Chapter 59: Ch59 The Prophecy That Shouldn’t Be
"What?!"
Luther’s roar cracked through the garden like a thunderclap. The very ground trembled, vines quivering as if echoing his fury. His eyes burned crimson with anger, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached.
"What the hell do you mean he didn’t choose me?!" His voice rose again, rattling the marble at their feet. "You’ve dragged me into this mess, thrown me into trials, forced me to dance to your damn prophecy—and now you stand there telling me your god didn’t even pick me?!"
Piern stumbled back as the storm of rage closed in on him. But Luther wasn’t finished.
"All the trouble. All the lies. All the misunderstandings!" His hand shot out, seizing Piern by the collar. He yanked him forward with enough force to nearly snap the angel’s neck. The angel’s wings flared wildly, feathers scattering, but he couldn’t escape.
Luther’s face loomed inches away, voice low and vicious. "So tell me, Piern. Tell me what the hell I’ve been suffering for—before I tear your wings off and stuff them down your throat."
The angel’s hands shot up in surrender. "W-wait! Please! It’s not our fault! Truly—it wasn’t even supposed to happen like this!"
Luther’s eyes narrowed to slits, rage barely leashed. "Explain."
His tone was controlled, but every syllable dripped with enough venom to melt steel.
Piern’s gaze darted nervously to Luther’s grip on his robe, which was already crumpling the white fabric into angry folds. "I... ah... could you perhaps—" He gestured weakly at the hand still fisted in his chest.
Luther glanced down, realizing how tightly he was clutching him. For a moment it looked like he might squeeze harder just to spite him, but finally he shoved Piern back.
The angel landed unceremoniously on his rear, feathers and pride both ruffled.
Luther crossed his arms, glaring down. "Three seconds, bird. Talk before I change my mind."
Piern scrambled up, brushing frantically at his robe. He put three deliberate steps of distance between them before beginning, voice quivering at first but growing steadier as he fell into his explanation.
"It... it started centuries ago. Father Asmethan—the lord of this realm—he... well... made a prophecy."
Luther’s eyes rolled. "Of course he did. Gods do love their little riddles."
Piern winced. "It wasn’t even a serious prophecy! It was... a joke. A silly thing, because the humans never stopped begging for a savior. They prayed and prayed, and Father grew tired of their noise. So... he decided to ’give them hope.’"
Luther leaned against the statue, arms crossed, expression dripping sarcasm. "How generous. Throw a bone to the peasants so they shut up."
The angel nodded miserably. "He used Yieli as the vessel of that prophecy—because Yieli was already a hero among men. He had freed them from a tyrant king. The people adored him. Father simply... added spice to the story. Told them it was through him that Yieli became the prophesied savior."
Luther’s eyes slid toward the towering statue nearby, its carved face proud and noble. "And the great Yieli just went along with it?"
"Yes," Piern admitted. "Because he loved them. He knew it was false, but... if it brought hope, he chose to be the symbol. To carry the burden."
"Idiot," Luther muttered. "A noble idiot."
The angel sighed. "When Yieli finally passed, peacefully and old, the people begged for another prophecy. They could not let go. So, to silence them once and for all, Father Asmethan crafted another one. A fake. He told them another child of God would rise in their time of need."
Luther gave him a flat stare. "So he lied again."
"Yes," Piern said, shame staining his voice. "And after that, he stopped caring altogether. He never checked on the humans, never corrected their faith. To him, it was a dead matter."
Luther’s teeth ground audibly. "But it wasn’t dead, was it? People kept waiting. And I’m the one who got shoved into their fairy tale."
Piern swallowed. "Not at first. The prophecy gathered dust until another god—Yalan, the god of love—asked Asmethan about it. He asked if Father would not finish what he had started. At first, Asmethan ignored him. But more gods joined in. They mocked him, saying his prophecy had spread even to their realms. They laughed, demanded to see this impossible savior he had promised."
"So your almighty father," Luther sneered, "gave in to playground teasing."
Piern flinched. "...He... answered with a challenge. He said the chosen would be a child of God who could wield magic without a medium."
Luther raised his brows, slow and dangerous. "Without. A. Medium."
"Yes," Piern whispered. "The other gods laughed. It was impossible. And Father liked it that way. An empty promise no one could ever fulfill. That way, he could claim the prophecy was intact but never risk a successor to Yieli."
Luther’s laugh was humorless, harsh. "And then... me."
"Yes."
Luther jabbed a finger at his own chest. "So, let me guess. Lucky bastard who ticked all the boxes by accident?"
Piern’s silence was louder than words.
Luther’s fury flared again. He shoved off the statue and stalked forward, looming over the angel. "How the hell does that even happen? You just trip over fate and drag me along for the ride?!"
Piern stammered, "You... you weren’t supposed to be here. Your soul was destined for another realm, under the god of nature—Liz. A world much like the one you came from. That was where your path lay."
"Then why the hell am I here?!"
Piern’s voice cracked. "Because... something stopped you. Something diverted your soul. You weren’t pulled by Asmethan, or Liz, or any god."
Luther froze. His voice dropped dangerously low. "Then who?"
The angel’s lips trembled. He looked as if speaking the next words might strike him dead.
"...By magic itself."
The garden went still. Even the air seemed to pause, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Luther stared at him, expression unreadable at first. Then his lips curved—not into a smile, but into something colder.
"Magic itself," he repeated softly, the words rolling off his tongue with bitter amusement. "So the almighty child of prophecy wasn’t chosen by your god. Or by any god." He leaned in close, whispering the last words like venom. "I was stolen."
Piern shivered, feathers trembling. He dared not speak.
But Luther’s laughter filled the silence—low, sharp, and dangerous. It was the laugh of a man whose fury had been stoked into something far more lethal.