit lines... advised to exercise caution...
But the signal wavers into a burst of static, and then a different, more familiar voice cuts through. It recaptures your attention, pulling your wandering mind sharply back to the reality of the cell.
But I overheard the warden today. Said all those charges against the Pontiff... they're legit. She really did fake her death. Made the entire police force look like complete fools. They're furious.
I knew it! I always said that Pontiff made a deal with the devil! Probably funded her whole escape with our taxes. Got shot for real this time? Good. Let's hope it sticks.
Hey, Kerentosian! You better be sure you put that idiot Pontiff down for good with your one shot. Might be the only decent thing you've ever done for Thebesia! Hahahaha...
Listen, he's talking to you.
Well, did you put the Pontiff down for good with your one shot? Don't feel like answering?
Silent as a shadow, a woman in a long robe materializes in the prison corridor. Her gaze, sharp and intent, finds you through the iron bars.
At the same moment, the radio broadcasting their "little entertainment" dies with a final crackle. The two cellmates, robbed of their distraction, stare in confusion at its silent antenna.
You are on your feet in an instant, drawn to the bars.
Apparently not.
A familiar smile curves beneath the visitor's hood. Without a word, she signals the guard behind her to release the poor Kerentosian.
Let's go. As I said, just follow me and stay by my side.
As the restraints fall from your wrists, you exhale a deep breath. Following her out, you work the stiffness from your joints, your gaze fixed on the back of this "all-powerful" Pontiff with a tumult of conflicting emotions.
Her "infamy" is now legendary, a fact known to all, yet she did take the "bullet" for you.
You still have doubts.
Perhaps she truly can read minds, as she once again sees right through you.
Which "this" do you mean? My death? The attempt on your life? The attempted invasion of Kerentos? Or the fact that everything in this world is slowly falling into chaos?
She has already led you to the prison's exit when, hearing your response, she turns back. Her gaze holds you.
The one responsible for all of it? It's simple: the "law of this world."
With a push, the prison door swings open, flooding the dimness with a sunlight that feels entirely new. Though its absence was brief, it fills you with the gratitude of rebirth.
A genuine smile touches the Pontiff's lips. In your words, she finally feels it: trust, reliance, and the simple, solid weight of her own name.
Standing framed in the light, she throws open her robe. With a magician's grace, she flicks her sleeve, and the paulownia wood die, still stained with a single drop of blood, appears between her fingers again.
It would be my pleasure, my dear Gray Raven.
Ishmael extends her hand. She guides you, reborn, into the chaos of the bustling streets, into the river of flowing traffic, back into the raw, true reality of the world.
The world's law is not easily grasped. Do you remember the gears beneath the dome, where you found me? Those were one reflection of how this world functions, a physical echo of its law.
But more simply... every "surface" you touch, every day you live—they, too, are expressions of the same law.
Here. Let me show you with this die.
At the crossroads nearest the prison, she casts the die. After a brief moment, it comes to rest, showing the number "10."
"10." Equality. Balance. Perfect harmony between giving and taking.
The die rattles, a sound that meshes perfectly with the turning gears in your mind, and at that precise instant, two carriages hurtle from opposite directions, veering on a collision course.
Watch where you're going! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!
Aaah! Get out of the way!
They jerk to a halt with a teeth-grinding shriek of wood and metal, nearly entangled. Two well-dressed figures alight, the "tendrils" at their fingertips twitching with fury.
Look what you did! You cracked the hub on my left wheel! How am I supposed to make my train now?
Oh, and I suppose you're the only one with someplace to be? If you're in that much of a hurry, maybe you should've taken a motorcar! You've gone and broken my right wheel!
A crowd swiftly gathers, buzzing with pointed fingers and gossip. Yet many others, seemingly numb to the chronic accidents of this crossroads, merely shake their heads and continue on their way.
A small hand tugs at Ishmael's sleeve. A child stands there, opening his palm to reveal a single silver coin, a slender "tendril" coiled around it.
Ma'am, did you drop this? I found it for you.
That is a very kind thing to do, child. But this isn't my money. The police station is just ahead. You can turn it in there.
The moment the child darts away, Ishmael's hand flicks out, rolling the die once more.
It tumbles to a stop, showing "11" this time.
"11." A slight imbalance. A small loss... and a small gain.
HEY! That's not enough! Stop! Thief! Somebody stop him!!
A man clutching a long loaf of bread barrels through the crowd, gawking at the carriage accident, his escape punctuated by startled cries.
Clatter, clatter.
Die roll: "20." A man reading a newspaper by the roadside suddenly bursts into ecstatic laughter, clenching his fists. Victory is finally, undeniably his.
Die roll: "15." A newsboy shouts headlines into the din. Passersby stuff coins into his palm, snatching papers. Thanks to the war between Thebesia and Kerentos, he's reaping his biggest profit of the quarter.
Die roll: "2." A man who lost everything at the horse races sobs on the street corner, head in his hands. His ring, his hat, even his bow tie—all will be forfeit.
The "tendrils" extending from everyone's fingertips seem to writhe infinitely, a forest of marionette strings dancing under the sun's indifferent gaze.
Die roll: "1."
The two of you arrive at the police station steps, where an unexpected figure sits waiting.
Sob... Sob...
It is Lesti. The young woman who once genuinely tried to assassinate Ishmael has been released. Compared to her previous notoriety, she is now a ghost, stripped of the infamy the assassination attempt bestowed.
Public attention has pivoted entirely to the sensational new "[player name] attempted murder case" caught on camera. Lesti is already forgotten.
She looks no different from any other Kerentosian girl, simply sitting with a newspaper, reading about the war ravaging her homeland.
"Yesterday evening, Thebesian forces massed outside the capital of Kerentos..." No. No, no, no. This isn't possible. It's too soon...
...God, she's gone! The Pontiff is GONE! Why is it all still falling apart... What is wrong with this world?!
Tears stream down her face for her homeland, but her true anguish is a deeper, more private torment: her own crushing powerlessness.
Before her, a massive protest march floods the street, a human tide whose scale and fury rival the Thebesian army itself.
Stop the war! Stop spending our money on war!
Stop the war! Kerentos is not our enemy!
Don't open fire! Don't open fire! Don't open fire!
They thrust red and white signs high into the air, the placards emblazoned with bold, defiant slogans. A few even bear the script of Kerentos.
Don't fire... don't kill my people... Please, God... someone... have mercy on Kerentos... What do I do? What else can I do?! Tell me what to do... please... just tell me...
Ishmael comes to a halt beside Lesti, tucking away the die.
Showing you all this... it should be enough. Can you hear it now?
This is the world as I perceive it. Gears mesh with perfect precision; dice tumble in infinite variation. All things are drawn into a dance of "order" and "chaos," ascending in an endless spiral.
Her fingertip brushes lightly against your ear. Suddenly, the relentless cacophony of grinding gears and rattling dice floods your mind, a phantom echo that refuses to fade.
This is the law that governs this world.
And it's these very gears and dice that weave together the sound unique to this land... to "Thebesia".
Ishmael leans in, her face close to yours. With a soft exhalation, the phantom sounds multiply, swarming like insects inside your skull.
Listen. It's like a pot about to boil over. Simmering... frothing... steaming... ready to erupt at any moment.
And when it does, what will follow? A war that claims millions across two nations? Or something closer to self-destruction?
The roars of protesters, Lesti's sobs, the screech of carriage wheels... countless sounds fuse into a single, overwhelming symphony.
This is the fourth movement, its tempo accelerating to a frantic allegro. It pours brilliant, manic energy into the crowd, a harbinger of explosion they are too immersed to hear, a sign that everything is teetering on the brink.
You, the symphony's only conscious listener, feel the vibration deep in your eardrums, a resonance that aches in the very bones of your skull. Goosebumps flash across your skin. A primal instinct screams to cover your ears, to escape this crushing cacophony.
Your own heart, once again, clenches in a violent spasm, triggering a fit of ill-timed coughing.
And the moment you glimpse the "law of the world" thrumming beneath the chaos, your mind immediately begins racing for a solution.
...I see you have quite high expectations of my power. Have I truly become so reliable in your eyes after just a couple brief encounters?
But I'm afraid faith cannot restrain a frenzied crowd. And I... cannot offer that kind of salvation either. In fact, the opposite may be true.
If you don't understand, look around you. The answer is already here.
Ishmael gestures toward the dejected form of Lesti, huddled on the steps.
The weeping young woman raises her head, the numerous "tendrils" on her fingers writhing like startled serpents with the motion.
Before her stands Pontiff Ishmael—the woman she personally assassinated—and you, the new assassin recently splashed across the headlines. Neither of you attempts to disguise your appearance, yet the stream of passersby flows around you without a single glance, as if you were utterly invisible.
The mere sight seizes every muscle in Lesti's body with electric tension. Her hand flies to her pocket, no knife, but she scrambles up from the steps anyway, stepping back with her body coiled and hunched like a bristling cat cornered.
You're alive after all... No... you should be dead! Why aren't you dead?!
And you...! Weren't you locked up? Where did you come from?!
...The truth eludes you. You see the flame of hatred, but you aren't ready to hold its heat.
Yes, Thebesia won. For warmongers like you, I was the perfect catalyst, walking right into your trap. I see that now.
You see a fraction of the truth, and that fraction has become your new cage. Your life was never meant to be confined like this.
Even if I'm consumed by hatred forever, even if my homeland burns and my friends die, I won't stop fighting. If I killed you once, I can do it again. If I can fight back once, Kerentos will fight back a thousand times.
Lesti's teeth grind with pure rage. Yet the life of the street—the bustling traffic, the flowing crowd—continues utterly uninterrupted, wholly oblivious to the confrontation unfolding on the steps, as if an unseen force shields it from their perception.
Ishmael lets out a soft sigh.
What I mean is... you've hated the wrong person. Killed the wrong person, child.
The ones who sent you to kill me wanted a reason for war. You were just a pawn in their game. Everyone—even themselves, even me—we are all pieces.
Don't play the victim! You don't deserve anyone's pity!
Indeed. Using faith for political gain is an old tactic. I've been prepared since the day they named me Pontiff.
And sure enough, the moment I dared oppose those in power, my "disobedience" turned me into "the Pontiff of deplorable deeds."
The madness lives in this nation, in its people, in everyone you see on this street. But have you considered this? Perhaps... I alone am free of it.
Lesti lifts her head, teeth clenched in fury.
...Don't tell me you were against the war. I won't fall for your lies...
But you already knew, didn't you? After you "killed me," you went through every document in my study. I still remember the look on your face as you read.
...You...
Lesti jerks her head away, desperately resisting the truth.
Look at me, child. Lift your head.
...I...
I did search your things. I... saw the documents. Your arguments against the war.
But something in me... I didn't want to see it. Couldn't accept it. I only wanted to listen to the voice in my head... I...
She never regrets her
Ishmael listens, patient and unmoving, as Lesti struggles to untangle her own thoughts. A full five minutes pass before the young woman, trembling, finally gives voice to the truth.
Back then... even now... I think I need someone to hate.
...Later I saw it, too. How they blamed your "disobedience," pinned every crime on you, let everyone spit on your name after you died... But so what? Am I supposed to apologize to you now?
Ishmael's silence continues, an invitation to go on.
Lesti hesitantly raises her head. Her gaze shifts to you beside Ishmael. She's clearly seen the recent news.
Don't tell me you... even you, the "new assassin," are also...
Lesti's intense stare fixes on the two figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder before her. Finally, she bows her head in a deep, conceding gesture.
...I screwed up.
But... I'm sorry. I can't... I can't bring myself to apologize.
Ishmael extends her hand. With a merciful and generous touch, she draws forth every last tendril from Lesti's fingers.
A momentary vacancy clouds Lesti's eyes before the light swiftly returns.
I have removed the "guidance" the world imposed upon you. You are unburdened now.
—You have been cleansed.
Why abandon your curiosity and courage now? The next time you face a choice, you must hold fast to it. Once the current takes you, it will be too late.
Go now. Converge the "guidance" you have scattered. Help restore balance to this world.
Lesti feels her very soul unravel, the tension draining from her body as she nearly goes slack and collapses to the ground.
Gazing up into the pink-white light, her vision is clearer than it has ever been. In this instant, she glimpses the true meaning of "devotion."
Pontiff... if I become your follower, if I devote myself to you, could you...?
—I forgive you. Your sins are absolved. But I need neither your devotion nor your prayers. You are free.
Rise, child.
Clutching her newspaper, Lesti rubs her reddened eyes and turns to walk away, glancing back with every other step.
The young woman's path forward remains shrouded, but her true heart, at least, remains intact.
Ishmael turns at the perfect moment, her curious eyes studying your reaction. She has been doing this for days, always watching, as if examining a rare and fascinating specimen.
I suspect you wish to ask me again: what are the "tendrils" on people's hands? And why am I converging them?
Then perhaps this time, you could explain it to me.
Yes. In this world, the Pontiff is the voice of the Holy. When the Pontiff offers forgiveness to a young foreigner, that foreigner becomes a devout follower.
When the Pontiff blesses a guild organizer in a speech, that guild expands wildly, sometimes enough to fuel a political revolution.
...This is the power of "guidance" the world has given the Pontiff. Strong enough to stir revolutions or progress that sweep across nations.
In short... it is what you call "faith."
A force against which there is no defense. The most absolute authority over the human spirit.
Throughout history, faith has often led people deeper into the abyss.
...Indeed. Once again, I must express my admiration. You see clearly, and you are truly the one I've been waiting for.
There's no need to rush. And besides... since "guidance" does not sway you, it isn't my place to tell you what to do.
Once again, Ishmael places her finger over your heart.
Listen to your own heart. The answers you need are already there.
But before that... there is one last thing to settle. Something that concerns you directly.
In the finest hospital in Thebesia, a citadel of concentrated, advanced medical resources.
Ishmael sits beside you in the examination room on the hard wooden chairs. She watches, intent, as the doctor sketches on a sheet of paper, his pen quickly outlining the shape of a heart.
Patience, patience... I need to finish this drawing to properly explain what's going on.
The doctor doesn't even look up.
The clinic said it was "just a cold," but after reviewing your scans, it's actually...
Nervous?
She takes your hand in hers. A palpable warmth flows from her palm into you, a temporary solace for your heart with so uncertain a future.
Since it's your fate on the line, why not roll the die yourself?
You take the die, ignoring the droplet of Ishmael's blood that has seeped into the grain of the paulownia wood on the "1" face, and cast it across the smooth table.
It rattles twice before coming to a definitive stop.
The number "1," with its accusing crimson stain, mocks you once more.
...It seems the world has made its stance toward you quite clear.
There, all done! Would the patient like to step outside while I speak with your companion?
You may speak freely. There's no need for secrecy. I believe our patient is already prepared.
Alright then... This is your heart. Look here.
The doctor holds up his drawing, a remarkably detailed rendering of a human heart, and points decisively to its center with the tip of his pen.
Heart conditions vary. Some of the most common congenital defects involve... something missing.
Your heart is also missing a piece, but not like a typical septal defect... It's right here, in the center. The tissue, the valves... it's completely hollow.
He then makes a fist in front of the paper, as if gripping a core chunk of muscle, and quickly flings his hand away in a gesture of dismissal. That essential piece of flesh, the motion says, simply does not exist.
From what I can see, your body doesn't rely on your heart to circulate energy. If there are gods in this world... you must be sustained by divine power. After all, a heart this "independent and free"... this world simply wasn't made to accommodate it.
Cough... I'm sorry, I've never seen a case like this before.
Suddenly, the doctor coughs. His hands tremble as he removes his glasses. He stands to shake hands with you, his professional composure shattered as the "tendril" at his fingertip begins to spin with uncontrolled excitement.
Thank you... Thank you so much! You are the final patient of my medical career.
Seeing your heart... it was like a divine calling. I've finally found my resolution: to become a priest! Being a doctor won't save Thebesia, after all. Right?
Somehow, Ishmael has moved through the capital of Thebesia entirely unrecognized. She releases a soft sigh as she observes the gesticulating doctor and your complicated expression.
Shall we try another department? I know many excellent physicians.
Ishmael holds a profound accommodation for the needs of the dying. If you wished to walk, she would walk with you. If you desired to sit in the grass, she would stay by your side.
If silence was what you needed, then silence it would be. She welcomes your rare moment of melancholy.
It is not until the afternoon has nearly bled away—after a single flower-shaped cloud has journeyed across the entire breadth of the sky and vanished—that you finally find your voice.
...Excess can be cut away. But absence... is rare. And far harder to fill.
We could think it through together. Hmm... Many turn to faith when facing illness, something to anchor a lost soul. If you need that... I'm here. I will listen to your prayers.
I'm only offering a choice. Not to a god... but to me.
You look up at her pink-white eyes, and with a wry smile, offer a gentle quip.
You deserve truth. Nothing less.
You turn to face the sunset. Another evening, the same wash of pink and white across the sky. But today, the pink is faded, and the white seems pale and sickly.
As I said before, I can't read thoughts. I can only guess.
But if I were to guess... you're thinking of your three children back home?
You're wondering, "What happens to them if I die? Who will take care of them?"
"If Thebesia takes the capital of Kerentos... when will I see them again? They're only eight, but they'll be forced to flee to the countryside. If supplies run low... will they even have enough to eat? Oh God..."
For a time, yes. The war-fueled fervor would fade. This wave of fanaticism triggered by "guidance" would recede.
To be precise, I'm already doing it, converging those red threads you see... the "tendrils."
Mm... It's slow, though. We'd need to gather crowds. As Pontiff, it would be simple to call for a mass gathering. Unfortunately, that's no longer possible.
...Actually, I do have a viable solution, but...
Whether from the delirium of sickness or some trick of the clouds, you are certain you see the distant setting sun flicker.
Ah, we should lower our voices. It would be troublesome if the "world" hears us.
Then, a second event confirms it is no illusion: everyone on the lawn suddenly freezes. Conversations halt mid-sentence, hands pause in mid-air... the entire scene locks into a single, suspended second.
Just as suddenly, their heads snap toward your secluded corner. Their stares are vacant yet piercing, the red "tendrils" on their fingers stiffening like the raised hoods of snakes.
It seems you have truly understood and accepted the law of this world.
Then you must also understand that what you're planning is defiance on a grand scale against the entire "world." The path will be difficult. Your body will weaken further, until...
On the grass nearby, several figures rise with jerky, unnatural movements and begin to shuffle toward you.
A final cough racks your body as you struggle to calm the frantic, shattered heart that rages against the cage of your ribs. Then, your gaze finds Ishmael's, locking directly with her eyes.
...
I respect your choice completely, no matter what it is.
Across the lawn, more and more people join the stiffly moving crowd. This small cluster is merely the first warning, not as lethal as the "bullet" that pierced through the glass, but troublesome enough.
Don't worry. Someone is already coming for us.
Ishmael shifts her gaze slightly. In that instant, a carriage charges through the hospital entrance at full speed, plowing through everything in its path!
It hurtles straight onto the lawn, executing a near-impossible drift that grinds to a halt right before you. The driver yanks the reins savagely; the horse rears up on its hind legs, whinnying into the sky as a cloud of dust billows around it.
The fierce driver, a black-haired young girl, balances with one foot in the stirrup, leaning precariously out from her mount to thrust her hand toward Ishmael.
Hurry! The whole city's gone mad! The police and the media couldn't find you at the hospital or the prison, so they've turned everyone loose looking for you two!
The name's Etha, not "carriage driver"!
There's no time to explain! Get in, quick!
