🌟 Special thanks to the amazingJose_Alvarez_1184for consistently showering my story with Power Stones! Your support means the world to me—seriously, every time I see your name pop up, it's like a little burst of motivation. I'm beyond grateful that my chaotic, twisty tale resonates with you.
Much love to you and your loved ones—may your days be as wild and wonderful as the plotlines I throw at my characters. Thanks for riding this rollercoaster with me. You're part of what keeps this story alive and kicking!
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Chapter 335: Sweat, Silk, and Silvered Tongues
The air outside the inner chambers hit Malik like a wall—cooler than what he'd just left behind, but still thick with temple incense and the faint metallic tang of old foxfire wards. His steps echoed unevenly against the polished stone, the rhythmic sound betraying just how drained he was.
He was sweating. Not a dignified, priestly sheen of effort. No—he was dripping, every inch of his milk-chocolate skin slick with salt and heat. His ceremonial robes, the ones Haku had painstakingly layered on him with reverent precision, were in a state of complete and utter ruin.
The outer cloak was gone entirely—abandoned somewhere in the heat of the inner sanctum. The starlight-blue robe hung half off his shoulders, sash knotted so loosely it was practically an insult to sacred order. The black silk underlayer was wrinkled, plastered against his chest with sweat, collar wide open. His hair clung damp to his forehead in little curls, eyes burning pink-and-gold with exhaustion, mischief, and something he absolutely could not admit aloud.
Malik staggered once, leaned on the wall, then pushed himself upright again with a ragged breath.
"...Note to self," he muttered, half to the stone, half to the universe, "never underestimate how… thorough fox goddesses can be with their rituals."
As he emerged into the broader halls of the temple, light spilling in from the foxfire lanterns above, he was met almost instantly by a small gathering of monks and caretakers. Their robes were pristine, their postures rigid, their expressions the picture of quiet reverence. Until they actually saw him.
A ripple of confusion swept through the group. Eyes widened, heads tilted, one acolyte nearly dropped the tray of fresh incense she was carrying. Malik blinked back at them, still panting slightly, then offered the best crooked grin he could muster.
"Hi. Don't mind me. Just… uh… very spiritual cardio."
One of the elder monks stepped forward, his voice careful but curious. "Chosen One… why are you—" he gestured vaguely to Malik's half-undressed, sweat-soaked form, "—in such a state?"
Malik raised a finger, then immediately shook his head. "You know what? You don't actually want the details. Trust me."
Another monk, younger and bolder, frowned slightly. "We… we only ask because you emerged from Her innermost sanctum. How… is the Great Inariko? Did She appear to you? Did She test you?"
Malik straightened slightly, adopting his most charismatic air even as a bead of sweat slid down his temple. He gave them a little half-bow, half-shrug, as though every word he spoke was obvious truth.
"She's radiant," he said, his tone warm, steady. "Stronger than I imagined. Playful, as ever, but wise. She sends her love to her people—and her warning. That you remain steadfast, devoted, clever in your service. She values your patience."
The monks exchanged glances, murmurs rippling through them. A younger acolyte beamed. "Truly? She spoke with you?"
Malik pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "Spoke, tested, challenged. She made sure I remembered why I was chosen. And let me tell you—" his grin grew, tired but wicked, "—she doesn't go easy. Not on the body. Not on the spirit."
That earned a few respectful nods, though their eyes still couldn't help but flick to his bare chest and loosened robes. One monk cleared his throat politely. "Forgive me, but you… seems as though you've run up and down a mountain."
Malik raised his hands innocently. "What can I say? Prayers in the inner sanctum are… intense. She likes to see you sweat."
That nearly broke the younger ones. A few coughed into their sleeves to hide poorly suppressed smiles. The elder monk gave Malik a long look, clearly unconvinced, but unwilling to pry further.
"Her will is mysterious," the elder said simply.
"Exactly," Malik agreed quickly, clapping his hands together and immediately regretting it when more sweat dripped from his arms. "Mystery. That's the word."
Another acolyte bowed low. "Did she… bless you?"
Malik's smile softened at that, more genuine now. "She did. She gave me her boon. Told me to keep walking forward, no matter how many illusions try to block the way. So yes… I walk out blessed. And, hopefully, worthy."
The monks lowered their heads respectfully. The room hummed with a reverent quiet, broken only by Malik's ragged breathing.
Finally, Malik raised one shaky hand. "So. Love the questions, really. Big fan of the devotion. But could someone please, please get me a tall glass of cold water before I collapse dramatically and ruin the mood?"
A young monk darted off instantly, sandals skidding against stone.
Malik sighed, lowering himself onto the nearest bench, robes spilling around him. He leaned back, letting the stone cool his overheated skin, and shut his eyes for a moment.
When the water finally arrived, cold and pure, he drank greedily, half the cup gone in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirk returning despite the exhaustion.
"Tell the others," he said smoothly, "that the Great Fox Goddess is well. She's clever, she's watching, and she's in a very… playful mood." He lifted the cup again, golden-pink eyes flickering with mischief. "Which means you'd better all stay on your toes."
The monks bowed again, reverent and relieved. Malik leaned back, sipping his water, a private smile tugging at his lips.
If only they knew how playful.
Malik had just finished his third glass of Amazingly cold water, his body finally cooling to something resembling "alive" rather than "boiled dumpling," when one of the temple caretakers—an older monk with a voice like a polite broom—approached with a gentle bow.
"Chosen One," he said, "your fiancé Haku departed about an hour ago. He left word that he would return after attending to a matter at the village archives."
Malik blinked once.
Then snapped his fingers with dramatic flair.
"Dang. Only an hour?" he muttered, half to himself, half to the ceiling. "Inariko made me a liar…"
He sighed, rubbing his temple. He'd told Haku he'd be back in an hour and thirty minutes. may one-Forty, tops. And now here he was—sweaty, disheveled, and spiritually overcooked—and hours later, still in the temple, still being stared at like he'd just wrestled a divine fox in a sauna.
Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
The temple attendants, ever gracious, had prepared a fresh ceremonial outfit for him. Malik stood before the dressing mirror, eyeing the new ensemble with a mix of reverence and resignation. Deep plum silk with silver embroidery, layered with a soft outer robe in pale gold, trimmed in foxfire thread. Elegant. Regal. Definitely designed for someone who hadn't just sweat through three layers of sacred fabric, "Time to use the power of The Magic of Malik's Reset".
He raised his hands, summoned his magic with a flick of his fingers, and let the cleansing spell wash over him.
A soft cloud of pink smoke swirled around his body, flecked with gold flakes that shimmered like stardust. The sweat vanished. The grime dissolved. His hair fluffed back into its usual soft curls. His skin glowed faintly, moisturized and refreshed. Even his breath smelled faintly of mint and citrus.
"Better," he said, admiring himself briefly. "Now I look like I only survived a divine trial, not like I was slow-roasted by a flirtatious deity."
He dressed quickly, letting the robes settle over his frame with practiced ease, as if he enjoyed the way they looked on him clothes. The fabric hugged him in all the right places, flowing like water and catching the light with every movement. He looked like a prince. A priest. A very tired, very charming survivor of spiritual cardio, sure it could use a little more pink and gold but he apreated that they gave him clothes in the first place.
He made his way toward the temple's exit, hoping for a clean getaway without facing The Gauntlet of Questions but it usaly wasn't that type of Lucky.
And indeed, no such luck.
A small cluster of monks and acolytes had gathered near the main corridor, clearly waiting for him. Their expressions were polite, reverent, and unmistakably curious.
"Chosen One," one of them said, bowing. "Before you depart, may we ask… a few more questions?"
Malik smiled, the kind of smile that said I will absolutely answer your questions while mentally planning my escape route.
"Of course," he said. "Always happy to share."
They began with the usual:
What did the inner sanctum look like?Did Inariko speak in riddles or clarity?Was the foxfire different in Her presence?Did She mention the village? The mountain? The future?
Malik answered with grace and flair, weaving truth with just enough mystery to keep them enchanted.
"She spoke in layers," he said. "Like poetry wrapped in thunder. She sees everything, but chooses what to reveal. Her shrine is… breathtaking. And slightly terrifying."
They nodded, wide-eyed.
Then came the inevitable question.
"Forgive us," one monk said, "but… why were you so… sweaty upon your return?"
Malik paused.
Smiled.
Tilted his head.
"Well," he said slowly, "you know how divine trials are. There's chanting. movement. Emotional unraveling. Possibly a few illusions that chase you through a maze of glowing fox statues. And Inariko? She's thorough. She likes to test every part of you."
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"As I said before, She likes to see you sweat."
A few monks coughed into their sleeves again. One acolyte looked scandalized. Another looked intrigued.
Malik straightened, hands folded politely.
"But rest assured," he said, voice warm and steady, "Her blessing was given. Her mood is playful, yes—but her heart is steady. She watches over Hyōsetsumura with pride. And I will continue to support this village, its people, and its traditions with everything I have."
The monks bowed deeply.
Malik bowed in return.
Then turned, robes flowing behind him, and walked toward the exit with the kind of poise that only came from surviving divine flirtation and three rounds of spiritual dodgeball.
Outside, the snow was falling again.
Malik stepped into the cold, took a deep breath, and smiled.
He was tired.
He was blessed.
And he was definitely going to need a nap.
But first—he had a fiancé to find.
And maybe, just maybe, a story to not tell him.