The echo of last night's incantation still clung to the back of my ears. Had it been a dream? A product of half-wakefulness? Even as dawn broke, Alva couldn't find an answer to that question. He pushed himself up from the bed in the Ash Furnace Inn. Beyond the window, morning mist drifted over Greyghost. Technically, it wasn't "mist." It was ashsilver—a rare ore found only in the Greyghost region, used as a catalyst in alchemical incantations, a silvery-gray mineral—its fine particles dissolving into the air, making the entire field of vision appear thinly smudged. Light scattered, giving everything a whitish tint. It felt like the whole world existed beyond thin glass. (Not enough. Still not enough.) Alva repeated the sound fragments from last night in his mind. It wasn't the phonetic structure of standard incantation. Not like the Old Laren imperative form—the usual magic that commanded phenomena with words like "Fire, burn." That had been trying to rewrite the concept itself. The Mirror of Words had responded and repeated it in his mouth, and then consciousness had gone dark. He couldn't grasp the outline of its form. But something was there. Alva pulled an old notebook from his belongings. His father had left it. On the yellowed pages, in familiar handwriting, it read: —Words reflect meaning. A mirror changes its essence by how it reflects. He stared at it, then closed the notebook. He changed clothes and went outside. --- Morning in Greyghost was quiet. More than quiet—it was nearly silent. Passing the half-ruined stone assembly hall at the village center, an elderly woman came out to hang laundry. When Alva nodded in greeting, she responded only with her eyes before returning to her work. No voice. Turning down an alley, he made eye contact with a man repairing a wooden fence. The man glanced at Alva once, then looked back down at his work. Silent again. (Yesterday was like this too.) Alva continued observing as he walked. The villagers didn't greet each other. They didn't raise their voices in anger. Even when a child fell, the parent would rush over without calling out. It was as if the very concept of words had been ripped from the air of this village. His first impression of an exclusionary village had already wavered by last night. This morning, certainty was solidifying. This wasn't "rejecting outsiders"—it was avoiding the act of speaking itself. He knew that ashsilver particles disrupted standard incantations. But what if speaking words in this contaminated air triggered something? (Ashblight, was it?) Last night, when the innkeeper Milda brought his meal, Alva had noticed the pattern on the back of her hand. Something spreading beneath the skin—dark grayish discoloration. He'd heard that many villagers bore it. An unknown curse—skin turning gray, sensation dulling—that's what they said. He decided to confirm with the village chief. --- Elvin Blunt—Greyghost's village chief, seventy-one years old, formerly a copper-rank adventurer—lived in a stone cottage at the village's edge. When Alva knocked, there was a brief pause before the door opened. The old man was thin. White-haired, holding his right arm protectively. From wrist to elbow, gray patterns crawled across his right arm, visible through the gaps in his sleeve. "...What do you want?" His voice was low and terribly curt. "I was hoping we could talk for a moment. The villagers seem to be cutting their words to an extreme degree, and I wondered if there was a reason—" "Irrelevant." "...But—" "Leave. Outsiders should keep their mouths shut." The door closed. Three words. That was all. (But—) Alva stared at the closed door for a while. The old man's way of cutting his words had the same structure as Milda's from last night. Carrying only the minimum meaning, containing no excess sound. When Milda had said "Eat. It's getting cold," she'd delivered only the necessary information in the shortest sequence of sounds. There was no emotional vocabulary of anger or irritation. The chief's "Irrelevant" and "Leave" were the same—not emotion, but information. They weren't economizing with words. They were afraid of the quantity of words itself. (This is a survival adaptation.) If ashblight "progressed with every word spoken," then the villagers' silence was the inevitable consequence. They couldn't shout. Couldn't laugh. Couldn't even cry out. If every single word became poison that ate away at the body. The terror of that paradox made Alva stand frozen. --- When he tried to head deeper into the village, the ground beneath his feet suddenly became noisy. Flap, flap, flap— Chickens. Two came running, and then around the corner came five more, ten more—dozens of chickens from who-knows-where suddenly filled the path ahead of him. "Uh, wait—" When he tried to shoo them away, the one in front counterattacked. Its beak caught his shin—it hurt more than expected. Another one pecked at him from behind. Alva stepped back, then back again, and before he knew it, he was being properly chased. He turned down an alley. The chickens followed. He turned a corner. They still followed. Stumbling on the cobblestones, Alva ran for his life. The villagers watched from a distance. No cheers, no laughter, nothing—just quiet gazes following him. Being chased around alone by chickens while surrounded by that "voiceless audience" had a strange absurdity to it. (What am I even doing...) Eventually, the chickens got bored and scattered. Alva collapsed into an alley at the village's edge, breathing hard. That's when he saw something in the corner of his vision. --- A child was crouched in the shadows. A boy, maybe ten years old. Leaning against a stone wall, hugging his knees. His face was pale. The skin visible at his neck bore dark patterns crawling upward. Ashblight—but unlike the other villagers, the pattern's color was deep. The progression was fast. His throat moved in shallow gasps; he couldn't breathe properly. Alva started to approach, then stopped. (Should I speak to him?) If words were poison—then saying anything now might worsen this child's condition. But standing silent wouldn't help either. He had no way to judge which words were safe and which were dangerous. Alva stood frozen. He wanted to help. But he didn't know what would actually help. His hand wouldn't reach out. That helplessness spread slowly through his chest. Then—a sharp presence came from behind. A small shadow cut in from the side. A hooded cloak—deep green with a grayish tint, worn but finely tailored. Silver hair peeked from beneath the hood. Long silver hair, loosely braided. A head shorter than Alva. Height around one hundred fifty-eight centimeters. Quick movements despite the slender frame, without a trace of hesitation. The girl silently pushed Alva aside. When her small hand touched his shoulder, he stumbled slightly. The girl crouched beside the child and quickly pulled out a set of small bottles from inside her cloak. Clear, amber, milky white—several liquids were mixed with practiced hands. Tools like an alchemist would use. (Who is this?) While Alva observed, the girl soaked the mixture into a small cloth and pressed it against the child's neck. The child's body relaxed slightly. From the edge of the hood, Alva could see the girl's profile. A small star-shaped birthmark on her left cheek. Clear water-blue eyes—no, looking closer, the left and right were subtly different colors. Heterochromia. Delicate fingers bore rings inscribed with indigo patterns that glowed. Seventeen or eighteen years old, perhaps. A refined face, but with a sharp expression. When concentrating, her brows drew together slightly—a habit. When Alva started to reach out, the girl spoke. "Don't touch." One word. Brooking no argument. Alva withdrew his hand. The girl kept her gaze on the child and continued. "That adventurer's license is expired. The document format is from three years ago." Alva instinctively looked at his own waist. Sure enough, the documents he'd received along with his posting notice to the frontier were visible. The observation about expiration was accurate. Once he'd failed the exam, his official adventurer's license was void. "...You have a good eye." "I can tell. By looking. If you're going to carry that while just standing around, you're in the way." It was harsh. But there was no time to search for a rebuttal. The child's breathing changed. --- The sound leaking from his throat stopped being words. The sequence of sounds became irregular. Fragmentation of meaning—vowels and consonants breaking down, yet still trying to convey something. Pain? Fear? A sequence of sounds that no longer qualified as language shook the air. Liese's treatment was falling behind. "Damn, the decomposition is accelerating—" The girl's fingers searched inside her cloak for the next bottle. That sequence of sounds touched Alva's word-spirit core. By the time he realized it, his mouth was already moving. His body reacted before his consciousness could—《Mirror of Words (Wortsspiegel)》. His unique skill: duplicating the opponent's incantation and reversing the essential meaning embedded in the words. Alva repeated the child's sound sequence. Searching for the outline of meaning. Trying to reverse the essence beyond those fragments. It was a sensory operation that couldn't be put into words. He couldn't explain afterward how he'd done it. He just—did it. The next moment, the child's body went limp. The pattern's upward crawl stopped. The breathing became shallow, but regular. As if something had been temporarily suppressed, a quiet relaxation. Liese stopped moving. Her face lifted, looking at Alva. What dwelt in those eyes was—astonishment. Pure, preceding calculation. And immediately after, something began to move behind it. The light of swift intelligence. Gathering information, analyzing, questioning meaning. Water-blue heterochromatic eyes fixed directly on Alva. --- Inside the half-ruined assembly hall, it was dim. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, letting in outside light. Moss grew on the stone walls, and wood chips and dust accumulated on the floor. Despite being the village's central building, there was no sign of people—probably because no one used it. Because it was a place where words would fly. The child was taken by another villager. When Liese silently indicated with her chin, a middle-aged woman nearby nodded and carried the child away—again, without a sound. So this is how the village's exchanges work, Alva thought. Liese led Alva to a corner of the assembly hall. "Skill name." Opening without preamble. No greeting. No introduction. "...《Mirror of Words》, registered as Wortsspiegel. Though it received the lowest evaluation in the exam." "Where did you obtain it." "Innate, probably. It manifested when I was fourteen. I duplicate the opponent's incantation—or more precisely, I reverse the essential meaning embedded in the words. Attack magic becomes defense, curses become dispelling. At least, that's how I've interpreted it, though I'm not sure if that's correct based on what just happened." "Was that intentional." "...No." He answered honestly. The instinct told him honesty was more advantageous than concealment. Liese was silent for a while, observing Alva. Alva remained silent too, accepting her gaze. In that silence, Alva observed her. Beneath the cloak—a light brown garment, tailored for mobility. The ring on her delicate fingers bore an indigo pattern, similar in form to the ritual marks used by alchemists. Her handling of the tools was practiced. The movements of someone trained in alchemy. The hood was pulled up—to hide her face, or simply habit? "Tell me everything about the exam failure and the ridicule. I'll listen to all of it." It was a command tone. But the words "I'll listen to all of it" surprised Alva slightly. He talked.