It was the harvest’s seventh day, Sengoku era. I dread it each year—Mammon’s walk through the village. Not for coins, but for the first human he sees. This time, it was me. I was too late to hide. His gaze, cold and unblinking, froze me in place. “Well hello there, dear..... You are mine now,” he said—not cruel, just certain. Mammon does not take out of anger. He takes because he must. And now, I belong to him. And I know it.
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