The Prophet’s Daughter

Arata found the temple beyond eerie at night.

Before the voice, it was a quiet little place, somewhere to come and think. To be alone and get away from it all. The fading paint on the wooden pillars, the lush gardens, and its walls made him feel tranquil before.

Now he felt unnerved seeing this familiar haven play host to something so insidious. Floodlights had been placed all one end of the courtyard, casting bold shadows across the temple itself.

A crowd had gathered and the night buzzed with their anticipation.

Arata, Hana, and Toma stood aside, away from the rest of the throng, tucked beneath a tree where they could see the stage but still keep some distance. Lanterns flickered above them, the gusts above making them sway. It smelled like incense.

“This is nuts,” Toma said, gaping at the mass of people ahead. “Half the town’s here.”

Arata scanned the faces around them. Many were conversing quietly, heads together, while others stood stiff and silent, eyes fixed on the stage. He noticed many of the town’s homeless were there, especially the older ones. Arata wondered if any of them had ties to the cult, but he shook his head. He couldn’t let himself become prejudiced against a whole group just because some had a rotten past.

A few people were holding hand-painted signs with phrases like “False Prophet!” and “We Will Not Be Led Astray.” Arata hoped that this attitude would persist if this female Hamta was related to the one from Yukari’s story. He cradled the old man’s time keeper in his palm as they waited.

He spotted Hana’s parents near the front, they were as severe as ever. Her mom’s lips were thinner than he’d ever seen them, pressed in disapproval. He knew that look, she reserved it for him whenever he visited Hana growing up. Her dad was clutching a prayer book, his knuckles white. He rubbed his balding head in clear frustration. They were in the center of a small herd of other orthodox temple-goers, whispering heatedly.

“Of course they showed up,” Hana muttered, her jaw clenched. “They’re moths for temple drama.”

Arata kept quiet. His stomach lurched as he searched the stage for her again. Rumors were swirling through the crowd, Arata heard snippets about her father and heresy, ties to the old cult, and strange visions.

“Father…” Toma murmured. “ I guess she was named after him. That’s not uncommon in Nobunaga, I guess. We don’t have family names like other countries, so giving your kid your name is a way of living for some people.”

More voices echoed from the crowd.

“They say she’s the real deal though,” someone said anxiously. “Like her father. He foresaw the end before the voice came!”

“A simple fraud,” someone else shot back. “Didn’t her dad have ties to terrorism?”

A hush fell suddenly as the temple bell tolled once, deep and echoing. Arata’s pulse quickened.

Then the floodlights shifted, brightening the stage as a tall woman stepped into view.

Arata held his breath and looked.

It was her.

It was without a doubt the same woman from his vision.

She was probably in her late thirties, with sleek black hair pulled up in a traditional bun. Her movement was regal and full of authority, and she was outfitted in simple white robes that appeared to shimmer in the light.

Arata grabbed Toma’s sleeve and yanked. “That’s her.”

Toma blinked. “Her who?”

“The woman. The one from my vision.” Arata’s voice was tight. “The one who points the gun at me.”

Toma raised his eyebrows, looking her up and down. “Wow. Honestly... I’d let her shoot me anytime.”

Arata smacked his arm, but Hana simply frowned up at her.

“You’re sure, Arata?” She asked.

He nodded, throat dry. “No question.”

Onstage, the woman stepped up to the podium and let the crowd settle. The silence was electric, buzzing with expectation.

“My name is Hamta,” she began, her voice smooth and charismatic.

A ripple ran through the audience.

“You may know my name already. I share it with a great man. My father. He was once a spiritual leader in this very town, before his legacy was smeared by a misguided disciple and enemies who sought to suppress the truth you have now all witnessed.”

She paused, black eyes sweeping the crowd.

“He was mocked, hated, and, in the end, feared. They called him a cultist, a madman. But all he wanted was to warn and guide you.”

Arata felt the tension around him. People shifted uneasily. Hana’s parents muttered darkly to each other.

Hamta’s voice grew stronger. “He saw visions. The end of days. And this was his symbol!” She held a sheet with the concentric rings of Minakasa ablaze. “You must all have seen this symbol in your visions, burning into the sky as the world crumbles. This vindicates him. You laughed at him. You said it was impossible.”

She leaned in slightly.

“And now? You have heard the Voice yourselves.”

The crowd murmured, some nodding, others shaking their heads.

Arata couldn’t look away.

“My father knew,” Hamta said, her tone softer now. “He spent his life preparing, warning, trying to save as many souls as he could. And though his methods were imperfect. Terrible things may have happened under him, but his truth was real.”

She raised a hand, bold and striking.

“And I have seen it too.”

Hana shot him a chilling look as she grabbed her bang strap tight. She was scared.

“I see my own visions,” Hamta said, her eyes watering. “Not just of destruction. But of what comes after. A paradise for the faithful. For those who open their hearts and follow the path.”

She paused, letting her words sink in.

“Do not be afraid. The Voice was not a curse, but a calling for the righteous to take their true place as the guides of this world. This is your chance to right the sins of history and be saved from damnation.”

The crowd stirred again, some faces growing bright with hope and awe.

Hamta stepped back, and her voice softened, taking on a gentle cadence.

“The Truth Path faith has always spoken of judgment and renewal. We are seeing those prophecies unfold before our eyes. The sacred texts tell us that when the Creator speaks, the worthy must rise.”

She quoted orthodox scripture now, her words flowing easily, weaving the traditional doctrine so it would align with her agenda. She’s like a spider, Arata thought, and the people of Minakasa are her flies.

People were nodding. Even those who had looked skeptical at first were leaning in now, drawn by her conviction.

He spotted Hana’s parents again. Her father had lowered his Sasaric Bible, his eyes were shining, he looked almost hungry to learn more. Her mother’s face was also turned upward, eyes full of tears as she nodded along to the speech.

“No way,” Hana whispered, horrified.

Hamta’s voice rose again. “We have been given a sign. And now, we must act. Follow me. Be my folk. Walk the path that leads beyond the brink.”

A roar rose from the crowd, a wave of voices chanting for her, their voices echoed up into the night sky.

“Walk the path. Walk the path. Walk the path.”

The temple seemed to sway with the noise.

Hana’s parents were chanting too now, their voices bleeding into their fellows.

Toma swore under his breath.

Arata stared at Hamta wondering when and where this woman would turn a gun on him. Her eyes swept over the crowd, and for a moment, they seemed to meet with his.

He looked away fast, his hand gripping his father’s ring until it bit into his palm.

Minakasa was changing, it was no longer the safe sleepy town he knew.