Althur sat and looked at her with a calm expression on his face. He could tell that she was not a person with Nekros Syndrome, but a normal person affected by the curse that plagued this land and his brother.

She sat on the bed; her life force being worn down by the corrupt space.

He seemed to be sinking into his thoughts endlessly as the signs of death silently affected and affected all three. But there was no hurry, nothing to panic about, death is not a bad thing, no worse than Liam's unnecessary disappearance. Althur wondered.

Who will be their hero? Life is a complex and chaotic chain of decisions and outcomes, not a simple plot with heroes and villains. But do we or do we not have the ability to walk the tightrope and create our story?

Are they tightrope walkers, or have they fallen into the abyss? Like a person walking a tightrope over an abyss, thinking that if he tries, he will reach his goal. Or realizing it's a dream when you've fallen into the darkness of the abyss. Althur was misty in the space around him.

He kept quiet. Pale girl. The porcelain doll occasionally glanced at a particular corner of the room.

Althur broke the silence with a statement: "I'll tell you later; let your brother decide that."

She was broken. The fire still burned. The girl limped to the hearth and shoveled coal into the stove, the fire still weak.

In light of what Peter and the bartender had said, the issue had persisted for at least two years since the curse wreaked havoc on the area. The curse eventually sapped her of her strength and spirit, shortening her life expectancy as well. He questioned whether she had ever considered dying, experienced death, or smelled hell.

From his pocket, he took out three beans, which were blessed by the divine Haya. They were small and brown, but they held a spark of life within them.

Pouring a little strength into them, he watched as three peas sprouted in his hand, rising in small green shoots. They looked like tiny miracles in this desolate place.

Althur gave the little girl the liveliest and healthiest sprout. "This is for you," he said, gesturing for her to eat it.

"Are you hungry?" Althur asked, "These are blessed by the Goddess."

He looked at the other two buds in his hand. One had sprouted but would soon wilt and turn brown. The other was still closed, not very promising, but somehow resilient.

The little girl looked at him curiously, cradling the small branch in her hand like a weak baby. "What are they?" she asked, eyeing the sprouts warily.

"They are called blessing beans. They come from a very special place, where the goddess lives. Do you know who she is?"

He turned to Brahms and asked, "Can you find something to help this bud grow?"

"Okay." The boy nodded shyly, feeling uncomfortable rummaging through a stranger's house. But he was obedient and did as he was told.

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"The beans are blessed by the goddess."

"Have you heard the story of the pea of the man and the goddess?" The little girl shook her head, and Althur noticed.

"Doesn't the church seem so far away?"

Then he gently explained, "Well, it's like this!"

In a soft voice, he told an inspiring story so popular that almost everyone knew it. Perhaps no one but this girl had told her such tales and myths.

A young man who has lost his beloved passes the test and receives the magic beans that contain the life force, but he has to overcome a taboo, which is to ask the girl to pray to the goddess before he eats them.

He had to ask his beloved to praise the goddess before eating the magic bean containing her life force. If he failed to do so, the bean would be useless, and his beloved would be doomed.

But by the time he took it to his beloved, she was too weak to speak, the man had to put the pea in the girl's mouth.

So, she did not resurrect, for she had blasphemed the goddess and wandered the harvest fields in vain.

The man continued his journey, once more. This time the goddess saw his determination and allowed him to turn into a pea so that her lover could take care of it and give her a chance to be reborn.

And so, he waited on the beanstalk, a pea of life. Both were eventually reborn, but in different forms.

There were different versions, but it brought two great cultural traditions to the Haya community: people pray to the goddess before eating, and hard work will bring good results and a happy ending.

As he shared this tale, he felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him, a glimpse of a simpler time, while Brahms came and holding a tiny cup of sprouts.

The little girl nibbled on a small sprout, half-listening to Althur's story, when her eyes fell on the handsome boy who held the other sprout.

"What should I do with this?" he asked.

"That's up to you," Althur gestured to the girl.

"Put it over there," she said, pointing to a corner on the shelf, near the fireplace.

There was a hole in the roof that let in a beam of sunlight, which made the corner look warm and cozy.

The boy stiffened and clutched the small cup, as he gazed at the scared girl, who was about the same height as him, struggling to keep her balance. He felt helpless and clueless, and glanced at Althur, hoping for some guidance.

Althur, who stood there smiling, but Brahms felt strange because he seemed to lack joy in his face.

"Relax," Althur said in a deep voice.

The girl turned to him, feeling like she had found a new anchor.

She looked at him, forgetting that he was the one who had performed the magic trick. She also noticed that she felt better, as she no longer felt exhausted when she moved.

She rasped, "How?"

Althur simply looked away and turned to Brahms. "We don't need to go to the cemetery."

"So, this is a ghost," Brahms exclaimed.

"Yes. Do you feel it?"

"Not much!"

She muttered, "It's the curse."

"Who cursed us?" He inquired, sounding relaxed. She attempted to sound calm, but her voice was vanishing.

"Look at us, we're fine, aren't we?"

She listened and smiled faintly at him. He smiled back, but his eyes were empty.

He stretched out his hand and swirled it in the air, as if he was drawing something unseen. He had done this many times before, with such finesse and elegance. This time, he revealed a shadowy figure out of nowhere. It was like a misty human, with no distinct form or traits.

"What is that?" A voice asked from behind them, sounding young and curious.

"Since when are you dead?" Althur questioned the shifting shadow.

"Uh…I…I." The voice faded in and out, until he gestured for Brahms to lower the pot and drag the shadow out of it.

"I…I can't recall." The shadow sharpened.

But it seemed unable to respond, as if a torment was haunting this restless soul.

Polly watched the scene in bewilderment, feeling that everything was beyond her mind. She was afraid of the shadow, which she believed to be the source of all suffering.

In her vision, this thing seemed to be the God of Death, something rumored to be true of everyone in this slum. Though she denied it, she dared not. When this figure was at its clearest, she believed she would die. She believed that.

She stood there, standing there, until a clang came from the door. A pale young man entered.

"I'm glad you're back." Althur greeted the newcomer.