There was no thunder when he arrived.
No light fell from the sky.
Dagel appeared the way ideas appear in the human mind, without sound, without permission, and without feeling foreign.
Artor Conan Davil was standing in an empty field, a former marketplace long abandoned. The stones were still neatly arranged. Iron scales still hung in place. Yet there were no transactions. No bargaining. It was as if the world had decided that exchange was no longer necessary.
"The right place," the voice said.
Artor turned.
A man stood a few steps away from him. Simple clothing. A clean face. He did not look old, nor young. If Artor passed him on the street, he knew he would not remember him five minutes later.
"For what?" Artor asked.
Dagel smiled faintly. Not a comforting smile, nor a mocking one. It was the smile of someone who had just heard a question whose answer he already knew.
"For honesty," he replied.
Artor let out a short laugh. "This world is collapsing. The sky feels like it is pressing down on human heads. And you come to talk about honesty?"
Dagel nodded. "Precisely because of that."
He stepped forward. The ground beneath his feet did not tremble, yet the air around him seemed to adjust. Artor suddenly realized that since Dagel arrived, the pain in his body, the small wounds he had felt since awakening in this world, had completely disappeared.
"Who are you?" Artor asked.
Dagel did not answer immediately. He raised his hand slightly.
The ground in the field split slowly, without sound. From the crack, clear water burst upward, forming a perfect arc. It did not spill. It did not fall. It was as if gravity were reconsidering itself. The water stopped in midair, shimmering beneath the low sky.
"Does that matter?" Dagel said calmly.
The water turned into fire. The fire turned into wind. The wind turned into dust, then vanished as if it had never existed.
Artor stepped back one pace.
A miracle.
There was no other word.
Dagel lowered his hand. "If I say I am a deceiver, you will not believe me. If I say I am a messenger, you will be suspicious. So it is more honest if I say only this. I am someone who does not hate you."
Artor swallowed. "All deceivers say that."
Dagel smiled again. "And all sinners say the same thing about themselves."
There was a pause. Not a cosmic silence, but a mental one, as if Artor's thoughts had been given space to stumble.
Dagel stepped closer until only a few paces separated them. It was then that Artor saw it.
Writing on Dagel's forehead.
Not glowing. Not shining. Not moving.
The writing was like part of his own skin, smooth and certain.
כּוֹפֵר
Kofer.
Infidel.
Dagel did not hide it. Nor did he emphasize it.
"You see it," Dagel said flatly.
"Why don't you hide it?" Artor asked, his voice hoarse.
"Because I am not lying," Dagel replied. "I only rearrange the truth."
He turned his gaze toward the sky. "You are afraid, Artor Conan Davil."
"Who isn't?" Artor replied quickly.
Dagel nodded in agreement. "Exactly. And that fear is reasonable."
He looked at Artor again, now with a gaze that was almost friendly. "You know God exists. You never truly denied Him. You only postponed obedience."
Artor fell silent.
"And that is rational," Dagel continued. "If this world is temporary, why live as though it were eternal? If forgiveness is vast, why hurry?"
Dagel walked slowly around Artor, like a lecturer explaining an old theory.
"You sin not because you hate God," he said. "You sin because you believe there will always be a later."
Artor clenched his fists. "I am wrong."
Dagel stopped. Looked at him. "Wrong according to whom?"
"According to," Artor faltered.
"God?" Dagel finished gently. "Or according to the guilt that humans teach one another?"
Dagel raised his hand again. In the air appeared shadows, people worshiping out of fear, crying because they wanted salvation, praying while counting sins like debts.
"Look at them," Dagel said. "Is that sincerity? Or merely survival instinct?"
The images vanished.
Dagel leaned forward slightly, his voice now almost a whisper. "You are no worse than them, Artor. You are only more honest."
The word struck harder than a shout.
"Honest," Dagel repeated. "And honesty, if you think about it carefully, is always closer to truth than false obedience."
Artor lifted his face. "Then what do you want?"
Dagel smiled, this time almost warm.
"Nothing," he said. "I do not ask you to worship me. I do not ask you to deny God."
He stepped back. "I only want you to stop pretending that your fear is faith."
The sky above them trembled softly.
Dagel glanced at his own chest. There was nothing written there. Only the forehead, with the word Kofer, remained open to the world.
"Truth," he said quietly, "does not always save. But it always makes sense."
Dagel stepped back once more.
And like an idea that has been planted well,
he did not leave.
He simply stopped being seen.
Artor Conan Davil stood alone in that empty field,
with one new awareness that was terrifying.
Not a single word Dagel spoke sounded like a lie.