The Invincible Young Master

After a long moment of stunned silence, Zarak cleared his throat and asked. "Are you sure there's no mistake?"

The teller, who had been carefully inspecting the ledger, adjusted his glasses and looked up, his face serious.

"No mistake," he confirmed. "The balance is exactly 100 silver and a handful of bronze."

...

Moments later, Zarak and the old man found themselves back outside the imposing bank. The sun shone down on the busy street, but it did little to ease the heaviness in Zarak's chest.

He stared down at the pouch in his hand, the sight of the few coins inside filling him with a quiet disbelief.

The old man let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, shaking his head as he slapped his knee.

"Oh, the great Master's account was really… this?" he snorted between chuckles. "You couldn't even buy a decent meal with this! Maybe if you rationed bread every day, it'd last you a month. Maybe."

His laughter grew louder, and a few passersby glanced over, some with curious smiles, others with confused looks at the scene unfolding before them.

Zarak stayed quiet, his mind racing as the old man's laughter echoed in his ears.

His master had spoken with such confidence about the account, about how it would be more than enough for his journey. How could this be the same account? The sum seemed so small now, so insignificant.

"But… Master said it would be enough," Zarak murmured. The words felt hollow on his tongue, the disbelief still lingering thick in the air around him.

The old man wiped a tear from his eye as his chuckles subsided. He grinned at Zarak, shaking his head. "Your master probably had no idea his 'huge savings' had dwindled down to this. At one point, 100 silver might've been a fortune, but that was a long time ago, lad."

Zarak's thoughts spun as he tried to reconcile the image of his master, the revered, powerful figure with influence across the land, with the small, dwindling account that now lay in his hand.

What had once been a sum to secure a prosperous future had become barely enough for a few meals.

Had his master been so out of touch with the world outside that he hadn't realized how much everything had changed?

Zarak's chest tightened. This wasn't just a setback; it felt like a betrayal. His master, who had guided him with such wisdom, hadn't even noticed how the world had moved on without him.

With a deep, resigned sigh, Zarak tucked the pouch into his belt and looked down the street.

Vendors shouted their prices for food and trinkets, the sounds of the busy marketplace filling the air.

"Well then," Zarak said, his voice hardening, pushing the frustration aside. "We'll just have to make do with this."

"Let's go then," Zarak said, turning to face the road ahead. The old man fell in step beside him, still chuckling softly.

As twilight blanketed the capital in a soft glow, Zarak and the old man wandered through a lively corner of the city.

Around them, lanterns flickered to life as vendors called out their wares, their voices blending with laughter and music from street performers.

The city felt alive but not overwhelming, as if it had grown to comfortably hold everyone, hinting at some grand event on the horizon.

The old man paused, glancing up as the sky deepened from dusk to evening.

"Look at that sky," he remarked. "The hour's slipping by fast. We're not making it to the main city tonight."

Zarak nodded, watching the shifting colors in the sky. "Seems we're staying here for now."

With a grin, the old man rummaged through his worn leather bag and pulled out a small wooden box and a thin stick of incense.

Curious, Zarak observed as the old man set up his belongings on a low platform he had improvised from crates nearby.

"You're going to tell a story here?" Zarak asked, looking around.

They stood in a quiet corner of the bustling market, a place with few people lingering and no clear crowd to listen.

"Why not?" the old man chuckled, unfazed by the lack of an audience.

He unrolled a large piece of parchment, quickly scrawling the words Devil's Temptation in bold letters before pinning it to the wall behind him.

The strange, ominous title caught the attention of a few people passing by.

They paused, glancing at the sign, whispering to each other.

Some young folks and a few elderly spectators inched closer, curious about the story by that bold title.

Soon, murmurs filled the air as more people gathered, asking when the story would begin.

The old man simply raised a hand, smiling, urging them to wait.

Zarak noticed the incense stick slowly burning down, a subtle but rich scent curling into the night air. He leaned toward the old man and whispered, "That's not ordinary incense, is it?"

The old man gave him a mischievous grin, eyes twinkling.

"Let's just say it helps keep an audience's interest," he chuckled, barely hiding his amusement.

As the scent drifted through the crowd, Zarak could feel its faint but alluring pull, almost like a spell that nudged people into lingering just a bit longer.

It wasn't powerful enough to control anyone; rather, it gently sparked curiosity, making them pause and wonder just enough to stay.

Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered around, eyes fixed on the old man, eager to hear the story behind the mysterious title.

"Long ago," he began, his tone weaving a spell over them, "there was a poor farmer who lived in a small village with his beloved wife and daughter. His life was hard, his crops were few, and year after year, he prayed for just one good harvest. But it never came. No matter how he tried, the soil was dry and unforgiving, and it seemed the heavens had forgotten him."

The crowd watched, some nodding as if they understood the farmer's struggles. The storyteller paused, letting a hush settle over them, and then resumed with a hint of mystery in his voice.

One evening, as he was plowing his fields beneath the setting sun, his hoe struck something hard. Curious, he knelt down and began to dig, his fingers clawing through the soil.

Soon, he unearthed a small cube, unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was a perfect shape, with edges so smooth and polished that it seemed to glow, almost as if it held a light of its own.

The farmer took the cube home, hoping it might be valuable, maybe even magical.

He examined it from every angle, but it looked like nothing more than a strange, shiny piece of metal.

Disappointed, he left it by his pillow and went to sleep, thinking it might have been nothing but a waste of his time.

But that night, as he lay under the light of the full moon, the cube began to glow, filling his small room with a haunting silver light.

And then he heard it, a voice, faint but clear, echoing in his mind.

'Do you want power?' the voice asked, its words as clear as a whisper beside him. 'I can give you strength, wealth, anything your heart desires… but only if you're willing to pay the price.'

The farmer, tired of his struggles, desperate for a change, unconsciously whispered back, 'Yes, I want it.'

When he awoke the next morning, he felt different, His body was strong, his senses sharper.

He found he could work faster, lifting what he couldn't before. With his newfound strength, the once-weak farmer transformed into a leader.

His family was fed, his neighbors envied him, and he began to believe he was truly blessed.

But… one evening, just as he was enjoying his newfound life, the voice returned, as if it had been waiting patiently for the right moment.

'It is time,' the voice said. 'Are you prepared to pay your price?'"

The farmer, now proud and filled with power, laughed.

'No,' he said, 'I will pay nothing.' He waited for something to happen, some punishment or curse, but nothing came.

He grew smug, thinking he had somehow tricked the voice, believing he'd gotten his strength for free.

But soon, things began to change. His wife, who once adored him, began to pull away, her words growing colder, her glances harder.

His daughter, who once ran to him with laughter, seemed afraid, her smile disappearing whenever he drew close.

They no longer looked at him with love but with something colder, something that pierced deeper than hatred.

The crowd shifted, uncomfortable, some casting uneasy glances at one another.

One day, as the farmer returned his home, he overheard his daughter talking to a stranger.

'If only my father were like you.'

'Yes, if only my husband were truly a man.'

Filled with rage, the farmer stormed in, blinded by fury, his once-loving heart twisted by bitterness.

In his anger, he took their lives, his own family, his own blood, gone in a single, terrible moment.

And then, just as he stood there, his hands trembling, he heard a familiar voice, soft and mocking,

'The price...'

He turned his side, to see the the stranger's dark hollow eyes staring at him.