Life Always Betrays Expectations
Life always betrays expectations.
"This concludes the trial."
Bang, bang, bang! The gavel's strikes rang through the courtroom.
The spectators stretched lazily with bored expressions or chatted about dinner plans as they filed out without a second glance. The judges were no different. Their faces, worn down by routine, betrayed only one thought: Is the morning session finally over? It was clear to anyone watching that this trial held no real importance.
Not a single person in the courtroom felt even a shred of sympathy for the defendant, Patrick Luchen. Not even the man himself.
Guilty? Me? What the hell! How did things end up like this?
Urged along by the guards, Patrick moved his feet while his mind churned with colliding thoughts. More than anger or injustice, he felt only overwhelming confusion.
"You knew you'd be found guilty. Things turned out rather pitifully, but what can you do? At least you got exile without flogging—that's better than most. If your standing in the tower had been a little higher or if you'd shown any real talent, you wouldn't be walking out of here in one piece."
The guard, misinterpreting Patrick's dazed expression as shock at the verdict, offered what he thought was consolation. It wasn't comforting in the slightest.
"You've got a long journey ahead. Don't skip any meals."
After leaving the courtroom, they passed through a long corridor and descended a set of underground stairs. A prison awaited them, cold air rising from its depths. Rusty iron bars separated one prisoner from the next. A tiny window near the ceiling let in a sliver of light, but it did nothing to dispel the gloomy atmosphere.
"Hey, wizard! Exile confirmed?"
"······."
"Why so quiet? Don't tell me it's hard labor in the mines."
Once the guard left, a man in the cell across from him spoke up.
"They said... exile."
Patrick managed to squeeze out an answer.
"Lucky you! But why the long face? If it's just exile—no mine work, no flogging—you should be grateful."
"Is that so······?"
"Of course! From what I heard, you were tied to black magic, right?"
"······."
Patrick fell silent.
"Ah, I don't mean you were a black mage. I meant the big shots in your tower were the black mages. Don't look at me like that!"
That was the truth. Patrick Luchen's crime was "aiding black magic." In the empire, as in any nation, black magic was something to be rooted out and destroyed completely. Unfortunately, the high-ranking members of the tower Patrick belonged to had either dabbled in black magic or turned to it because they were already corrupted. The order of events was unclear, but the result was the same—they had become black mages. Once they were exposed, before they could build any real power, the entire tower was dragged into court, down to the lowest errand boy. That had happened only a month ago. Patrick had simply been cleaning alchemical tools when he was arrested without understanding why.
"Well, you'll never leave your exile village, but the guard mentioned you weren't exactly a promising mage anyway. So just think of it as your hometown changing. Settle down in your new village and live your life."
"······Pardon?"
"It'll be frustrating, never stepping outside the village again, but if you don't get greedy, you'll manage. Who knows? Maybe His Majesty will issue a pardon someday. Keep some hope."
"Shut your mouth. You sound just like the fraud you are."
"Hehe, Guard, sir. Is it mealtime already?"
At his chatty cellmate's words, Patrick's expression shifted oddly.
Exile isn't the same as house arrest with a thorny fence around your hut, is it?
The thought—complete with distinctly Joseon-era phrasing—felt out of place coming from someone with light brown hair and dark green eyes.
I thought I'd be trapped in a crumbling shack, unable to cross a bramble wall, just waiting for poison. But all I have to do is stay inside the village?
For the first time, a spark of life returned to Patrick's previously lifeless eyes.
"Excuse me, sir!"
"Talking to me?"
The moment the guards finished distributing meals and left, Patrick called out to the talkative man across from him—the one who seemed to know the local laws.
"I've lived in the tower since I was twelve, so I don't really understand what exile entails."
"Ah, curious about that?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Want to trade for that bread?"
"Oh, I don't like bread. You can have it."
"Toss it over and I'll eat it happily. Hehe!"
After receiving the fist-sized white bread given to sentenced prisoners, the man began to explain.
"Exile isn't as bad as you think. Nothing's broken, no disabilities—just exile. It means they had to punish you somehow, but couldn't find any real fault."
"Exactly! Of course! I don't know the first thing about black magic."
Patrick felt nothing but injustice. Not just black magic—I died from overwork, so why did I wake up in prison? And he had all the original owner's memories too.
That was right. The new Patrick was a possessor. The old Patrick had been a timid man who suffered a heart attack on his first day in prison after being implicated in black magic. Of course, since a soul from twenty-first-century Korea had taken over the body, the old Patrick's soul might have gone somewhere else to start a new life—so perhaps "died" wasn't the right word. Either way, the new Patrick had been extremely confused when he first opened his eyes in this body. He hadn't been able to show that confusion, though. A sign on the selection center wall had warned that anyone suspected of mental instability would be locked away for life in some facility or another.
I'm not a noble and I don't have any special abilities, so couldn't they have put me in an ordinary villager's body? Why stick me in a prisoner waiting for trial?
Still, one saving grace was that the new Patrick was quite optimistic by nature. In other words, he accepted his fate quickly.
"The difficulty of exile depends on which village you're assigned to."
"The village I'm assigned to?"
"Right. Like I said, exiles can't leave their assigned village. So what kind of village would be best?"
"······A big one?"
"Exactly! You catch on quick for a mage. Bigger villages give you more freedom—that's ideal. But since it's a punishment, they won't assign you to a city."
"So it's usually a rural village?"
"Yes. Exiles are generally sent to villages without permanent markets."
"No permanent market means it's just some backwater, doesn't it?"
Patrick asked, puzzled. If he was going to be sent to some rural village anyway, what difference would the difficulty make?
"That's not quite right. What if your village has no market, but the next village over is a big city?"
"······Ah! I see!"
"So you need a bit of luck. Even if you can't be assigned to a city, having a big one nearby means you won't lack for much. Exiles get a house, but you have to handle food, clothing, and everything else yourself. So people like you—mages who've never farmed a day in their lives—should hope for a village with lots of merchant traffic. What else can you do?"
Patrick nodded as if entranced by his cellmate's words. Then a thought struck him.
Living with nature in a small village?
A few restrictions aside, wasn't that basically being a nature person?
The reason the new Patrick had his family register erased in twenty-first-century Korea was overwork. The thought that his reward for living each day fiercely, sacrificing rest and lifespan, was this ending felt bitterly ironic. When he'd sensed his final moments, a TV program had oddly come to mind—people living as "nature folk," away from the secular world, grateful for each simple day without busyness or complexity. Was it coincidence that someone who'd never left the concrete jungle thought of "nature folk" at the very end of his life?
Maybe this is fate!
In the quiet prison where everyone slept, Patrick began to nurture a small hope.
I'll do some day labor, save up, get a small garden plot, and grow enough vegetables to feed myself. If I need something, I'll ask the merchants who come to the village. Okay—minimalism! A life of letting go! I've always wanted to try that.
If exile came with a bit of freedom, how was it any different from retiring to the countryside? It was all a matter of perspective.
I should plant lots of potatoes······.
Even as he drifted off, Patrick was filled with anticipation for his new life.
And then life betrayed Patrick.
"Tashu."
"······Yes?"
"It's 'tashi.'"
"By boat?"
"Well, were you planning to swim? It's far."
"······It's even far?"
"You'll need to row for at least half a day. Let's get moving."
What appeared before Patrick, who had spent days in a transport carriage, was a boat.
No need to lose hope yet! Jeju Island is an island too. Geoje is an island. Even Yeongjong is an island, if you think about it. A big island should have everything!
Just as he was reassuring himself—
"Why this island of all places? There's no proper harbor, so we have to row there!"
"There are more than a few people exiled because of this black magic incident. We can't put too many exiles in the same village, so we have to use places like this island. What choice do we have?"
Feeling a sense of foreboding at the soldiers' words, Patrick asked,
"Um, soldier. If there's no proper harbor on that island, how do merchants get there?"
"Merchants?"
"Yes, soldier."
"Hey, do merchants regularly visit that island?"
At his question, the soldiers turned to the fisherman who seemed to own the boat.
"Why would merchants go there? What would they even sell?"
"That's what he said."
"······."
The sound of his dreamed-of rural life shattering could already be heard from the very beginning.