At first, I thought it was just a normal morning market—smell of sweat, an overly enthusiastic baker yelling about buns, and a kid trying to steal a carrot from a cart.
But then… smoke.
And robes.
Lots of robes.
A group of people in black robes came from the west, reeking of incense, carrying the same level of seriousness as exam supervisors, and they immediately started kidnapping people.
Not the polite kind of kidnapping. I'm talking the grab-bag-drag-to-the-cart variety.
A mother screamed.
A man panicked and lost a sandal.
A fish vendor was tossed into a sack—along with the fish.
And me? I stood there, eating bread, thinking, "Wow, this must be some local drama promo."
Then one of them looked at me.
Deeply.
And—because life loves irony—said:
"Oh... Bearer of the End!"
I was just about to say, "Nah, I'm just carrying bread," but my mouth—this damn mouth—chose to say:
"Yup. And if you don't serve sweet tea every afternoon, the world ends."
...Why did I say that?
No idea.
Maybe I was hungry.
Maybe I was stressed.
Maybe I just have a terrible habit of mouthing off to robe-wearing strangers.
What matters is: they panicked.
One of them immediately dropped to their knees and screamed,
"O Goddess of Destruction! Forgive us for not bringing sweet tea today!"
Within 40 seconds, I was in a sack.
And I wasn't alone. Inside the oversized sack with me were:
– A market shaman who just wanted to buy onions,
– A bard who had the bad luck to sing a satirical song about "robes that smell like graveyards,"
– And one old man who apparently took a wrong turn on his way to the toilet.
We were all wrongly kidnapped.
But the biggest mistake?
Me.
Because they're convinced I'm their spiritual leader, maybe.
One hour later, we arrived at their base: a damp cave decorated with skulls and a hand-painted cloth banner that read, "Welcome, Bearer of the End."
Handwritten.
In red paint.
Not blood—I checked the smell.
They bathed us (with cold water—how rude), gave us ceremonial clothes (itchy like coconut husks), and held a welcome ceremony.
They forced me onto a stone throne (yes, stone) and demanded I speak the First Prophecy.
My brain? Empty.
My mouth? Not.
"Starting today, the world will be destroyed... unless you serve sweet tea every afternoon. With sugar. Two spoonfuls. No artificial sweeteners. I'm serious."
The cult?
Instant hysteria.
Someone started crying.
Someone else ran to the kitchen.
I just sat there, thinking, "Yup. My life is now officially more absurd than a 300-episode soap opera."
And from the corner of the cave, one of the guards—a horned horse trying to blend in with a ceremonial robe but with a snout poking out from under the hood—watched me.
Valmor.
My friend.
Undercover.
Still walking like a horse.
Because he forgot.