Chapter 26: A Sprouting Berry and a Mysterious Scroll

Bernell’s advice about the jewel berry’s growth conditions proved spot-on.
The day after creating the pond, the long-awaited berry finally sprouted.
The tiny shoot was peculiar—its leaves plump like molded clay, its stem thick for a sprout, and its glossy, vibrant color resembling glazed ceramic.

“This… doesn’t look like the jewel berry sprouts I know,” Bernell said, inspecting it after I called him to share the news and thank him.
His reaction caught me off guard.

“It’s almost… toy-like, isn’t it?”
“You think so too? But I’m sure this is where I planted the jewel berry.”
We both agreed the sprout was far from ordinary, which was unsettling.

“I only brought one berry. If it’s wrong…”
“Don’t worry too much,” Bernell said, his tone shifting to reassurance. “This land and water are extraordinary, so the sprout growing here might be affected, making it unusual.”

He was clearly trying to ease my disappointment, which I didn’t entirely appreciate.
Still, having someone to share these worries with felt… nice.

“Even a normal plant would turn special growing here. No sunlight, yet plants thrive—that’s already strange, right?”
I decided to be glad it sprouted at all.
With that, I started the day.

Catsy dropped off the Nekomatas, who bolted to the kids’ zone as if it were their home.
“I’m first on the cat wheel, meow!”
“Forget that—I called dibs, meow! Memory fading already, meow?”
They acted like they owned the place.

Even kids at daycare for months wouldn’t be this comfortable.
But I loved the bustle. It erased the lonely days I’d spent trembling in an empty café, drowning out past solitude with lively chaos.

“Hey there.”
The Young Blue Sage arrived, striding in confidently with hands behind his back.
I glanced at him, then at the Nekomatas and pig-bird playing, barely stifling a laugh.
This really is a kids’ café now, isn’t it?

“Welcome!”
I nudged Bernell, who reluctantly echoed, “Welcome… sir.”
No repeat of his rudeness with the thunderbird, thankfully.
I’d drilled into him that this café hosts gods and to never judge by appearances. My efforts paid off.

Though the Young Blue Sage’s transparent card labeled him a “child-type” god, I wasn’t sure if he was truly young. Unlike the Nekomatas, whose kitten forms matched their age, he might be ancient despite his looks.
Still, as a dimension-managing god, not a ward like the kittens, he couldn’t be treated like a child.

“The café’s changed a lot,” he remarked.
“Yes, I’ve been improving it, thanks to your advice.”
His condescending tone, like an old soul, didn’t faze me.
His speech oddly mirrored Bernell’s at times.

The Young Blue Sage sat at the bar, immediately looking toward the pig-bird’s nest. Seeing it empty, he frowned, disappointed.
I subtly nodded toward the kids’ zone, which he’d overlooked, fixated on the pig-bird.

“A curious new space!”
Spotting the ball pit and playing kids, his face lit up.
Finding the pig-bird buried in colorful balls, his cheeks flushed.
I couldn’t fathom his taste. Does he really see the pig-bird as some elegant lady? They’re different species… right?

“Ahem, what’s all this?”
“It’s… a special area for child-type gods. I modeled it after a popular place from my dimension, recreated with Causality.”

“Oh! Is that so? Shame I’m not a child-type god.”
His eyes screamed he was dying to join, despite his words.
His childlike appearance and “child-type” card confirmed it, yet I revised my view: maybe he’s just a kid at heart.

I grabbed a cloud milk bottle from the fridge, warming it up.
“Remember my promise to get you a warding recipe from my master?”
“Yes, I’ve been waiting.”

He proudly pulled out a 30cm scroll, beaming.
‘That must be the warding recipe.’

“My master trusted me enough to bestow this rare recipe. It’s not shared lightly, but for our bond, I completed 108 tasks to earn it.”
No wonder he took so long—those tasks kept him busy.
108 tasks? What kind?
What kind of recipe requires such effort?

“I knew you’d deliver. Completing all those tasks for us—you’re truly a great god.”
I’d flatter as much as needed for that recipe.

“I am a ward,” Bernell interjected abruptly.
His sudden comment threw me.
Was he… jealous of me praising the Young Blue Sage?
His childish behavior in front of a child-type god embarrassed me, my face flushing.

“Oh, you exude a rare, fierce yet pure aura, like a beast,” the Young Blue Sage said, taking it as an introduction. “Similar to those kittens over there.”

“Does every ward have a unique aura?” I asked, quickly redirecting. I couldn’t risk Bernell offending him.
“Indeed. Wards reflect the aura of the god who crafted them.”
He untied the scroll’s ribbon.

“This one should carry my master’s refined aura.”
Rustle.
The silk scroll unfurled across the bar, revealing a white jade-like paper glowing with divine light.
I expected profound contents, but… it was blank.

‘How do I react? Pretend I see something?’
I stepped back, feigning to fetch cloud milk.

“It’s too faint to read,” Bernell said bluntly.
Unlike me, who saw nothing, he claimed it was faint.
Was that his courtesy, bravado, or truth?

My neck tensed as I poured steaming cloud milk into a mug.
“Hmm, is that so?”
The Young Blue Sage didn’t seem offended, smiling broadly at the milk.

He gulped it down, only returning to the topic later.
“Still as sweet and delicious! I craved this white drink through all 108 tasks.”
I refilled his cup as thanks for the recipe.

“By the way, what do you see on the scroll?”
“Uh…”
“Be honest.”

“Nothing. It’s just blank white paper to me. He says it’s faint, but I see nothing.”
His expression turned serious.

“So, you see nothing…”
“I’m sorry—I can’t read it despite your efforts.”
“No, recognizing the paper’s color is impressive enough.”

“The color? Can it look different?”
He gripped the mug with one hand, tapping the scroll’s edge with the other.

“Evil gods, their creations, or those tainted by them see this paper as red.”
His words sent a chill through me.

“And since my master drew it with divine power, only those with strong divine energy can read it.”
I glanced at Bernell. His “divine thread” talk—maybe his demigod status and dreamcatcher bond let him see faintly?

“So… I can’t make wards?”
“I overlooked that you’re not a god. It’s unusual for a dimension dweller to roam here. But there’s a way to substitute divine energy.”

My heart raced, hoping it wasn’t too hard.
“Raise your presence.”
“…Huh?”
A simpler answer than expected.

So, my “level” is too low to see it, and I need to level up?
“Using Causality to boost presence is like gods using faith to increase divine power.”

“Hmm…”
“You need to accumulate Causality—the power to make things possible. I advised against raising presence too fast without defenses, but it’s necessary to make this place possible. Consider it.”

Make it possible…
“At least there’s a way.”

He traced the scroll’s contents with his finger, as if drawing.
“It’s called a recipe, but it’s simple—my master’s portrait. He’s a renowned healer and evil god slayer. Some flee at his face alone. When you can see it clearly, trace it carefully on paper. That’s the ward.”

Just trace a picture?
“But it’s one-use. Wait until it’s crystal clear. Miss a single line or dot, and it won’t work.”

How much presence do I need to see it clearly?
He rolled up the silk scroll and handed it to me.

“Now it’s yours. Keep it safe until the time comes.”
“Thank you so much.”
The scroll felt heavy.

I decided to store it in my room, placing it on a rack under the bar for now.
Wards sure took varied forms—a portrait, really?

Then it hit me: in my world, certain paintings, like Daruma scrolls, ward off evil and bring luck.
The thunderbird mentioned the Young Blue Sage’s master was Yakumyodosa, not Daruma, but still…

I pictured Daruma’s fierce, bulging eyes, steadying myself.
I hoped this portrait wasn’t that intense.
A Daruma painting in Baby Bird Café? That’d clash horribly.