Chapter 245 Referee

The brass doorbell, mottled with rust, made a muffled sound when shaken, almost drowned out by the clatter of the oil-starved door hinges opening and closing. The ticking of the clock hands rang like the whispers of some small rodent. These sounds should have been extremely subtle, but when hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them ticked simultaneously, they felt deafening.

The owner of the watch shop, wearing goggles, stood in front of a giant owl clock and was picking up an extremely delicate gear with tweezers when the doorbell rang.

"Welcome to Mr. Brown's Watches—"

The old man's voice faltered. He pushed up his goggles and saw a strange figure standing in his small shop, his eyes exposed. His cloak trailed down behind him, almost dragging on the ground, yet he moved with remarkable ease, not even raising a speck of dust.

"Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?" The old shop owner came to his senses and greeted warmly and considerately.

"Good afternoon, sir." The stranger's voice was surprisingly youthful, gentle and clear like a river flowing in early spring. "Excuse me, but do you know the beggar lying next to the coal slag across from your shop?"

The old man did not answer immediately, but asked cautiously: "He has been lying here for nearly two weeks - are you a relative of that unfortunate man?"

"I'm a traveling healer." The young guest shook his head. "The symptoms he has seem very strange. I've never seen them in my hometown, so..."

"Ah, that's not surprising." The old man suddenly understood. He seemed to relax a lot. He looked around cautiously, leaned over and said in a low voice, "Sir, you are an outsider. Of course you don't know this - this is a curse unique to the Fog Castle."

"...Curse?" Azuka raised an eyebrow. The professor, who was following behind him, hiding his form with a confusion spell, also narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Yes, a curse."

The old man carefully examined the young man's covered lower face. "It seems you've also noticed that strange odor in the air. Many outsiders are unaccustomed to Fogburg when they first arrive and cover their mouths and noses like you do. But over time, they become accustomed to it, just like the Fogburgers themselves."

A certain savior who simply didn't want to cause a riot: "...That's right."

The old man lowered his voice even more: "And this is the curse of the goddess of fate, Lamodo."

Azuka cooperated very well and asked in surprise, "Wasn't the goddess of fate, Lamodo, confirmed dead over three hundred years ago?"

The old man smiled mysteriously and said, "You know, the goddess of fate holds a silver shuttle in her hand and steps on a copper spinning wheel, spinning time into the threads of fate. When a person dies, she uses golden scissors to cut the corresponding threads."

The other party was talking about the Weaver's Doctrine that has been circulating on the continent of Ambrose for a long time.

"The 'weavers' announced the goddess's demise, but do you know why?" Without waiting for Azuka's reply, the old man enthusiastically continued his explanation: "That's because the goddess of fate also weaves the fate of the gods. One day, Lamodo decided to cut one of the threads of fate, but the gods were frightened by this - so they united and stabbed her to death with golden scissors."

The young visitor seemed completely shocked by this "truth": "...I have never heard any priest say that."

"So, before her death, the goddess of fate cursed her. She forbade anyone, not even the gods, to touch the golden scissors, silver shuttle, and bronze spinning wheel she left behind. From then on, fate became extremely capricious." The old man's voice was deep and hoarse. "And anyone who attempts to weave a masterpiece as perfect as the gods, or even attempts to weave time and fate, will also be cursed by the goddess. Silk threads will grow from their bodies, entangled and suffocated to death."

Seeing the guest frozen in silence, the old man, feeling satisfied with himself for scaring the man, continued sighing, "You know, we don't have much in Fog Castle except for textile mills. With so many textile mills, there are so many textile workers, and we're bound to produce a few outstanding craftsmen. Over the decades, the goddess's long-suppressed curse has erupted. Everyone says that strange smell in the air is the resentment of the goddess of fate as she's about to die."

He suddenly lowered his voice to a whisper, "So, the owners of those big textile mills aren't good people. They're willing to risk their lives to make money. It's best to avoid the textile business if you can. Curses don't make sense."

professor:"……"

It was strangely consistent with the symptoms and prevention methods of byssinosis. Superstition and science reached a reconciliation at this moment.

The old shop owner was still chattering, but it seemed that few people were willing to listen to him.

"I know that poor guy." He glanced at the beggar lying on the ground outside the shop and shook his head with pity. "His wife was an excellent weaver, but she was cursed and suffocated to death. Then he took over his wife's work to support the children - and now he has become like this. A few days ago, he asked me for water to drink, and I saw that his face was purple from suffocation."

Azuka was silent for a moment, then suddenly whispered, "...His child also died, from the same disease."

A child of only four or five years old would never trigger the harsh conditions of the curse.

The old shop owner was stunned for a moment. He opened his mouth, suddenly turned his head, silently took off his glasses and began to wipe them.

"…It's only a matter of time." He wiped his glasses intently, as if he was prepared to do so forever. His voice gradually became unclear: "No one from Fogburg can escape."

The last sound was almost hallucinatory, like a faint sigh: "You'd better... leave here as soon as possible."

Seeing that no one moved, the old man coughed a few times with difficulty, and his voice suddenly became louder: "Please go back, my guest. The shop is about to close."

Finally, they left a small bag of coins and asked the owner to take care of the beggar who was unconscious and dying but still holding the child's body tightly, provide him with food and water for the last few days, and then collect the bodies of the father and son. The old man did not respond, but did not refuse until they left the store.

Standing outside the watch shop, the professor narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "It seems the rumor of the 'curse' has spread throughout the Fog Castle, causing a certain panic. That's why Ms. Watson left the Fog Castle and went to other parts of Batalia to recruit outstanding weavers."

Yialos had been frowning since the beginning. He glanced at the black-haired young man and asked, "Are you sure this isn't a curse, but rather an... occupational disease?"

Seeing the man staring at him like a fool with those smoky gray eyes, the Knight Commander coughed lightly and continued in a deep voice with an inexplicable sense of discomfort, "I've dealt with curse cases before. Large curses usually affect blood, geography, or a certain carrier. The current situation in Fog Castle is actually quite consistent."

"It's also consistent with industrial pollution," Nova said coldly. He felt like he was in an episode of "Into Science." "Strictly speaking, it's not just 'occupational diseases.' Industrial pollution has many impacts. It can also lead to soil and water contamination, loss of biodiversity, frequent outbreaks of strange illnesses among surrounding residents, and birth defects. And from what I've observed, the strange phenomena I've seen along the way to the Fog Castle have almost all been verified - can curses manifest themselves in such a rich and diverse way?"

Yialos was silent for a moment: "...If it is a curse from the gods, then it is entirely possible."

The guy looked at him with his gray eyes for a moment, then suddenly tutted his words. "...Well, I don't really understand your system well enough to make a definitive conclusion on this."

"But this person is also a god." He patted the god's shoulder expressionlessly: "Azuka, you are the expert, you be the referee."

The blond god pondered, half-closing his eyes. A faint breeze blew from behind him—but he soon opened his eyes again: "So far, I haven't sensed any trace of curse."

"Well, the truth is out." The triumphant professor raised his chin triumphantly. "It seems this isn't divine punishment, nor the manifestation of an ancient curse. It's the result of a distortion of human nature and a decline in morality."

Yialos: “…”

This guy is so childish.

The referee standing by had a gentle smile in his blue eyes and rubbed the black-haired young man's head.

…

Mrs. Bowen of Harvest Town was carefully wiping her daughter's sewing table, humming a song. Despite a minor incident, her daughter Lina still boarded the train to the South Side, going to Spindleberg to make a fortune.

There was a sudden knock on the window. Mrs. Bowen was stunned for a moment, and then she saw through the glass a homeless grocer with a shelf on his back and oil paint on his face, bending over to look into her window.

"Oh, how are you, Mrs. Bowen? I'm so glad to see you're well!" He smiled as he saw her, took off his strange, large, feathered cocked hat, and bowed exaggeratedly to her. "Do you remember me?"

Mrs. Bowen was stunned for a moment, then suddenly realized, "Ah, I was just looking for you!"

She dug out a roll of dark blue silk thread from her daughter's work box on the sewing table, pushed open the window, leaned out, and tried to return the ball of thread to her daughter. "My daughter doesn't like this. She says it's too dirty. Can I return it?"

"What you said is true. The payment and goods have been settled, so how can there be any reason to return them?" The merchant laughed and reached out to take it. "And how could it be dirty?"

But as soon as he touched Mrs. Bowen's fingers, a sudden and huge force threw him away without warning, and he flew directly into the neighbor's yard, plowing a deep mark on the ground.

The frightened hens in the yard flapped their wings and flew around, leaving countless chicken feathers stuck on the merchant's hair and clothes, and a large amount of chicken droppings on his face.

The man coughed a few times, then suddenly covered his chest and spat out a mouthful of blood. Mrs. Bowen was shocked: "Ah! I didn't use any force! If you don't want to return it, then don't return it. How can you be so shameless?!"

But the strange fellow simply slowly got up, ignoring the shouts and curses of the neighbor lady who had rushed over after hearing the noise, and stumbled out, leaving behind the scattered goods. He seemed to be walking very slowly, but strangely, he disappeared in the blink of an eye. Mrs. Bowen and the neighbor lady had no choice but to curse him while going back to clean up the mess.

A faint, trembling whisper seemed to be carried on the wind, unheard by anyone: "What a vengeful God..."