TPWTL 75

#75. No Answer, No Way Out.

The man facing death trembled and begged for his life, but soon he began to lash out desperately.

“I—if you kill me, divine punishment will fall! The gods will surely punish you! The Ancient God will never let you go!”

His shrieking sounded almost like mad ravings, yet it was enough to halt the woman who had been ready to end him.

Those who survived long in the underworld—like her, who thrived by feeding on the lives of others—were all sensitive to “misfortune.”

For people who lived doing dirty work, skill mattered, yes, but luck mattered even more.

That was why those in the underworld clung to their own rules—self-made taboos they believed would ward off bad luck.

The woman, for instance, never drank on rainy days, never accepted flowers from a child—things that might make outsiders tilt their heads in confusion, but rules she would never break.

And one of her taboos was precisely this…

Creak—

The rusted, groaning door swung open, and seeing the limp figure beyond it, the woman muttered irritably:

“Still alive? You’re stubborn as hell.”

At the end of her gaze lay a man who looked like a corpse, but wasn’t yet dead.

His lips were parched white, cracked from thirst, trembling as a hoarse whisper escaped them.

“Ugh… the god… will… punish you…”

“You bastard, even now!”

She lifted her leg to kick him, but the thought of touching him disgusted her, so instead her foot came down harshly on the filthy floor.

“Damn it… divine punishment, huh. Should’ve finished you off before you started spouting that crap.”

Mercy—pointless mercy, sparing him to let him speak his last words—had come back to bite her.

Annoyed, but also uneasy, she squatted down and looked at him with eyes full of reluctant dread.

“Here. Drink this.”

She nudged a prepared bowl of water toward him with her fingertips.

“Now tell me—which god is it that’s supposed to punish me?”

In truth, across the entire continent, “gods” and “temples” were no longer objects of faith, but more like community halls where people gathered to chat and share daily life.

The only times that felt remotely connected to the divine were annual rites at New Year or year’s end—but even those had become more like festivals than sacred rituals.

Sure, in the underworld some carried charms marked with divine symbols as talismans, but everyone knew it was only psychological comfort.

So what god was this man talking about, who would deal out punishment? She had no idea.

And not knowing made it all the more unsettling.

After all, wasn’t fear strongest when it was directed toward the unknown?

The man gulped down the water greedily, then rolled his fish-like eyes at her and spoke defiantly:

“Our ancestor made a pact with the Ancient God. As long as our blood flows through me, the god will protect me—and punish humans like you who try to harm me!”

Pathetically bound hand and foot, writhing on the floor as he spouted his threats, he was hardly intimidating. The woman sneered down at him.

“Sounds like your god must be really free, to bother protecting the likes of you. But tell me…”

She looked him up and down with mocking disdain.

“Isn’t your god’s protection looking a little lacking, judging by your current state?”

“That’s only because the sacrifice still lives—!”

He screamed suddenly, then froze, eyes wide, as if realizing he’d said too much. He shut his mouth tight.

The woman’s face crumpled like discarded paper.

“Damn it. A sacrifice? There’s a sacrifice involved too? You really are a cursed piece of work.”

Even with his lips sealed now, the single word he’d let slip—sacrifice—was enough to reveal the truth.

“This one really does need to be taken care of.”

But she asked no more about sacrifices or gods. She knew nothing good would come from digging deeper.

“Damn it, this is just going to cost me money.”

Deciding to let someone else deal with him, she stood up without hesitation.

Spitting on the ground, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving the man writhing behind her.

Time passed.

Creeeak.

With the groan of hinges, another figure entered, standing over the unconscious man sprawled on the floor. The newcomer sighed heavily.

“Gods, sacrifices… what the hell did I just overhear? Exactly what I didn’t want.”

Isaac pressed his aching temples, his fox-like eyes narrowing in pain.

“Find this child’s brother.”

The order had been given hours ago, and finding that “brother” so quickly would normally have been cause for celebration.

And stopping here, on the way back from checking Marquess Hainder’s estate, made it even better—since there was now a good chance this wretch might spill what the Marquess had been up to.

Yet Isaac could not bring himself to feel relieved.

“For the god…”

From the Marquess of Hainder’s muttered words before Isaac left, to this man’s ravings just now, the threads were unmistakably connected.

“Don’t tell me this is tangled up with both my master and Her Highness the Princess? No… of course it is. Why else would I be ordered to look into it? I’d even heard vague rumors about some Ancient God before…”

He clutched his head and groaned.

When Isaac first chose to serve Cryer, it wasn’t because of whispers or persuasion. He had trusted his own judgment.

And his judgment had been right—that Cryer was strong, so strong he could never be toppled.

But Isaac had no desire to know the details of Cryer’s relationship with the Princess, nor the nature of his work, nor his secrets.

To survive, a man had to know his limits. Anything beyond that—best not to see it, hear it, or ask.

“…But I’ve already heard it. Too late to pretend I didn’t.”

He could, perhaps, simply keep silent about it and let things pass.

But…

“This isn’t something that’ll just blow over. Gods and sacrifices… no way.”

If this had been nothing more than another political feud, a routine power struggle, he would have kept his head down, done his tasks, and waited for it to end.

Instead, he muttered bitterly:

“Who exactly have I pledged myself to? What have I walked into?”

He had thought himself clever—escaping death in his homeland by seeking a future in the Empire, finding a strong master to serve.

Yet now—avoid mages, a strange temple in Norden, and now the talk of ancient gods…

“At this point, I might as well beg Her Highness to explain the whole story. Begging… but no, that’ll only earn me one of those terrifying glares again… Damn it. No answer, no way out.”

Sighing deeply, Isaac hoisted the filthy man over his shoulder like a sack of flour and vanished into the night streets.

Crossing the capital by night, Isaac arrived at the Princess’s palace instead of running off to gather his thoughts.

Smuggling a man inside past the palace guards was difficult enough—but far harder was what awaited him inside.

“So you tailed the woman who came from Marquess Hainder’s estate… and found this man?”

“Yes. She seemed experienced in the back alleys. I heard her muttering that she needed to finish this man off, as ordered by the Marquess.”

At his words, Olivia tilted her head, openly puzzled.

“A lowly servant of Taren, drowning in debts and sordid affairs, somehow tied to Marquess Hainder?”

“Uh… about that…”

Isaac’s fox-like eyes narrowed even further, as though he wished he didn’t have to speak at all. But Olivia gave him no room.

“You heard something, didn’t you?”

“…Yes. I did.”

“You had no hesitation telling me about Cryer’s son—so why are you balking now?”

At her words, Isaac flinched violently, shoulders jerking as if struck.

Her sharp tone was like a blade pressed against his throat.

Of course, the true menace came from Cryer himself, radiating killing intent from the shadows behind her.

Isaac exhaled in resignation, face lined with despair. Olivia smiled sweetly.

“So it’s even more shocking than the son?”

Her teasing words were cut short by Isaac’s hasty confession.

“He spoke of the Ancient God.”

Isaac relayed everything—from his reconnaissance of Hainder estate, to finding this man, to every word he had overheard.

“…So then, that strange temple I saw in Norden—it must be connected to this god as well, mustn’t it? The talk of ancient gods, of mages too…”

His voice was filled with hope that perhaps he was wrong. But his hope was crushed.

“Yes. Ancient God—that’s exactly right.”

The clear answer left both Olivia and Isaac grim-faced.

After a long silence, Isaac sagged, eyes dull with defeat, and asked:

“And this Ancient God… is tied deeply to Her Highness and to my master as well, isn’t it?”

No answer came. But the look on Olivia’s face said enough. Isaac let out a long, hopeless sigh.

“Why do you look so doomed? I know you never wanted to get involved. That’s why I never told you specifics. Knowing or not knowing won’t change your role.”

“…Ah, so you were aware?”

Olivia chuckled softly at his question.

“You didn’t ask when ordered to avoid mages, did you? That was a pretty bizarre order, yet you said nothing. Clearly, you didn’t want to know. And when I explained a little before we left for Norden, you probably thought it was just the delusions of lofty nobles.”

Unlike Ambhe, who had been dragged into all this from the start, Isaac had chosen to come of his own will.

He was a rare scion of House Akendel, with unusual abilities, who asked to serve Cryer as his master.

And though he pledged loyalty, he never asked questions. Olivia respected that. Cryer himself couldn’t have cared less.

And that remained unchanged even now.

“As I said, it doesn’t matter whether you know or not.”

Olivia was about to continue—but Isaac spoke up quickly, cutting her short.