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 - Voice
The cold air before dawn seeped all the way into the hut.
Soru sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, eyes open. He hadn't slept. He'd barely slept at all, the entire night.
(Today.)
Something deep in his chest had been pulsing faintly, nonstop, since the night before. It wouldn't go away. Was it fear? No. It was a sensation he couldn't quite name himself.
A faint brightness began to seep through the window hole. A fist-sized opening. That square of light he'd gazed at every single day for sixteen years.
(Sixteen years.)
Soru rose slowly to his feet.
His body felt lighter than he'd expected. He hadn't eaten a thing since coming down from the mountain—a full day now. Not even water. And yet, strangely, a core of strength remained within him.
The black stone charm swayed faintly against his chest. Cold. No danger nearby.
Soru stood before the hut's door.
A crude thing, just wooden planks nailed together. It could be locked from the outside. It could not be opened from within.
But not now.
Soru reached out with his right hand.
His fingertips touched the wood. Rough grain. Grain he'd looked at every day for sixteen years.
(Open it.)
(I'll open it myself.)
When he'd returned to this hut yesterday, they hadn't locked it from outside. The villagers had only watched. No one had come near.
So the door should open.
Soru pushed it slowly.
A creak of wood echoed through the quiet morning.
Outside air flowed in. Cold. The smell of earth. The smell of grass. The damp of night dew.
He stepped out.
The grass soaked his ankles. Cold. But the cold felt good.
Outside the hut stood two watchmen—members of the village militia. One held a hoe; the other, the burnt-out stub of a torch. Both had been sitting on a stump before the hut.
The moment they saw Soru, they froze.
The man with the hoe half-rose, then locked in place mid-motion. The other nearly dropped his torch stub and fumbled to catch it.
"H-hey..."
His voice was shaking.
Soru looked both men straight in the face.
One was a thin man in his mid-forties. The other was young, around twenty. He'd seen both of them working the village fields through the window hole for as long as he could remember. He didn't know their names.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The man with the hoe forced the words out.
Soru didn't answer.
(Not "where.")
(To the square.)
He moved his feet forward.
The men didn't clear the path. But they didn't stop him either. They just stood rooted to the spot, watching him walk away.
He felt eyes on his back. Two pairs. Fear, confusion, and just a sliver of curiosity.
(That's fine.)
(Walk while being watched.)
(That's what I chose.)
From the northern edge of the village, the road led toward the square.
A packed-earth path between fields. On either side stretched plots of ashen wheat. The ears, heavy with morning dew, caught the pale light and shimmered silver.
The wind blew.
The wheat rippled with a soft rustle.
(Beautiful.)
That's what Soru thought.
A view he'd seen through the window hole for sixteen years. But walking through it on his own two feet—that was a first.
The feel of the soil. The smell of the grass. The chill of the wind. All of it was different from behind the window hole.
(The world is this vast.)
(This close.)
Someone approached from the far end of the path.
A woman heading to the well for water, a bucket in each hand. She stopped when she saw Soru.
She didn't look away.
But she said nothing.
She only pressed her lips together and stepped to the edge of the path.
Soru passed by her.
As he did, he caught the faint sound of her breath catching.
(She's afraid.)
(But she doesn't throw stones.)
(Doesn't spit.)
And that, somehow, gripped his chest even tighter.
Before, stones would fly. Curses would fly. They'd scream "filth" at him. To Soru, that had been the air he breathed—normal.
But not now.
Silence wrapped around him.
The villagers had lost their words.
(Because I ran, and came back.)
(They don't know what will happen.)
(So they stay quiet.)
That silence pierced Soru's chest deeper than any stone or spit.
(Even so.)
(Don't stop your feet.)
Soru told himself.
(Don't stop breathing.)
(Don't stop your feet.)
(I decided to stand here myself.)
The square came into view.
The center of the village. Gray stone paving. The prayer hall to the east, the village chief's house to the north, Yuri's general store to the south. And at the center, a granite pillar of the same gray as the boundary stone.
People were beginning to gather.
From doorways, from the depths of alleys, from beyond the fields.
Someone rang a bell.
Clang.
Just once.
That bell that announced Soru's return. But this morning's sound was far feebler than yesterday's.
Clang.
Again.
The villagers began forming a ring around the square.
Soru walked into it.
Their faces.
He looked at each one.
An old woman. A young man. A woman holding a child. An elder. A child.
All of them watched Soru.
Not with anger. Not with hatred.
Confusion. Unease. Fear. And just a sliver of expectation.
(Expectation?)
(What do these people expect from me?)
Soru didn't understand.
But he didn't look away.
He looked at each face, one by one.
A young woman flinched and dropped her gaze when their eyes met.
A boy hid behind his mother, but even so, couldn't take his eyes off Soru.
An old man twisted his face in bitterness and spat on the ground.
(Right.)
(They're not all the same.)
(Even in this village, there are all kinds of people.)
Things he couldn't have known, just watching from the window hole for sixteen years.
Soru stood at the center of the square, before the boundary stone.
The morning sun was rising.
The eastern sky paled, then stained a faint gold.
(That's not the same as that sunrise.)
(But this is light, too.)
Soru raised his face.
He sensed the crowd hold its breath.
Soru opened his mouth.
His lips were trembling.
Would his voice come out?
His throat was dry.
His heart pounded like a hammer in his chest.
(Say it.)
(I came back for this.)
(I survived for this.)
Soru drew a deep breath.
The cold morning air filled his lungs.
And he forced out his voice.
"I am not a sacrifice."
His voice shook.
He'd barely spoken to anyone in sixteen years. He didn't know how to use his voice.
But the voice came out, all the same.
Silence fell over the square.
The wind blew in from beyond the wheat fields.
Soru's voice dissolved into the morning air and faded.
But it had certainly echoed.
The villagers' faces changed.
The young ones began to murmur.
"What did he just...?"
"The cursed child... spoke..."
"Not a sacrifice, he said...?"
They exchanged glances.
From birth, they'd been taught that the cursed child was meant to become a sacrifice.
That premise was now wavering.
"But the law says..."
"Does that mean the law is wrong...?"
"Idiot, don't say that. If anyone hears you..."
The young people's voices spread in a restless murmur across the square.
(It's reaching them.)
(At least, some of them.)
That's what Soru thought.
But the next moment—
"Silence!!"
A sharp roar sliced through the square.
A white-haired elder at the front of the ring raised his cane. Face crimson, spittle flying, he bellowed.
"For filth to speak—how dare you!!"
"Indeed! That thing was born to be a sacrifice—it's filth!"
"A cursed child who ran away, comes crawling back, and now dares to speak?!"
The elders raised their voices one after another.
"Have you forgotten the law?! The cursed child must be purified in the flames of sacred ash!"
"It's because that filth exists that the harvests fail! That plague spreads!"
"Bind it at once and make it the sacrifice for the full-moon festival!"
The roars flew back and forth.
Soru listened to them head-on.
(Right.)
(These people won't change.)
(These are the people who've called me filth for sixteen years.)
The elders' words seeped into Soru's body.
But strangely, they didn't hurt.
(I'm used to it.)
(I'm used to these words.)
(So I'm not afraid.)
Soru looked at the elders' faces.
Faces twisted with rage. Eyes burning with hatred.
(These people are afraid, too.)
(They believe I'll bring something terrible.)
(That's why they're screaming.)
Thinking that, the elders looked just a little pitiful.
But more than that, the young people's confusion stayed with Soru.
(They're wavering.)
(They're questioning what the law means.)
(But they still can't say it aloud.)
The square was split in two.
The elders' roars and the young people's silence.
Between them, Soru stood alone.
(This is what my words brought.)
(A crack.)
(But if the crack doesn't form, nothing will ever change.)
Soru clenched his fist tight.
His nails dug into his palm.
It hurt.
But that pain held him up.
(It's not over yet.)
(I'm still standing.)
Then the air in the square shifted.
The door to the village chief's house opened.
Fedo stepped out.
His white hair, streaked with mouse-gray, was slicked back. His sharp gray eyes narrowed. An old scar ran vertically through his right eye. A hooked nose. His lips were pressed into a hard line, as always.
The ring on his left hand—the killing stone—caught the morning light and glinted dully.
The villagers' murmuring stopped.
The elders' roars ceased as well.
Fedo walked slowly toward the center of the square, to where Soru stood.
The sound of his footsteps on the stone paving echoed through the quiet square.
One step. Another.
Soru looked at Fedo's face.
(This is the village chief.)
(This is the man who decided I'd be the sacrifice.)
Fedo stopped three paces from Soru.
And looked him over, slowly, from head to toe.
Those eyes held neither anger nor hatred.
They were cold, appraising eyes.
(What is he thinking?)
(What is he going to say?)
Soru braced himself.
But Fedo said nothing.
He only looked at Soru, then at the crowd.
He turned his head slowly, as if confirming each villager's face, one by one.
That silence was heavy.
Because Fedo said nothing, the villagers' unease only swelled.
(This silence is deliberate.)
Soru sensed it instinctively.
(This man is choosing his words.)
(He's thinking about what to say now to move the village exactly as he wants.)
Fedo's gaze paused for an instant on the elders.
Then on the young people.
And then returned to Soru.
Fedo opened his mouth.
A low, flat voice.
"...Hear me, all of you."
That voice echoed quietly through the square.
"You all heard what this filth just said. Some of you, at least."
Fedo stepped forward.
"'I am not a sacrifice.' That is what it said."
A small stir ran through the villagers.
"What this means—some of you surely understand."
Fedo's voice gradually took on heat.
"This filth has denied the law. The sacred law our ancestors have protected for hundreds of years. The teachings of the sacred ash. The precious rules that keep our village safe."
Soru listened to Fedo's words.
(No.)
(I didn't deny the law.)
(I only said that I am not a sacrifice.)
But Soru's voice wouldn't come out.
Fedo's words repainted Soru's words into something else entirely.
"One who denies the law. That is an enemy of the village."
Fedo's voice drove into the square like a spike.
"An enemy of the village. In other words, an ally of filth. One who has sold their soul to the remnants of the forest folk. Such a person exists in this village."
A wave of unrest ran through the villagers.
"An enemy... of the village...?"
"An ally of filth, he said..."
"No, who would...?"
Fedo observed the crowd's reaction carefully.
(Right.)
(This is how he's ruled the village all along.)
(He stokes their unease.)
(And turns that unease into his own power.)
For the first time, Soru understood Fedo's method clearly.
"But be at ease."
Fedo's voice suddenly softened.
"The law protects us. The teachings of the sacred ash guide us. No matter what filth says, the law does not change. The sacrific
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