Anagin Chronicles Chapter 2

Chapter 002. The Decision (2)

Anagin, sitting on top of the carcass of a dead wild boar, spoke.

That he would beco a god.

It was the kind of statent one could easily dismiss as delusion. A re human saying he would beco a god.

Yet, for so reason, the man called Master didn’t seem the least bit surprised. After all, he was the very one who had once said that there was a way for humans to beco gods.

“Ha. Do you an you want to beco a practitioner?”

“Practitioner or whatever—if it can make a god, I’ll do it.”

Anagin climbed down from the wild boar’s carcass as he answered. Then, he lit a fire and began cutting at from the dead animal to roast.

Having spent so long caring for his sick younger sister, he’d barely eaten. Hunger struck him all at once, now that it was too late.

Sizzle.

The sound of roasting at filled the air, along with the sll of cooked flesh. Anagin tore off a large piece and bit into it.

The master, sitting beside him, spoke.

“I thought you weren’t interested in things like that.”

“I wasn’t. But now I am, my heart wavers easily. More than that—if I beco a practitioner, can I really beco a god?”

The term practitioner referred to those who accumulated karma in pursuit of higher existence—kings, heroes, great n, and saints alike.

In Anagin’s village, it was an unfamiliar concept, but his master, who ca from outside, had told him such people did exist—those who gathered karma to be reborn as beings beyond human.

He hadn’t cared before. But now, he did.

“It’s not certain.”

Anagin glared at him as if to say, What nonsense is that? He was the one who’d said humans could beco gods, and now he wasn’t sure? Was this a joke?

Sensing Anagin’s irritation, the master explained,

“Few practitioners actually aim to beco gods.”

“So there are so, then?”

The master shrugged as if to say, there are.

Anagin decided to let it go. After all, there wasn’t much else to do.

As he watched Anagin, the master glanced toward the newly added graves in the cetery.

“Your sister… she died?”

“Yes.”

The master offered a brief condolence.

“Sha. Unlike you, she was a kind and sweet child.”

“I know. I even prayed, hoping the gods might notice… but it was useless.”

“Prayed? You?”

The master sounded surprised.

And rightly so—he knew better than anyone that Anagin viewed prayer as nothing more than begging.

For example, even last winter, when his parents and the entire village died one by one, Anagin had never once prayed. Not a single ti.

Yet now, he was admitting that he had prayed. How could one not be surprised?

“Strange. You, praying… How did it feel?”

“Honestly, at first, it was comforting. To entrust my burdens to soone else.”

Anagin confessed plainly.

During his first prayer, he’d felt a brief mont of peace.

“But soon after, it made feel disgusted.”

Anagin looked toward his sister’s grave—the grave of a girl who had lost her life in vain because he had handed her fate over to another.

He wondered if things would have been different had he not prayed.

Would she still have died? Even if she had, would he still feel this sa filthy guilt of having left her to soone else?

He thought about it for a while, then gave up. It was a aningless question.

“Is that why you want to beco a god—to wash away that filthy feeling?”

The master, who knew him well, guessed.

Anagin didn’t deny it.

“Yes. I figured if I beco one of those so-called great gods, maybe this foul feeling will disappear… Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

At that last, almost careless reason—it’s not like I have anything better to do—the master let out a faint laugh.

Such a lighthearted motive for so grand a goal as becoming a god…

Yet he didn’t mock him. Because he knew Anagin ant every word.

“It won’t be easy becoming a god.”

“I don’t care. Easy or hard, that’s not the issue. The question is whether I’ll do it or not. And on that note, I have a favor to ask.”

“Speak.”

“Please call the village chief. I’d like to hold a funeral for my sister.”

* * *

The master went to fetch the village chief, just as Anagin had asked.

In the anti, Anagin threw the wild boar carcass far into the distance and began preparing for the funeral.

Normally, such troubleso tasks would have fallen to the village elders or his friends, but with the plague continuing to rage, Anagin had no choice but to handle it himself.

Whether that was a good thing or a miserable one, he couldn’t tell.

“Cough—! Cough—! …Already done with the preparations?”

As he finished the simple arrangents, soone approached.

It was the village chief, supported by the master.

The chief looked even smaller than the last ti Anagin had seen him—most likely weakened even further by the plague.

“You’ve gotten shorter, haven’t you?”

“Hah…! Hah…! You insolent brat!”

Even after only a few steps, the chief was out of breath, but his temper was still intact.

After scolding Anagin and catching his breath, the chief looked around and stepped up to the grave where Anagin’s sister was buried.

“She was such a good girl. Better than you.”

“You don’t need to tell that.”

The chief placed his dry, shriveled hand over Anagin’s arm, the contrast stark against his firm, muscled forearm.

“My condolences.”

He had heard those sa words countless tis before, but they never bored him—because this man’s voice carried genuine sorrow.

In truth, the village chief might have suffered a tragedy far worse than Anagin’s—for he had lost, one by one, every life he was responsible for.

“…Nothing we can do. Let’s just start the funeral.”

The chief nodded silently and began the rites.

A village funeral was a humble affair—just a prayer for the deceased’s rest, a few offerings of food and drink, and that was all.

Still, once it was done, Anagin felt as though he had completed sothing montous—as if now, at last, he could move on.

“So, you’re going to beco a practitioner?”

The chief approached after the ceremony, his tone suggesting he’d heard the news from the master on their way here.

“Guess that old man’s got a loose tongue… Yes. There’s nothing else to do, so I thought I might as well try it.”

“Then you’ll be leaving the village, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to bury you before I go.”

The chief smiled faintly and shook his head.

“It’s the other way around. If you’re going to leave, go now.”

The unexpected words made Anagin furrow his brow.

The chief let out a gravelly laugh.

“To think I’d ever see that expression on your face. Is this the first ti—or the second?”

“Making jokes now, huh? Guess it really is your ti to die.”

“You’re still young. You’ll learn—there’s a right ti for everything.”

“If you’re planning to lecture , do it tomorrow. For now, get so rest—”

“—That’s exactly why! Anagin!!”

The chief called his na sharply, cutting him off.

As a man who had once taught the children of the village, his voice still carried the crisp edge of authority—enough to make Anagin pause mid-sentence.

“The will of man is invisible—astonishingly strong, yet just as astonishingly fragile. You put sothing off for a day, and the next thing you know, you’ll put it off for two.”

Anagin wanted to argue that he wasn’t that kind of man, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He knew strength alone didn’t an one could do everything. Besides, there was a quiet power in the chief’s words—the kind that ca from a leader who had guided others through hardship.

“…Speaking from experience?”

The chief didn’t answer, only smiled. And that alone was answer enough. Perhaps he wasn’t wrong. The human heart was unseen, strong and fragile all at once. If Anagin stayed in the village until the chief passed away, he might find yet another reason not to leave.

Still, one thing troubled him—

If he left now, who would bury the chief when he died?

There were only three people left alive in the village: Anagin, the chief, and the master.

If Anagin departed, there’d be no one to tend to the old man’s body. He’d simply rot away, worms and all. The thought didn’t sit right with him.

“I’ll take care of it.”

The master, who had been listening to their conversation, stepped forward with an offer.

“You, Master?”

“Yes. Consider it paynt for letting an unnad wanderer like stay here all this ti without question.”

The master had co to this village a few years ago, and since then, he had remained here. When he first arrived, the whole village had been thrown into a stir.

Strangers were rare in this secluded place—and one with hair and a beard that glead like gold was even rarer. Anagin himself was blond, but even so…

Naturally, so villagers had been wary of him.

They said they couldn’t possibly accept a man whose identity was unknown, who wouldn’t even reveal his na.

‘I have abandoned my na in the past. Call whatever you find convenient.’

That was why Anagin called him Master. He didn’t know the man’s na, so he could only address him by role or relation.

So of the villagers even advised the chief to drive the outsider away.

They said it was far too suspicious to let an unnad stranger into their village—especially since the reason for his visit was vague as well.

‘What I’m looking for is said to be in this forest… What is it, you ask? I don’t know exactly. I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’

An unknown outsider, naless and without clear purpose—he stirred quiet unease in the once-peaceful village.

As debate grew over whether to cast him out, the stranger made an offer.

He said he could be of great help to the village, that he possessed many skills.

It sounded like nonsense at first, but not wanting to cause unnecessary strife, the chief accepted his proposal—and soon realized that the man hadn’t been boasting.

No one knew what he had been before, but he was a man of astonishing talent.

Carpentry, farming, brewing, beekeeping, tanning, dicine… everything he touched was of the highest quality.

The best carpenter, Goose; the best farr, Farn; and the brewer, Royce—all ca to learn from him.

There wasn’t a single villager who hadn’t learned sothing from the master, and so they all ca to call him teacher or ntor.

Now, that sa master spoke:

‘Either way, I still have sothing to find in this forest, so I’ll be staying here for a while longer. No trouble at all.’

‘I see.’

The chief accepted the words easily, then turned to Anagin.

Anagin finally nodded. Given the situation, refusing now would only make him a man of empty words.

Having received his answer, the chief told Anagin to follow him and led him back to his house.

He had Anagin wait outside while he went in and ca out with dried at, bread, and so clothing.

“These things are useless to now. Better that soone make use of them before they rot. You may be an insolent brat, but you’re also this village’s hero.”

“It would’ve sounded better without the ‘insolent brat’ part… but I’ll take them, thank you.”

“Oh, and take this too.”

The chief reached into his chest and pulled out a small pouch, handing it to him.

When Anagin opened it, he saw coins—round pieces of gold and silver gleaming faintly.

“Back in my younger days, a rchant family once visited this village. They gave these coins when they bought food from us.”

Anagin thought, that makes sense. There was no other way such things would exist in a place like this.

The chief’s voice softened with nostalgia.

“They told stories of the world beyond—cities where countless people lived, and heroes who defeated villains.”

“Was that when you wanted to see the outside world?”

“Yes. The timing was never right, so I couldn’t go… but these coins are said to be useful out there, so take them.”

The chief pressed the pouch into Anagin’s hand. Perhaps he was giving him more than just money—perhaps he was handing over his dreams and mories too. The dreams of youth—to leave the village and see the world.

“…I can’t let you go empty-handed either.”

The touching mont was abruptly broken when the master interjected of his own accord.

In his gloved hand glead a solid lump of gold.

“Gold is as good as money. Use it when you need to—it’ll co in handy.”

The glittering tal looked undeniably useful. Anagin accepted it gladly and tucked it inside his coat.

“Thank you.”

“So, that’s everything you need, then?”

“No. There’s one more thing I have to do before I leave.”

With that, Anagin turned toward his house—or rather, what had once been his house.

Fwoooosh—!

Anagin set fire to the house using the sa bonfire where he had been roasting the wild boar at.

The small, old hut—where his father, mother, and younger sister once lived—burned down with uncanny speed, turning to ash as if it were urging him to leave this place.

Perhaps Anagin wasn’t the only one who felt that way, for his master spoke softly beside him.

“Perhaps this is fate.”

“Fate, you say?”

“There’s an old saying that Gigants like you and are guided by fate—that great strength calls for great deeds.”

“Do you happen to know where that so-called fate lives?”

“Hm? Why do you ask?”

“So I can find it and slap the damn thing across the face.”

“Pwahaha—!”

The master burst out laughing, his mouth opening wide beneath his golden beard. Anagin hadn’t ant it as a joke, but as a genuine remark.

Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, the master said,

“Ah, sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve heard sothing that refreshing. You’re right—fate deserves a good slap. Though it isn’t exactly a thing, you know.”

“...?”

“It’s ti to go now.”

As Anagin tilted his head at the master’s words, the village chief cut in. The hut was nearly gone anyway—it was indeed ti to leave.

When Anagin stood up, the master asked,

“It’d be best to get out of the forest as quickly as possible, right?”

“Well, yeah. If I keep running, I’ll get out eventually. But where exactly am I supposed to go?”

Having never once left the village in his life, Anagin had no idea where to go to escape both the forest and the settlent.

The master shook his head.

“There’s a much surer way than walking.”

It made no sense. Before Anagin could ask what nonsense he was talking about, the master suddenly grabbed his wrist—and his collar.

Then, with all his might, he threw Anagin straight into the sky.

With his feet lifted off the ground, a strange weightless feeling surged through him. His body shot upward, soaring high into the heavens.

The master, the chief, the village—all beca tiny, like ants below.

And just like that, Anagin left his ho in a way he had never imagined possible.

As he was hurled into the sky, Anagin shouted down,

“You crazy bastard—!”

* * *

Anagin shot into the heavens by his master’s hand, rising higher and higher until he vanished among the stars.

The village chief watched him go. It wasn’t particularly shocking.

To see a man hurl another into the sky should have been an extraordinary sight—but he had already seen sothing similar long ago, when the master first defeated Anagin and took him on as his disciple.

To ta a beast-killer like Anagin, one would have to be an even greater monster. So, really, launching a man skyward wasn’t all that surprising.

Feeling his legs weaken, the chief sat himself down on a nearby rock and turned to look at the master.

The golden-haired man brushed the dust from his hands as though he had just finished sothing significant.

The chief spoke to him.

“You’ll be leaving now as well, won’t you, Master?”

“What do you an by that?”

“You’ve finished your business here, haven’t you? Ti to move on.”

Step. Step…

The master stopped in front of the chief. Unlike his usual familiar deanor, there was now an unspoken pressure about him—a presence that was difficult to describe.

“You sound as though you know sothing.”

“There’s no point in hiding it now, is there?”

The master paused for a mont, then spoke quietly.

“Hmph… Let’s make one thing clear. I wasn’t the one who spread this sickness.”

“I know. I know what this absurd disease is. Just… please make sure the bodies aren’t desecrated. The beasts around here still hold grudges against us—they might dig up our graves.”

“I can do it after you’ve fallen asleep, Chief.”

“No need. My ti’s already at its end. I’ve no wish to cling to a miserable life. Better to end it now, while it still has aning.”

Hearing the resolve in his voice, the master silently removed the gloves from his hands.

For soone who wore gloves every day, one might expect scars beneath them—but his hands were spotless, unblemished, as if they had never known hardship. What kind of birth could grant a man such hands?

The master raised his bare hand.

The chief murmured, recalling a tale from long ago.

“Once, a king blessed by the gods—richest in all the world—but that sa blessing cost him his daughter and his kingdom.”

The master slowly lowered his hand.

“The sinful king who, in his wrath, rebelled against the gods”

The master’s hand touched the chief.

“Midas, the man with the golden touch.”

And in that instant, the chief—and the entire village—turned to gold.