The Oracle Paths



Jake had half-expected a sea of hands to shoot up from these eager, rowdy barbarians. But that didn't happen. Instead, they all withdrew into themselves, tucking their heads into their shoulders as if trying to vanish. The paradox was, even doing that, he was still the smallest one among them.

Sure, if he wanted, he could easily flex his size to dominate them, bruising their already fragile egos. But that was beneath him. Arms crossed and eyes closed, he waited calmly for someone to volunteer.

Except it didn't unfold as he'd envisioned.

In the blink of an eye, the crowd of recruits retreated like a receding tide, leaving Jake, who'd held his ground, sticking out like a sore thumb. Finding himself alone before the crow-feathered shaman, Jake cracked open his eyes and managed a wry smile, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

"...Guess it'll be me," he said, a touch of mockery coloring his words.

Hearing this, the other recruits wore faces tinged with guilt and embarrassment. When they realized it was the smallest among them showing the courage they all lacked, they were awash in shame.

Pity for them—they couldn't have been more wrong. While Jake wasn't lacking in courage; he just didn't feel threatened in the least. In fact, he doubted anything at this early stage of the Ordeal could pose a real threat to him.

As long as he didn't play the fool, this early part of the Ordeal felt like a drawn-out cutscene. He was still figuring out whether he was the protagonist or merely a spectator, and so far, he was leaning towards the former.

"Excellent," the shaman laughed, clapping his hands. "It's promising recruits like you, bursting with courage and unafraid to face any adversity, who keep our Duskwight Lands from falling to the Radiant Conclave. Your unwavering resolve is a key indicator of whether a recruit will survive their baptism. Just from your attitude, I'm optimistic about your odds."

'Of course you are,' Jake sneered inwardly. 'If you knew what kind of Player you're dealing with, you'd know this so-called baptism is child's play to me.'

And that was the unadulterated truth. He had absolute faith in his ability to emerge unscathed from this ritual. The officer, who had recently got a taste of his power and now stood arms crossed at the back of the regiment, could only agree.

'I can't picture this guy biting the dust so easily,' Sank-uk, the commander's name, sighed, shaking his head in dismay. Despite his gloomy demeanor, a spark of curiosity flickered in his eyes. He was enthusiastic to see how this rookie's initiation would unfold.

The man who looked like a shaman, but was actually a Spirit Enchanter, grinned at the recruits "hiding" behind their lone volunteer.

"You need not be so afraid. The Spirit Lumyst Water in this pool is diluted—a few drops in a basin full of ordinary fresh water. We're not savages. Although some losses are inevitable, the goal of this initiation is to ensure the survival of as many new recruits as possible. Otherwise, how are we to win this war?"

Hearing the Spirit Enchanter's comforting words, the until-now jittery recruits breathed easier, straightening their spines a fraction. Still, they'd heard ominous rumors about this baptism of fire and hadn't missed the Enchanter's caveat about "inevitable losses."

All things considered, they'd rather let the pretty boy take the plunge first. At the very least, they'd be a smidge more prepared for their own turns.

Refocusing on his lone volunteer, the Spirit Enchanter's approving smile flickered momentarily with pity. 'Poor kid. With that face and frail frame, he's likely been a whipping boy all his life.'

In contrast, the Enchanter's expression remained icy and stern. When he beckoned Jake forward, his tone was as detached and inhuman as if he were addressing an insect. "Come to me, my child," he cooed, extending the earthenware pitcher toward Jake like a predator luring its prey.

Jake's lip twitched at the Spirit Enchanter's tone, momentarily tempted to slap him into next week. Ultimately, he restrained himself, halting a few inches from the earthenware pitcher cradled in the man's hands.

"So, what's the next move?" Jake asked, arching an eyebrow. "Chug it?"

Upon hearing Jake's question, the Spirit Enchanter's eyes widened in astonishment before he burst into laughter. The chapel staff and other recruits, equally dumbfounded, swiftly joined his uproarious mirth.

Unfazed by their reactions, Jake sifted through the intel he'd gleaned from his squadmates' brains, searching for his misstep.

'Ah, I see. It's not to be ingested, but applied—like a balm—or if enough for a bath.'

ραndαsnοvεl.cοm His blunder stemmed from the absence of any taboo against drinking Lumyst Water in the recruits' collective memories. It simply wasn't done, a matter of unspoken common sense for the inhabitants of this world.

This had nothing to do with religious reverence but rather the empirical fact that Lumyst Water was potently toxic. Consuming it meant surrendering control over the process—a gamble even the most seasoned Soulmancers avoided.

The laughter lingered for a moment, but the Spirit Enchanter's chuckles soon died in his throat. His expression turned solemn as he took in the young recruit before him—a man of majestic composure, whose black eyes harbored a mesmerizing silver vortex sporadically shot through with dark blue streaks. He was staring at him with unsettling indifference, as though the ritual was a trivial farce he had no choice but to endure.

Suppressing the unsettling fear rising within him, the Spirit Enchanter cleared his throat awkwardly and locked eyes with his unnerving volunteer.

"Just dip your hand into the pitcher for a second or two. Even if it stings, don't pull it out until I say so. Disobey, and not only will the baptism fail, but you'll have shaved years off your life for nothing. Trust me, if you make it through this, you can easily cut your losses. But back out now, and you squander your lone shot at rewriting your destiny."

His advice was also meant for the other recruits, which is why he raised his voice for everyone to hear as he instructed Jake.

"Whenever you're ready, begin," the Spirit Enchanter spoke softly, his demeanor far more guarded than before.

His gut told him that this young man was a wolf in sheep's clothing. An outsider...

Within minutes, two natives had already pieced together his true identity. Yet neither seemed inclined to report their discovery to higher-ups.

As both the shaman and the officer watched his every move with inscrutable expressions, Jake finally extended his hand over the earthen pitcher. With nary a hint of hesitation, his hand descended towards the vessel, his fingers making contact with its contents. And then, nothing more.

The rest of his hand vanished entirely into the liquid. With the same nonchalance that was his trademark—a nonchalance that knocked the entire audience on their asses—he remarked,

"Ah, it's a bit chilly."

Hands trembling, barely holding onto the pitcher, the Spirit Enchanter found himself grateful for the first time for the identity-concealing black paint on his face. Otherwise, his jaw-dropping astonishment would have undoubtedly tarnished his reputation for the rest of his career.

To command respect, a low-ranking Spirit Enchanter in charge of a Netherwell Chapel like him had to evoke fear. Once his aura of mystique evaporated, earning the esteem of his peers would become a far more arduous task...

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