Beneath the frail roof of his makeshift shelter, Akshran sat cross-legged, eyes drawn to the full moon hanging low in the night sky. Its silver light spilled across the land, pulling his thoughts into distant corners of his mind.

Reincarnation. It had happened, yet he had never truly questioned it. A mystery not meant for prodding—at least, not yet. His focus drifted back to the "whispers," strange murmurs from his past life, their soft voices long since faded into silence.

"Strange, I haven't heard them in from then," he mused, a faint sigh escaping his lips.

Turning his attention to the barrel beside him, Akshran's lips curled into a small smile. It was stuffed to the brim with bread, the foolish merchant's mistake. The man had meant to bring empty barrels, but instead, he'd gifted him enough food to last a week, maybe longer if rationed carefully.

"But first things first," Akshran said, rising to his feet. He stretched, his joints creaking in protest. His body was thin, worn down by malnutrition, and far from what he needed to survive. A thoughtful hand rested under his chin as he considered his next steps.

"I need to get fit," he muttered. "This body won't last in the long run."

He began pacing. "A stable food source, that's the priority," he said to himself. "The money's not bad—100 copper coins could keep me afloat for a year, but only if I'm smart about it."

Akshran frowned, eyes narrowing in thought. Farming was too slow, too uncertain. Gambling was a fool's game, and in this lawless place, he'd be easy prey. The muscles in his body barely obeyed his commands as it was; he wouldn't last long in a fight. He'd have to play it differently, rely on his old skills.

"Criminal psychology," he said aloud, tapping his chin. "I could use it. Read people, play the part of a fortune-teller, maybe even pass as a psychic. People love a good mystery."

A slow smile crept across his face. Yes, that could work. He didn't need to be strong; he just needed to be smart, and people were always predictable if you knew how to look.

The barrel's lid creaked as he pulled out three loaves of bread and tore into them, not bothering to savor the taste. His mind was already on the next step.

"Now," he said between bites, "time to find a place—a shop with an occult vibe, something that'll draw attention near the market."

"How much for this rag?" Akshran's voice cut through the air, laced with deliberate disdain. He stood with an arrogant slouch, projecting dominance. His aim was clear—rattle the dealer, crush his confidence, and seize control of the negotiation.

The dealer, a short but solidly built man, looked unfazed. "Forty-five copper coins, good sir," he replied, calm and steady, his height still giving him an edge over Akshran's slight frame.

"Forty-five coppers? You think you're worth that much, you worm?" Akshran's voice rose, sharp and biting, drawing a few curious glances from nearby stalls. "I'll give you no more than ten."

The dealer blinked, clearly startled but quick to recover. "Sir, please, I've got a family to feed. That price would be a huge loss," he said, trying to hold his ground, though his voice betrayed a sliver of uncertainty.

Akshran's eyes narrowed. He could sense the crack. "Fine. Seventeen," he said, waving the coins with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, letting the copper glint in the fading light.

The dealer shook his head, his resolve stiffening. "No less than twenty-five," he countered, though his eyes flickered nervously to Akshran's hand, where the coins clinked against each other.

Feigning thought, Akshran tossed a few coppers between his fingers, making sure the dealer saw the ease with which he handled money. "Can't you drop it a little more?" he said, casually, as though the transaction hardly mattered to him.

"Twenty-two. Final offer." The dealer's voice carried an air of finality, his eyes fixed on the coins.

Akshran's lips twitched into a small, satisfied grin. Got him. With a quiet nod, he handed over the coins, feeling the silent victory settle in. The dealer counted them quickly, relieved to be done with the haggling, oblivious to the deeper game being played.

The place Akshran had secured was little more than a dank, forgotten shack—dusty, cluttered, and reeking of neglect. But it would serve. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, sweeping away years of dirt and cobwebs. The dim lighting would stay—it suited his needs perfectly. The atmosphere had to feel murky, unsettling. The harder people squinted to see, the easier it was to manipulate what they thought they saw.

Tarot cards lay scattered on the rickety table, a polished crystal orb sat on a velvet cloth, gleaming faintly in the gloom. These items were theater props, tools of deception. In the shadows, half-obscured, a corpse leaned against the back wall, dried blood staining the floor beneath. One of his recent kills—another step in building his image as someone not to be crossed.

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He surveyed his work, satisfaction blooming in his chest. Everything was in place. The cards, the orb, the body—the careful arrangement of tools designed to pull people in, disarm them, and leave them vulnerable.

The stage was set.

The people of Jhaari were going about their usual business—trading, chatting, and surviving—until a sharp, bone-chilling scream ripped through the air.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

The sudden cry caused heads to turn, some immediately dismissing it, but a few, driven by curiosity, began to gravitate toward the source of the sound. Among them was a young man, no older than twenty, his features striking with flowing hair that swayed in the wind. His face twisted into a puzzled frown.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered, his voice betraying both concern and intrigue. He followed the fading echoes of the scream, his steps cautious as he neared a place that seemed to ooze a strange, foreboding energy. The closer he got, the heavier the air felt. A crooked sign dangled from above, barely readable in the low light: "Do Not Enter—Unsafe for Humans."

The man stopped, eyeing the place warily. The warning should have been enough, but his curiosity had already overruled his better judgment. Skepticism flashing in his eyes, he stepped through the grimy doorway. Inside, the atmosphere thickened further, like the space was soaked in something ancient and foul. The stench hit him immediately—blood, stale and metallic, clung to the air. Just beyond the entrance, he spotted a corpse lying on the ground, its dried blood pooling underneath. His stomach churned at the sight of grotesque objects hanging from the ceiling, resembling parts of animals—or worse, people.

Seated in the middle of the room was a man with his eyes shut, wearing a necklace of skulls, his posture calm in meditation, one hand raised in a silent blessing. Beside him, a boy no older than thirteen stood with an eerie smile, his eyes fixed on the new arrival.

The man swallowed hard. "What the fuck is this place? And who are you?"

The boy, still smiling, tilted his head slightly. "I am merely an overseer for the Great Sage Who Sees All," he said smoothly. "But you can call me Raven, the messenger of the gods."

The man raised an eyebrow, the name striking him as odd. "Raven? That's… strange," he muttered aloud, casting a glance at the meditating figure.

'Yeah, maybe,' thought Akshran, keeping his composure. 'But it sounds mysterious enough. Better than my real name.'

The man pointed at the figure beside Raven. "And who's this? What's his deal?"

With a theatrical flourish, Akshran gestured toward the figure. "He is the Great Sage Who Sees All. A god-like being, if you will. But you may call him Kami-Sama." Akshran's smile widened. "And I, as I said, am his Raven."

The man still looked doubtful but intrigued. "I'm Rashkal," he offered, his gaze flickering between Raven and Kami-Sama. "And what about that scream? What happened here?"

"Oh, that?" Akshran shrugged, letting the silence linger for effect. "A woman, terrified after learning her fate."

"Her fate?" Rashkal's skepticism deepened. "What do you mean?"

A grin curled on Akshran's lips. "Kami-Sama can see the lines of fate. He knows your past, your present... even your future."

"Bullshit," Rashkal shot back, folding his arms, daring Akshran to prove it.

Akshran's eyes gleamed as he stepped closer to Kami-Sama. Leaning in, he whispered something into the figure's ear, then nodded as if receiving divine wisdom. Turning back to Rashkal, he smirked. "The Great Sage has granted me his insight. I can now tell you what you seek to know."

Rashkal crossed his arms tighter, his suspicion still evident. "Oh yeah? Tell me this, then—how did I get here?"

Akshran's expression shifted into something darker, more intense. "The Sage has seen it all, Rashkal. You doubted, even as you approached this place. Hesitation gripped you the moment you heard that scream. But still, you came, drawn by something you can't quite explain."

Rashkal's frown deepened. "What are you talking about?"

Akshran took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice lowering. "You felt the pull, didn't you? The urge to follow, even as your mind screamed not to. That's how you always are, isn't it? Always doubting, always skeptical. And yet... you couldn't resist."

The young man shifted uneasily, his confidence shaken. "Go on," he said quietly.

"You've been traveling, haven't you?" Akshran continued, his tone soft yet piercing. "Days, maybe weeks. You've crossed harsh terrain to get here, and the spirits of that journey still cling to you." He pointed in random directions, as if he could see something ethereal that Rashkal couldn't. "Not just any spirits, but those from the western paths, beyond the city limits."

Rashkal's eyes widened, his composure slipping. "How do you know that?"

"The Sage knows everything," Akshran replied, his voice steady. "You're not from here, Rashkal. You came on horseback, seeking the lawless streets of Jhaari to sell your goods. Meat, if I'm not mistaken."

Rashkal took a step back, disbelief flooding his face. "You… you can't possibly know that. I only arrived an hour ago."

Akshran's smile turned cold, predatory. "The Sage sees all, Rashkal. Past, present, future. There is no hiding from him."

For a long moment, Rashkal stood there, eyes darting between Akshran and the eerily silent Kami-Sama. Then, finally, he sighed, the fight draining from his expression. "You're really a seer... this is real."

Akshran bowed his head slightly. "Not me. I am but the humble messenger of the great Kami-Sama."

With a final, shaky breath, Rashkal turned and stumbled out of the darkened shack, his mind reeling. He had no idea he had just been played.

As the door creaked shut, Akshran let out a low chuckle, slapping the back of the still-silent Kami-Sama. "What an idiot," he muttered, the amusement clear in his voice. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, his thoughts already spinning plans for the next fool who would stumble into his web.

The figure next to him—the so-called Kami-Sama—stirred, his eyes still closed. With the help of a stick, he struggled to his feet and hobbled toward the barrel in the corner, grabbing a loaf of bread.

Akshran chuckled. "I always forget you're blind and deaf, you useless bastard," he said with a smirk. "Kami-Sama, my ass."

He watched the door swing closed behind Rashkal, confidence swelling in his chest. 'That fool will spread word of this place,' Akshran thought. 'Skeptics are the easiest to manipulate—once they trust you, they never stop questioning themselves.'