Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Prophet

This is an era of weariness.

The sky is dirty, the clouds hang low, yet there is no snow.

This dim winter desperately needs a city-blanketing snowfall to bring salvation.

Outside the window, the dusky sky felt oppressively dark. He sighed — it was only 3 p.m., yet night had already arrived early.

Or perhaps—

In a pair of 84-year-old clouded eyes, even the sunlight of seven or eight in the morning was veiled in gray.

He lowered his head, his hands trembling, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

The fiery liquid burned its way down his throat, and even those soon-to-dim eyes gained a trace of warmth.

From the window to the desk — a mere seven steps.

He slowly walked over, but it felt like the journey of a lifetime.

Yes, his life was like burnt-out coal, with only the faintest lingering ember left at its core.

The only reason he still clung to life was to wait for this very moment.

Though it had come late—

At least, it had come at last.

On the empty desk sat a computer, gray and white like his hair.

He didn’t know whether he should trust this machine that looked as ordinary as himself.

With trembling fingers, he pressed the power button.

The computer booted up slowly — as sluggish as his movements since Parkinson’s had taken hold.

Still, it finally powered on.

He logged into his email—

How many years had it been since he’d last resumed his old profession?

He couldn’t quite remember anymore. Over the years, his memory had begun to blur. Those once dazzling times and lives full of wonder had faded into the shadows of time.

The only thing that remained clear was the flame of belief that had always burned brightly in his heart.

It was time to make use of the last of his remaining strength.

He thought, perhaps this obsession that had plagued him all his life might finally have a chance at redemption.

He moved his lips gently in front of the computer.

Unexpectedly, his aged chest rumbled with a deep breath, stirring his long-unused vocal cords, and from between lips so wrinkled their outline was almost unrecognizable, clear syllables were forced out.

In the sender’s name field, three characters appeared: The Prophet.

The corners of his lips, long weighed down by the years, suddenly curled up with a sly grin.