At the End of the Ashen Forest, the Sage Learns of the Boy's Past Life
The continent's frontier, where the forest elves once flourished and are now said to have perished. The deep Ashen Woods spread everywhere, where miasma and beasts keep people away. Magic remains only as ancient relics and curses, never systematized. Villages are isolated, and the closed societies fiercely expel heretics. The village where the boy was born has a law to quarantine, not kill, the cursed children.
Sol, a boy with memories of a past life, has lived in lonely isolation as the cursed
At the End of the Ashen Forest, the Sage Learns of the Boy's Past Life - Will Blooming in Ash
The air before dawn still held the deep color of night.
Soru lay on his thin straw mattress, eyes open. He hadn't slept. Ever since Yorgen had left last night, he'd been staring at the grain of the ceiling just like this.
(The old code.)
(Fedo is hiding something.)
Yorgen's words repeated in his head, over and over. The archive. Under the floor. The copy. Those words smoldered deep in his chest like a small fire.
Moonlight still filtered through the window hole. Cold, pale blue light. That same square of light he'd gazed at every day for sixteen years.
(Something will happen today.)
He had that premonition.
No basis for it. But his skin could feel the shift in the air. The village's silence was different from usual. Too deep. Too heavy. Like the hush right before something breaks.
Soru slowly sat up.
His bare feet touched the cold floor. A chill crept up from his soles.
The black stone charm swayed faintly against his chest.
(Cold.)
(No danger nearby.)
But the unease in his chest wouldn't fade.
Soru approached the window hole.
He breathed in the outside air. The smell of earth. Of grass. The dampness of night dew. And then—faintly—the smell of smoke.
(Smoke?)
Soru frowned.
Was someone burning a fire at this hour? But the smell was too close for that.
He peered outside through the window hole.
The packed dirt path in front of the hut. Ash-wheat fields stretching to either side. Under the moonlight, the wheat heads gleamed silver.
No one in sight.
But the smell of smoke was definitely drifting from somewhere very near.
Soru glanced around the hut's corners.
Walls. Floor. Ceiling. This tiny space he'd seen so much over sixteen years that he was sick of it.
(...What?)
A cold sensation ran down his back.
From outside the hut, he heard a faint sound.
Crackle. Crackle. Something burning.
(Fire.)
Soru ran to the window hole.
He looked outside.
The north side of the hut, just beyond the wall. At the edge of the dry thatched roof, a small flame flickered.
(Someone set a fire—)
His heart pounded violently.
The fire spread rapidly. The dry thatch caught like paper, blazing up in an instant.
(I have to get out.)
(The door—it's locked from outside.)
Soru ran to the hut's door.
A crude door made of nailed wooden planks. Locked from the outside. Impossible to open from within.
(It won't open.)
(But I'll open it.)
Soru slammed his body against the door.
Thud—a dull sound. The door didn't budge.
Again.
Thud.
No good. The outer lock held firm.
Smoke poured into the hut.
The thatched ceiling was beginning to burn away. Embers rained down on Soru's shoulders.
(Hot.)
Soru looked at the floor.
Dirt floor. Hard-packed earth he'd walked on every day for sixteen years.
(Under the floor.)
(If I dig through the dirt beneath this hut—)
Soru ran to the corner of the floor.
The softest patch of earth, right by the wall. The spot where, over sixteen years, rainwater had seeped in and loosened the soil.
He began digging with both hands.
His nails bit into the dirt. His fingertips touched the cold earth.
(I can dig.)
(Here—I can get out.)
Smoke filled his lungs. He fought back the urge to cough.
The fire was spreading fast.
The thatched roof roared into flame. The wooden walls cracked and splintered with sharp snaps.
(Hurry.)
Soru dug frantically.
The skin on his fingertips tore. Blood seeped into the dirt. He felt no pain.
He just dug.
Sixteen years of confinement. He knew every corner of this hut. Which parts were soft, which were hard. Where water pooled, where it stayed dry.
He knew it all.
(This hut is trying to kill me.)
(But the one who knows this hut best—is me.)
His fingers broke through to open air.
(Through.)
Soru slid his body into the hole.
He crawled through the gap between earth and stone. The smoke chased him. Heat seared his back.
(Almost there.)
(Almost—)
His head broke free.
Cold night air rushed into his lungs.
Soru crawled out.
Outside the hut. A few steps from the blazing structure.
He collapsed face-up onto the ground.
(I'm alive.)
(Still alive.)
His throat burned from the smoke he'd inhaled. He couldn't stop coughing. His vision flickered with spots.
Consciousness began to slip.
(No.)
(If I collapse here—)
Soru clung desperately to awareness.
He pushed against the ground and raised himself up.
Before his eyes, the isolation hut burned.
The hut that had imprisoned him for sixteen years.
The thatched roof was engulfed in crimson flame. The wooden walls charred black and crumbled. Embers danced into the night sky, scattering like stars.
(My home.)
(Everything I've had for sixteen years.)
Soru simply stared at the burning hut.
Something welled up from deep in his chest. Grief, or anger, or perhaps relief. Even he didn't know.
But no tears came.
(I'm alive.)
(This hut protected me.)
(This hut—set me free.)
The irony wasn't lost on him.
The prison that had held him for sixteen years had, in the end, saved his life.
(I see.)
(You didn't kill me after all.)
Soru slowly stood.
His knees trembled. His throat whistled with each breath. The smoke still blurred his vision.
But he stood.
Before the blazing hut, he stood alone.
—It wasn't long before the villagers came running.
The first to notice was an old man doing his rounds through the fields. Torch in hand, he ran toward the village center, shouting.
"Fire! Fire! The isolation hut's burning!"
At his cry, the village sprang into motion.
People burst from their doorways. A woman with a bucket. A man carrying a hoe. Children in their nightclothes.
"Water! Bring water!"
"From the well, quickly!"
The villagers formed a bucket brigade. Water was passed from the well, across the square, toward the hut.
But it was already too late.
The hut had burned down to its frame.
The thatched roof was completely gone. The wooden walls had turned to black charcoal, collapsing in places. Thin wisps of smoke still rose from smoldering spots.
The villagers stood frozen before the ruins.
No one said anything.
They just looked back and forth between the burned hut and Soru standing before it.
"...That child is alive."
Someone murmured.
A stir spread through the crowd.
"He came out of the fire?"
"How...?"
The villagers' gazes converged on Soru.
Fear. Confusion. And just a hint of suspicion.
"Could that child have set the fire himself?"
A voice cut through.
"That's right. The cursed child set it himself to try and escape."
"But he came out of the fire. Was he nearly burned by his own flames?"
"I don't know. But there's no doubt that impurity called the fire."
The murmuring grew louder.
"The cursed child's impurity summoned the fire."
"That's right. Ever since that child came back, this happened."
"The impurity brought disaster upon the village."
The voices merged into one.
Fear turned to anger. Anger turned to conviction.
"If we don't deal with that child, the village is in danger!"
"Right! Drive out that impurity!"
The insults began to fly.
But no one tried to approach Soru.
No one threw stones. No one spat.
They just kept their distance and hurled abuse.
(It's always like this.)
Soru thought.
(They can't throw stones because the fire has them confused.)
(But the insults—those are the same as always.)
(In this village, I'll always be this.)
Soru looked at each villager's face, one by one.
Faces full of anger. Faces twisted with fear. Faces simply stunned.
No one would meet his eyes.
A small child hid behind a parent.
"Mommy, that person is scary..."
"Don't look. Come here."
The mother scooped up the child and disappeared into their house.
Soru just watched.
(Scary.)
(Yes. To these children, I am something frightening.)
(For sixteen years, it's always been this way.)
(And it always will be.)
A sharp pain pierced his chest.
But he didn't cry.
(Crying won't change anything.)
(I've decided—I won't cry anymore.)
The pursuit squad men began examining the ruins.
A mixed unit of vigilantes and hunters. The ones Fedo had organized to hunt the cursed child.
They entered the burned hut, kicking aside Soru's charred belongings as they searched for something.
"Where's the source of the fire?"
"Don't know. Everything's burned to ash."
"That brat must have been hiding something."
"Who knows. But with this much damage, nothing's left."
Soru watched the squad's movements in silence.
They treated him like an object.
(My belongings.)
(My sixteen years.)
(Kicked aside like trash.)
Anger surged up.
But he didn't speak.
(Saying anything now is pointless.)
(They won't listen to my words.)
(To them, my words are just impurity's incantation.)
Soru lowered his gaze.
Scorched fragments of wood lay scattered on the ground. Ash swirled up in the wind.
And among it, he found it.
A scrap of gray cloth.
Half of it was charred black. The fire had singed it, shrinking the fibers, turning it charcoal-like.
But the other half still held its original color.
Gray.
That cloth Efi had torn from her own clothes on the mountain path and handed to him.
(Efi.)
Soru picked up the cloth from the ground.
His fingertips trembled faintly.
The cloth was still just barely warm.
The heat of the fire lingered.
(Half burned.)
(But half survived.)
Soru pressed the cloth against his chest.
The fabric's texture touched his skin.
(Efi.)
(What you gave me.)
(What you left behind for me.)
(This won't burn.)
(This—I will protect.)
Soru raised his head.
He met no one's eyes.
He just gazed at the pre-dawn sky beyond the ruins.
In the east, the sky was just beginning to pale.
(Morning will come.)
(No matter what, morning comes.)
Soru stood alone before the ruins.
—Past noon, a bell rang across the square.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
An urgent tone, different from usual. The signal for an emergency assembly.
The villagers gathered in the square.
Men, women, the elderly, children. Nearly everyone in the village assembled.
Soru stood at the edge of the square.
No one came near him.
An empty space gaped around him alone.
(A public spectacle.)
(They'll stand me before everyone and condemn me.)
(That's what this is.)
Soru understood.
Fedo stood at the center of the square.
He smoothed back his white hair streaked with mouse-gray and turned his sharp gray eyes on the villagers. The old scar running vertically through his right eye stood out clearly in the daylight.
On the ring finger of his left hand, an expensive kill-stone ring glinted dully.
Fedo slowly surveyed the crowd.
"Silence."
A low, flat voice.
The murmuring stopped dead.
"This morning, the isolation hut caught fire. The cause is not yet known."
Fedo's voice echoed across the square.
"However, there is one thing I know for certain."
Fedo fixed Soru with a sharp stare.
"Ever since that impurity returned to this village, misfortune has followed."
The villagers stirred.
"Think about it. That boy came back from where he fled. What happened on the Sage's mountain, I do not know. But that mountain is steeped in the impurity of the forest people. He gained something there and returned to bring calamity upon this village."
"Then the fire really was..."
"Indeed. That impurity called the fire. The cursed child's impurity defiled the village's pure ash. Therefore, the curse of fire must be answered by the cursed child himself."
Unease spread among the villagers.
"The curse of fire shall be answered by the cursed child."
Fedo spoke each word as if carving it.
"On the night of the full moon, judgment by the flame of pure ash will be carried out. The cursed child's impurity will be cleansed."
The square fell silent.
The night of the full moon. The flame of pure ash.
Everyone knew what that meant.
A sacrifice.
The full-moon festival's sacrificial rite—burning the cursed child alive in the flame of pure ash.
"...Are we really doing this?"
Someone whispered.
"We must. For the vill
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