Little Pink Starfish

‘That was a strange thought.’

After all, Nine was the only one Amon seemed to find valuable—or at least, that’s how it appeared.

Even while trying to comfort himself with this, Nine sometimes felt unbearably lonely and empty. He admired and loved Amon, but at times, terrifying and sinful emotions surged within him. The grand temple, filled with gold and jewels he adored, sometimes felt suffocating—like a prison.

Trying to shake the melancholy, he forced a bright tone into his voice.

“Amon, the weather is especially fine today. But it’s a bit hot—wouldn’t it be nice to float a boat on the lake and relax in the breeze?”

He brought up the last time they went out on the lake, when a priest had fallen overboard and caused a bit of a stir. Amon seemed to be listening, so Nine continued chattering for a while before finally summoning the courage to suggest:

“Next time, perhaps you could join us. I think it would be really fun.”

“Is that so.”

The ambiguous reply—neither yes nor no—disappointed Nine slightly. Talking to Amon was often a one-sided affair, like speaking to a pet that only pretended to listen. He could never tell if Amon actually paid attention.

When the conversation dried up, Nine silently nibbled on a date coated in gold leaf. Even as another Sha, he and Amon were on entirely different levels. Nine was always wondering what Amon was thinking, how he truly saw him—but he didn’t dare ask. When he set down the half-eaten fruit, a priest immediately wrapped it in linen and whisked it away.

His cheek tingled. Amon always stared openly whenever Nine ate or drank. Nine stubbornly kept his gaze on the food. Amon had never scolded him for eating, but when their eyes met during those moments, Nine’s chest always tightened with cold unease. Blasphemous as it was, in those moments Amon’s gaze looked to him like a reptile’s…

Eventually, Nine just kept sipping his wine in silence until Amon finally turned his gaze away. Then, in a lazy tone, Amon murmured:

“I’m bored.”

Nine’s hand trembled as he lowered the ornate gold goblet. Before he could respond, Ossen Iyad suddenly interjected.

“Sha Amon, if you’re bored, would you care to enjoy a bit of entertainment this humble servant has prepared?”

At the word entertainment, Nine’s shoulders slowly stiffened. Amon rested his head on his hand, giving no reply. But Ossen, long used to his silence, gave an order.

“Bring them in.”

Nine, gripping the armrest of his chair, tensed. Not once had he ever found Ossen’s “entertainment” pleasant. But he couldn’t stop it—not if it was for Amon. Soon, two burly men appeared, skin darkened from sun and scarred—they were clearly slaves.

They were dressed in ornate garments slaves like them could never hope to wear. Unlike the practical armor of Amon’s warriors, theirs was clearly just for show. One wore a red epaulet, the other blue. Both carried blunt weapons and knelt low, offering a grand bow.

“We lowly ones dare to greet the Great and Almighty Gods.”

Ossen glanced at Amon, then bellowed:

“You will now present a delightful spectacle to the Sha. It is a glory beyond your birth to be permitted this—be grateful.”

“We will carry this honor with us even into the afterlife.”

The slaves trembled, but there was no hesitation in their voices. Pleased, Ossen smiled and asked respectfully:

“May we begin, Sha?”

“Do as you will.”

Amon gave a disinterested nod. Ossen glanced at Nine, who said nothing, lips tightly pressed together. With Amon’s permission, a priest brought forth a gong and struck it—clang.

The slaves raised their weapons and shields, circling slowly. After a moment of tense maneuvering, they charged. Whoosh! Whoosh! The weapons tore through the air with deadly force. A spiked club grazed the shoulder of the one with the red epaulet, drawing a groan. Nine flinched.

“Harder! Fight with all your might! The gods are watching!”

Ossen roared in a pompous tone. Nine shifted his gaze away from the fight, to the others watching.

Everyone—Ossen included—was utterly absorbed. They watched the brutal fight with gleaming eyes, growing excited at every scream and spray of blood. Polished, noble faces flushed with anticipation.

Nine sipped wine just to look away. He desperately wished the fight would end. Just then, Amon, eyes glittering, asked:

“What do you think? Is this more fun than boating?”

Nine met his gaze and swallowed. Trying to stay composed, he answered:

“…I prefer boating, Amon.”

“Do you? That’s a pity. But we have time—perhaps you’ll come to enjoy this as well.”

There was no sarcasm in his words. He meant it. And that made Nine’s heart tremble. Unable to agree or disagree, he forced a weak smile.

At that moment, the red-epaulet slave collapsed, spitting blood, unable to rise. The blue-epaulet raised his club high and brought it down directly on the fallen man’s head.

Nine turned his pale face away. Thud. Crack. Squish. The grisly sounds rang in his ears. He could avert his eyes, but not his ears.

Amon watched the death with a faint smile. As the god of war, it seemed death brought him pleasure. The victor stripped ornaments from the fallen, proudly wearing them. Ru, Nine’s fan-bearer, clapped and cheered loudly beside him.

“Sha Amon, I hope the entertainment pleased you.”

Ossen Iyad, face speckled with blood, grinned and bowed deeply. The other priests beamed just like him, thrilled by the “rare spectacle.”

In a place filled with cheer, Nine alone sat in silence, pressing a hand to his mouth. His stomach churned.

That evening was the celebration feast in honor of Amon’s successful hunt. While priests and slaves bustled to prepare it, Nine lay on his bedding in the inner sanctum.

Screams and bloodstains lingered in his mind. His nausea had faded, but not the grim mood.

In this temple, humans often died under the pretense of honoring the gods. Most frequently, it was for Amon’s amusement as the god of war. Everyone cheered. But Nine… had never enjoyed it. Truthfully, it horrified him. After seeing someone killed like that, he couldn’t do anything for days.

“Is it me? Am I the strange one…?”

Why did people get so excited at the sight of death? Even if they were lowly slaves, Nine didn’t enjoy their deaths. Not even after seeing it dozens of times. He didn’t grow used to it—sometimes, just hearing Ossen utter entertainment made him break into a cold sweat.

“Lord Nine, shall I spread fig jam on your bread?”

Popo, having dismissed everyone else, gently kneaded Nine’s shoulders to soothe him. He didn’t answer. Ru, spreading the jam, grumbled.

“You’re too soft, Lord Nine. It’s just some slaves dying—why the fuss? That kind of show is something you can’t see outside the Grand Temple.”

“Then go enjoy it yourself.”

Nine replied into his feather-stuffed pillow, voice muffled. Ru moved closer to fan him, whispering:

“It’s your favorite fig jam. Aren’t you going to eat?”

When ignored, Ru exaggerated his enjoyment as he ate the jam-covered bread himself. Nine just scoffed. He wasn’t hungry. Taking a cloth from a slave, Ru wiped his sticky hands and said:

“A noble Sha like you wouldn’t know, but those two slaves together didn’t cost as much as a single cow. The winner even gets freed and rich. Isn’t that a great deal?”

“I’m not the god of war. I can’t enjoy that kind of thing.”

“Tsk, tsk.”

Ru clicked his tongue, tossed the cloth aside, and began massaging scented oil into his hands. As he combed Nine’s hair, he sang in a teasing tone:

“Oh, Sha Nine, god of love and peace, protector of Trastasa’s slaves.”

“Stop it, Ru.”

“Blessed Sha Nine, bringer of mercy and softness—”

“I said stop.”

Annoyed, Nine shot up and pointed at the floor. With practiced ease, Ru dropped to his knees and raised his arm. Popo, finishing the massage, gave Ru a hard smack on the head. He howled dramatically in fake pain.

Nine’s lips twitched into a faint smile. Ru groaned even louder in response.

“Lord Nine, shall we start getting ready for the banquet?”