To Tempt A Saint

Nine woke to the sharp taste of iron coating his tongue, the acrid burn of blood pooling in his throat. He coughed, each convulsion wracking his body with pain. His limbs felt like they had been torn apart and stitched back together with rusted needles, every muscle screaming in protest. A deep, pulsing ache hammered against his skull, the rhythm of it unbearable.

His fingers twitched against something solid—heavy, slick. He forced his eyes open, vision swimming.

A severed head.

The archer's face was locked in terror, mouth twisted in a silent scream, his lifeless eyes wide with the finality of death. Blood dripped from the ragged edges of his neck, the scent thick and metallic in the damp night air.

Nine clicked his tongue. "Tch."

With a flick of his wrist, he flung the head aside, but the motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over him. His stomach lurched. He gritted his teeth and pressed a trembling hand to his temple, willing his senses to steady. But the remnants of poison still coiled through his veins like phantom chains, invisible yet suffocating.

Red Serpent.

A venom so potent it seared through meridians like molten steel, turning blood to fire and qi to sludge. Yet—he was still alive.

Barely.

A hoarse chuckle slipped past his lips, dry and rasping. He rolled onto his side, forcing himself onto his elbows. The river was close. He could hear the slow, murmuring current lapping against the stones. Dragging himself forward, he plunged into the icy water, letting it devour him whole.

The cold was a vicious shock, biting into his feverish skin, seeping into every wound and crevice. Blood and grime washed away, swirling into the dark depths, but the fire in his body remained—a relentless, pulsing heat deep within his core.

His lips curled faintly. "At least I got free poison today." A silver lining.

Beneath his tattered cloak, his fingers brushed against the reinforced glass of a small bottle. His usual dose of toxin. His body had already adapted to yesterday's venom, pushing his resistance further. But today had tested his limits.

And yet, he had survived.

He had surpassed himself.

His steps were sluggish as he dragged himself ashore, each movement weighed down by exhaustion. Last night had been chaos—another bloodbath in the shadows. He had barely slipped away while the maniacs tore each other apart, losing himself in the carnage long enough to disappear. A few stolen hours of rest by the river had been his only reprieve.

Then—

A shift in the air.

His instincts flared.

Nine's muscles coiled, his body already preparing to strike before his mind had fully caught up.

"If you're not here to kill me," he rasped, voice hoarse from poison and fatigue, making him sound half-drunk, "then fuck off."

He turned—

And blinked.

A bald man walked beside him as if he had always been there.

Nine furrowed his brows. "Hah?"

The monk met his gaze with an expression so neutral it was almost insulting.

"I am hungry."

Nine stared. Then clicked his tongue. "And now, a crazy monk."

He exhaled, shaking his head, but his balance wavered slightly. He caught himself before he could stumble.

The monk, undeterred, stepped in front of him. "Do you have food to spare?"

Nine narrowed his eyes, then patted down his ragged robes with exaggerated slowness—before holding up a middle finger.

Silence.

Then, unexpectedly, the monk laughed.

Nine narrowed his eyes further. "So monks do have humor."

"Come eat with me, stranger."

Nine considered ignoring him. The sane choice. But something about the monk's tone—casual, unshaken, unafraid—made him pause.

A man who wasn't afraid of him.

Nine turned slightly, lifting a hand to smack the bald head—only to stop when he noticed the monk pointing elsewhere.

By the riverbank, a fire flickered, low and steady. Fish and meat roasted over open flames, their skin crisp and golden, the scent rich with char and oil.

Nine said nothing. He simply walked over, grabbed one, and bit into it.

The monk followed suit, eating with unexpected lack of restraint.

Nine chewed. "Hey, baldy. Isn't that unholy?"

The monk, mid-bite, paused. Then—he grinned.

Too wide.

Nine stiffened. Something about that grin unsettled him.

"You're a participant," Nine muttered.

The monk's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "No. I'm just a rebellious monk."

Nine scrutinized him.

"And you?" the monk asked. "Why are you here?"

Nine chewed slowly, then spat out the fish bones. He didn't answer.

The monk, undeterred, clasped his hands in prayer. "I was told to meet a man who will bring balance."

Nine stilled.

Then—he burst into laughter. Loud, unrestrained, almost manic. The force of it startled birds from their perches.

"Me?!" Nine wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, that's fucking rich."

The monk remained serene. "Yes. I think it's you."

Nine tilted his head. "And what made you think that?"

The monk's expression didn't change.

"A hunch."

Nine scoffed. "Scammer." He nodded to himself. "As thanks for the food, I'll tell you now—you're not scamming shit out of me."

The monk became serious. "This isn't mine."

Then—

A gust of wind exploded past them.

Nine barely had time to process before the monk bolted.

"Our food, AFTER THEM!"

Nine turned. Warriors surged toward them, weapons gleaming under the moonlight.

He rolled his shoulders. His body ached, but he could fight.

And yet—

He pivoted, and sprinted after the shameless monk.

More than ten warriors pursued, their footfalls swift and deadly.

Nine cackled. "HAHAHAHA!" A flesh-eating thief and a lunatic monk talking nonsense.

Ahead, the monk moved too smoothly, the two of them outrunning the warriors. Then—he leaped.

Nine skidded to a halt, peering over the edge.

The bald bastard landed on a narrow outcrop far below—without stumbling. Before Nine could curse, he slipped into a hidden cave.

And, without hesitation—he leaped after him.

Inside, the monk lit candles one by one, shadows flickering against stone walls. A Buddha statue sat at the center, its gaze eternal, serene.

The monk settled before it, clasping dark prayer beads.

"Buddha teaches discipline," he murmured. "We conquer the self, so that desire does not conquer us. But in the end, is that not a path for all men?"

Nine leaned against the wall.

The monk turned. "Tell me… have the gods truly abandoned us?"

Nine's raised a brow, returning a question. "Is Buddha speaking to you right now?"

The monk smiled. He did not answer.

Nine shook his head. "Yes or no, it doesn't change a damn thing. Whether gods are watching or not, we survive because we breathe. That's all."

The monk rolled the beads between his fingers. "And yet, despite it all, you go to great lengths to survive."

Nine yawned.

"Why?"

Nine's throat felt dry. His answer came without hesitation—but it held weight.

"…Her."

The monk studied him. "A lover?"

Nine crouched beside him, forearms on his knees, the candlelight flickering in his eyes.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice sharp. "What do you really know about what's happening?"

Without warning, he pressed a dagger to the monk's throat.

The monk didn't flinch. Not a single muscle twitched.

"You are chosen," he said simply.

Nine narrowed his eyes. Then, he smacked the monk's head with the blunt end of the dagger.

The monk winced. "Ow."

Nine scoffed. "What am I, a divine errand boy?"

The monk rubbed his head. "It is a dark path," he mused. "But you will endure."

Nine raised his hand to smack him again. The monk deftly blocked it.

"Good and evil," he continued, "are but two forces of contrast. Neither absolute nor separate. You…" He tapped his chest. "You walk between them, whether you realize it or not."

Nine's hand wavered slightly.

"You believe this world to be forsaken," the monk murmured, "but you still fight. You carve through the darkness, not for salvation—but because you refuse to be swallowed by it."

Nine's gaze locked onto him.

"You are the last prophecy," the monk said. "And I am a seer."

Nine exhaled. A slow smirk curled his lips.

"Hah… Now that sounds interesting."