Rites

Death is Like Dust

[xiaochou.name] wished to meet the low and the poor whom you spoke of as if they were monsters.

ID: 5000336

Type: None

Tips: None

Duration: 1 days

Waits For: 0 days

Marked as New Only on First Occurrence: 0

Starts Automatically: No

Triggers Result Automatically: No

Tag Tips: None

Tag Tips Up: None

Tag Tips Text:

Random Text: None

Random Text Up: None

Actions When Wait Expires

This rite has no actions when the wait expires.

Slots

Slot #1
The Mirror

Locks: No

Is Key: No

Is Empty: No

Is Enemy: No

Conditions:

Pops: None

Activation Conditions

This rite has no activation conditions.

Outcome

Prior

This rite has no prior outcome.

Regular

"How many have you killed?" When [s1.name] sat in Badriyyah's cramped, dim tent and asked this question, even you felt a flicker of curiosity—how many had this woman, wielder of terrible black art, sacrificed to her god?

"Don't tell me you mean to play the merciful one, caring for these poor souls and seeking justice for them?" Badriyyah laughed, a low, mocking sound. "The faithful of the our god do not fear death. Death is our return to the god, a promised blessing. To nobles like you, who want for nothing, death must seem terrifying—you came into this world to feast! But we are different. To us, hunger is more terrible. Sickness and wounds are more terrible. Languishing in bed, wasting away—that is the true horror. You should not ask how many I've killed. You should ask how many I've led to the god's embrace, how many companions' departures I've wept for with joy!"

Conditions:

Result:

"Have you ever killed anyone?" When [s1.name] asked this question, you saw Junah's body tremble slightly. Startled, she jerked her head up to glance at you, then quickly lowered it again, timid. "I... I haven't... maybe... I don't remember, truly... please..." She fumbled for words, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes, choking her. She was terrified of losing you, of your suspicion, your disdain.

[s1.name] took it all in but did not understand this strange distress. [s1.name] rose and left once the answer was given, leaving Junah sitting there, her figure growing smaller.

Conditions:

Result:

"Have you ever killed anyone?" When [s1.name] asked this question, Jalila frowned. "There was an accident in my room once—[player.name] helped settle it. I must stress, it was just an accident." Her voice was calm, but her fingers twisted together uneasily.

"And what are your thoughts on killing? Your clients are usually nobles. How did it feel when a noble died?" [s1.name] pressed on with icy and almost indifferent tone. Jalila bristled at the coldness. "I told you, it was an accident! My technique is flawless—every strike precise, nothing beyond tolerance. That’s my professional code. It was him! He hid his condition, too proud to yield—that wasn’t my fault! I did nothing wrong!"

Even on the day of the incident, Jalila had never lost her composure like this. You quickly soothed her, assuring her it was all in the past. Meanwhile, the Mrror watched silently... reflecting her fury and resentment, and the moment her life and work crumbled.

Conditions:

Result:

"Have you ever killed anyone?" Perhaps sensing the confusion in Shama's eyes, [s1.name] added, "Some say the common folk, the downtrodden, commit the most killings in the world. I find that question... intriguing."

Shama's beautiful, gentle smile faded. She fixed [s1.name] with a startling intensity and said, "That isn't fair."

"Blaming the weak won't make you seem wiser, cleverer, more observant, or better at seeing things from multiple angles. You're just shamelessly shifting the burden of a question you can't face or answer onto their backs. Why do the poor kill? A thousand cases might have a thousand reasons, but I know one question has only one answer—behind all these deaths, who pockets the most coins? Who sits atop their bones, drinking without a care?"

[s1.name], unusually unsettled, set down the wine glass—whoever it was, it certainly wasn't the Mirror!

Regardless, Shama's perspective gave [s1.name] something to consider.

Conditions:

Result:

"Have you ever killed anyone? Have the kids under your command killed anyone?" When [s1.name] asked this question, old Alim waved his hands dismissively. "Nonsense! We're thieves, not bandits, certainly not murderers!"

"You steal their coins, and they might starve because of it," [s1.name] stated, staring him down. But Alim wasn't having it. "If I don't steal from him, my pups will starve because of him—how do you reckon that?" He picked at his gap-toothed grin as he spoke. "We lowly folk don't have the vision of a big potato like you. I can't worry about others—just my pups, just myself."

Here, he shot you a sly glance. "[player.name], my lord, won't you say something? Folks whisper that you opened the Guesthouse just to use them for your Bloodshed Card one day! Heh... heh... heh... That's why you never bother learning their names, ain't it?"

Hmm... No matter how vehemently you denied or explained, Alim just chuckled, leaving it unclear whether he believed you. As for [s1.name]... it did learn one thing from this farce: there are differences between kin and strangers indeed.

Conditions:

Result:

When Lumera was a street urchin, she was easily hurt; now, under your protection, those memories might still haunt her. You told [s1.name] Lumera’s name and added, "If you notice anything she fears or despises, you must tell me."

"She has a silver hand mirror studded with gems. Through it, I glimpsed the ceiling of her room and heard the sound of her turning pages," [s1.name] said. "I think she fears nothing—perhaps running out of books to read, but beyond that... a being like her is only lingering in this world because of you. She had little to fear to begin with."

You were about to ask what [s1.name] meant by "a being like her"—

"But then, so am I, no? Perhaps your gift is making things around you linger a little longer. Who knows?"

In the end, [s1.name] was quite pleased with your arrangement.

Conditions:

Result:

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

At [s1.name]'s question, Raed burst into laughter, hefting her spiked club and slamming it onto the table with a thunderous boom—utterly indifferent to your wince. Grinning, she shot back, "What do you think?"

The weapon’s dulled spikes were stained with old, dark crimson, thicker than wine. [s1.name] realized the question was pointless, but before they could speak, Raed leaned in, intrigued. "Trying to stir up guilt? Remorse? Or maybe convince me to lay down my blade? Let me tell you—not a chance. I know exactly what I’m doing. But you—"

She scoffed, shoving a handful of pastries into her mouth. "I’ve seen nobles who love watching folk fight over a scrap of bread, over the crumbs they deign to drop, over empty promises. Oh, how they amuse themselves! And then they laugh—look how stupid the poor are, how easily they believe! I’ve seen it a thousand times, ten thousand, and yet the poor still fall for it. Why?" Raed wiped her mouth, then swept every last pastry into her pouch.

"Because they need that scrap. Because without it, they die. Is that the poor’s tragedy? I don’t think so. Happy with that answer? Good. These are mine now." She fastened the pouch to her belt, hoisted her spiked club, as if daring [xiaochou.name] to disagree—ready to beat sense into it. And [xiaochou.name] merely pondered, gaining a deeper understanding of slaughter.

Conditions:

Result:

When you went to find [s2.name], his brother happened to be there too. As [s1.name] asked why they became sand pirates, why they killed, they exchanged a glance and said, "We don't know how to do anything else."

"Our father was a sand pirate, and so was our grandfather. A sand pirate's child can't be anything else—we can't be merchants, no one would trust a sand pirate to keep his word; we can't be farmers, because we've no land of our own; we can't be craftsmen, because we can't drag in a master willing to teach us. Truth be told, even if we tried whoring, we don't have the looks for it!" Jemor joked lightly, and Hamar laughed like a fool beside him.

"Killing? That's just how it is. You wouldn't blame a lion for eating men, would you? It's only natural. Back then, there was no other way to live—and besides, robbing folks pays quick." Jemor shrugged, then went out of his way to flatter and thank you, sounding almost sincere...

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Result:

Extra

The Fallen Mirror
At dawn, a thunderous crash jolted you awake. A servant, frantic, informed you that the great silver mirror of your ancestors had toppled in the hallway.

You pushed through the bewildered crowd and studied the mirror. It was intact—your own shadowy reflection peered back at you, scrutinizing the version of you outside the mirror. But it was heavy, its edges too delicate; the servants could not lift it back into place.

Then, inexplicably, something stirred within you. You stepped forward, gripped the frame, and—with a single heave—raised the massive mirror effortlessly.

Amid the servants’ cheers, you hung it where it belonged. Stepping back to admire your reflection, you suddenly realized: the you in the mirror was grinning slyly at you.

Only then did you notice the sting on your fingertip—a bead of blood welling from a tiny cut. You understood. This was likely a small jest from the warrior who dwelled in the mirror. In this way, [s1.name] had tasted a drop of your blood.

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