SWNOVELXO Chapter 15: Black Market
Today had been like any other day for Ezrel Dormir.
He still didn't get his rest.
His adorable, emotionally possessed little sister still refused to leave his side.
Now....
She has become increasingly dangerous to his peace.
Why??
Well....
Because now she could read, write, and monologue her affection in disturbing detail.
And right now?
She was watching him get a haircut.
With the excuse of being afraid that his brother will run away from home.
"When.....,"
Ezrel asked loudly, as his hair was getting its cut,
"Will I get my peace????"
"And can you stop following me??".
"You're not a baby anymore."..
Lysette just smiled.
She didn't blink. She didn't flinch.
She simply tilted her head like a doll and stared right at his face.
Like always, she ignores his reaction to her.
--
Lysette's POV
Huhuhuhuhu…
Onii-chan is still pretending.
He acts annoyed, but I know he enjoys my company.
I know everything about you, onii-chan.
"Barber,"
She said cheerfully.
"Why don't you give him a mohawk??....."I think it would suit him."
-----
"Nonononono.
"Absolutely not."
"Don't you dare give me a weird haircut. I want it to be normal. Sleek and Professional."
How does she even know what a mohawk is?
She's not reincarnated like me… right?
----
The barber said nothing and wisely avoided eye contact.
The cut was clean. The silence was not.
Like always, after a haircut is given, there will be a maid who is assigned
to sweep and burn the fallen hair.
It was standard protocol for noble houses.
Hair could be used for curses, after all.
But this time?
One maid moved just a little too quickly.
She crouched low. Swept carefully.
And when no one was watching…
She tucked a long strand of Ezrel's hair into her sleeve.
"Heheheheheh…"
She whispered.
"I'm gonna be rich."
---
She entered the suspicious shop through the alley behind the dead
fountain, whispered a borrowed passphrase.
The shop was too sketchy.
Candles flickered. Pipes hissed. Caged items pulsed in wax.
When she unwrapped the silk and revealed a single dark hair?
The air in the room changed.
Someone dropped a vial.
Another gasped.
"From the Serene Heir?"
"Fresh?"
"A true relic?"
She smiled.
"Cut this morning."
----
The bids began crazily for it.
Ten gold,
Twenty gold,
Thirty gold.
The amount is increasing.
This amount can help her maintain a well-off life for a few decades.
The currency in this world is calculated a little weirdly than normal.
It used 60 unit rather than a hundred.
For example 60 copper equal to 1 silver, and 60 silver equal to 1 gold.
Below copper there a nickel.
But it calculated differently from other.
99 nickel is equal to 1 copper.
Therefore, when she hear that the bid increase until 30 gold..
She could barely contain her grin.
But before she could accept any offer, a gloved hand stopped her.
A hooded figure stepped forward and placed a small black box on the table.
It voice was calm.
"You sell the relic. But do you own the blessing?"
The maid hesitated.
"He doesn't even know," she muttered.
"He doesn't care."
"That's what makes it sacred,"
The figure replied.
"He discards what others would die to receive."
They opened the box.
The maid paled.
Then nodded.
----
Little did that maid know there was another person who saw her action..
It was Milia.
Milia stood in the archway.
Wearing casual clothes and not her uniform.
Blank face....
And like always, there is a journal her hand.
She said nothing.
She always said nothing.
She only wrote.
Recording everything.
Log 371 – Market of Faith
The relic left his head.
It was stolen, not gifted.
Yet none questioned its sanctity.
They bowed.
They wept.
They offered money.
I record not to stop them.
But to remember what they believe.
Even theft,
When wrapped in reverence, it becomes prayer.
----
Two days later.
In an upper room of an abandoned estate, a single strand of hair rested on a velvet square.
It lay in the center of a bowl lined with salt and ash.
Surrounding it were seven folded notes, each written in ink.
He sleeps. We wait.
He rests. We listen.
He sheds. We gather.
There was a young woman who knelt before it. With a moves filled with reverence, she reached her hand.
She shivered while touching that hair.
And whispered....
"Serene Heir. Still One. Let your silence shape me."
That night, she claimed to see a vision where Ezrel gave her guidance in
business.
----
In Dormir House..
Ezrel, bathed in moonlight.
His sigil was glowing slightly.
The air stilled, like the world held its breath for him.
But he doesn't know about.
He too focused on his nap.
Behind him, there was Milia, still with her usual task.
Recording him.
Log #372 – Private Relic
The first shrine has bloomed.
No priest.
Just one kneeling figure.
And the belief that silence is instruction.
They do not ask for miracles.
They ask to resemble him.
They pray for his rest to be their reward.
----
Ezrel, meanwhile, slept peacefully.
Unaware.
Uninterested.
And his rest had already become scripture.