Chapter 226
Chapter 226
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Letters to Windmage (19)
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“Hey~ Astraad!”
Found him.
I’d been wondering where our pint-sized prodigy had wandered off to, and sure enough, there he was, holed up in some dark corner far from the campfire like the shut-in he was.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
As I approached with a beaming smile, I mentally polished the lines I’d prepared. *A wind of change is sweeping the world. Things like this are happening in nearly every region...* Nah, too long. Make it short and punchy—
Crunch. Crunch.
What do kids his age even like? He’s such an old soul, hero worship probably wouldn’t land. A title, maybe? Lordric’s territories got wiped out, so there’s plenty of land and titles to go around. I could even open a Storm Hill franchise...
Crunch.
“...You’re alive, huh. Guest.”
“Uh...”
And then, the moment I reached the rock ledge where he sat, his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
That’s when I realized just how idiotic my thoughts had been.
A makeshift sickbay like the one I’d lain in, surrounded by patients.
The difference from the campfire area was that their cold, lifeless bodies were covered head to toe with robes.
This was where they’d gathered the bodies of the mages who’d died in the battle. And there, in the shadows beside it, Astraad sat staring blankly. His eyes were filled with an emotion I knew all too well.
A low-burning rage and thirst for revenge. Self-loathing. Loneliness and longing, all so heavy they filled his chest to bursting, leaving his true feelings adrift, lost and untethered.
Thud!
The Professor, who’d been agonizing over what to say, spotted Astraad in nothing but a thin shirt and pants—no robe—in the chilly late autumn air and plopped down beside him without a second thought.
“You’ll catch a cold.”
“...”
“Your... face looks awful. You’ll collapse at this rate, idiot. Go sit by the fire over there.”
“...”
Rustle—
“Sigh, fine, I get it. I won’t say a word. Just stay put here, okay?”
“...”
Leaving the silent boy behind, he quickly grabbed an armful of firewood stacked in the patient area and returned.
Click, crackle, whoosh!
“Hmm, much better.”
“...Why’d you come here?”
“Can’t you tell? It’s cold, so I came to light a fire, dummy. I really won’t say anything now, so pretend I’m not here.”
It wasn’t empty words—he truly planned to stay silent. Anyone with eyes could see the boy was mourning the fallen mages. It was just... seeing those pitch-black, lifeless eyes reminded him of himself a few years back, half-dead but clinging to life. If Corduro hadn’t been there, he’d have died long ago. Hell, he’d even set aside days each month for a twisted game of Russian roulette, half-mad as he was.
Crackle. Crackle...
The flames caught quickly on the dry wood, and the two sat in silence, watching it burn.
“Master... liked going for walks.”
Beneath the flickering firelight, the young mage finally spoke after about thirty minutes of quiet companionship. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to talk; the words slipped out like a sigh.
“...I see.”
*Master, past tense, at this timing. Guess that old guy passed on too. Seemed like a good soul.*
Swish—
Astraad watched the man beside him clasp his hands behind his head and recline fully, as if saying, *I’m listening*. A casual pose, but with unexpected thoughtfulness.
*If he’d tried to spout some useless comfort, I was gonna snap, ‘What do you know about my master or me?’ and chase him off.*
The memories swelling inside him like they’d burst were spilling out unbidden. He didn’t want comfort, and it wouldn’t erase the feelings anyway.
The words from Astraad’s mouth were more for his own ears.
“More precisely, he started liking them once his memories began to fade. Master wasn’t the active type originally. When I got fed up with tower duties and suggested going to the village, he’d grumble, ‘I wandered for fifty years; just lying in bed isn’t enough...’”
That master, struck with dementia, had started insisting on walks out of the blue—probably to chase those memories.
“Memories?”
“Yeah, memories. I was pretty depressed when I first arrived at the Home.”
“...Didn’t seem like the mages here were bullying you or anything.”
“The Home was always the best. The problem was me—I couldn’t handle being an orphan.”
His mother had died of illness when he was four. Six months as a servant in the village head’s house after leaving their impoverished home with nothing. Two years as a slave in the imperial outskirts, sold off. Two more as a petty thief after escaping.
Days filled with suffering. The young Astraad needed someone—anyone—to blame, and that target was always the faceless father who’d abandoned his mother and him.
Father. The trash who’d left his frail mother alone in this harsh world to raise a child by herself.
The name his mother had murmured in her fevered sleep while battling sickness.
*...Ahh. Dylan. Dylan, my beloved Dylan...*
Dylan. His father. Dylan.
Before learning of letter magic, he’d thought he’d never cross paths with that man again.
Too young to understand when his mother lived, and alone after her death, he hadn’t even known about letter magic that everyone else took for granted.
Not until the day he asked about the scrap of paper flying from his master’s hand.
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‘Can I send one too?’
‘Of course.’
‘And receive them?’
‘That’s tricky. Felix Drixiel believed [letters go home], so you need a place you’ve stayed at least a few days for one to arrive.’
‘Th-then we can’t get letters?’
‘Nonsense. The Home and letter magic were made precisely because we had no place to call home! Now, remember what I told you about the Home?’
‘Uh, lots of white curves, round, letters flying around...’
‘Right. And there’s a massive bookshelf for all the transient letters. One of those slots is for us. When a new wind mage arrives at the Home, they engrave their name on an empty drawer with mana. Letters for that mage go there. Cool, huh? Makes you wanna be a mage, right?’
‘Ol’ man. Teach me to read.’
‘Eh? This old geezer’s ears aren’t what they used to be. What’d you say before? Something about learning letters when you could be practicing magic?’
‘Ow! That was, uh... Anyway! I changed my mind, so teach me! Geezer... no, Master!’
‘Hmm. Catch a quail for lunch today, and I’ll think about it. They’re so plump and tasty these days...’
‘You sneaky bastard! You’re my master!’
==========
“Fun master you had.”
“You bet. The best—no one in the world compares. That’s how I ended up learning letters before magic from him.”
From village to village.
City to city.
Sleeping rough like it was dinner, scaling sheer cliffs on secluded mountain paths to avoid people terrified of mages, enduring rain and fever, facing scary monsters—but traveling with his master was pure joy.
It was around halfway across the empire. Astraad’s feet were callused, he could nab quails blindfolded with his slingshot, his fingertips stained black from charcoal that wouldn’t wash off no matter what.
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Mom. I miss you.
From Astraad. To his mother, Codette.
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Serves you right, jerk.
From Astraad, son of that time. To Dylan.
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Letters completed three months after learning to write, with his master’s help.
How he’d trembled in anxiety.
Burning his mother’s unmoving letter in the fire.
Pouring curses and resentment at his father’s letter soaring vigorously through the smoke.
He’d screamed himself hoarse in front of his stunned master, sobbing uncontrollably.
If both letters had stayed still, it might not have hurt so much. It’d mean his father was dead or had left the empire for some reason.
But the father’s letter had flown—meaning he was alive, still in the empire.
Alive, still in the empire: his father, who’d abandoned him and his mother. Dylan.
After that, whenever he had time, he sent letters. The hardships with his mother. How much she’d longed for him. The ordeals after her death. Resentment for pains he wouldn’t have suffered if his father had stayed. Meeting his master and becoming a mage. Scraping his knee chasing quails, chased out for being a mage despite bringing good southerly winds, every trivial event he wasn’t even sure why he was sharing.
.
.
.
.
.
“...Love-hate?”
“Yeah, I was a kid. Hated him enough to kill, imagined smashing his repentant, weeping head with a rock day after day... But cursing daily ran me out of material. And I hated if he didn’t feel even a shred of guilt. So I sent whatever.”
“Guilt... Not just wanting to tell your dad ‘I’m here’ and be acknowledged?”
“...Probably. I thought I was just venting resentment, but after starting letters, I counted days to Home arrivals. I believed... a reply would come.”
After six months traveling and nearly two camped at the Home’s entrance learning magic.
Rank 1 wind mage Astraad became a Home member, gaining a letterbox with his name engraved.
From then, every morning until the letter dance ended. Astraad paced excitedly with the other disciples.
Rank 2 noble second son Devian: stern monthly reminders not to forget his family.
Rank 1 merchant’s daughter Hailey: daily updates on elf trade goods and her well-being.
Rank 2 poor farm boy Pers: weekly letters from twelve siblings wishing him better than home, full of longing.
Rank 3 fellow orphan Doris: twelve tear-stained apology letters from his mother, explaining why she’d had to abandon him, blessing his future.
Swoosh—clunk!
Rustle—clunk! Clunk!
Enchanted letterboxes opening, spitting letters one by one. Astraad waited eagerly for his turn.
But his named box always betrayed him. Every day.
The young Astraad’s mornings began with realizing abandonment, and the brash, lively boy wilted day by day.
‘A walk! Oh, I suddenly crave a walk, Astraad.’
‘Go ahead, then.’
‘What fun is going alone all mopey? Don’t sit in the corner sucking stale air—come with me!’
‘...I’m tired. Next time—aaack!’
‘Ride the wind well! Fall, and your head’ll split like a watermelon!’
‘P-put me down! Dooown!’
His master always found the disciple huddled crying in a Home corner, filling those gloomy eyes with vast plains, cloud seas, endless sunsets, flocks of migratory birds.
At some point, Astraad stopped checking the letterbox mornings. Instead, he had tea with his master then. Dust settling on the unopened box like time with his master layering over the stain of his father in his heart.
Gauwan Delhurst. My benefactor. My master. My father.
Eight years of memories poured from Astraad’s lips. He just wanted someone to hear how idiotic, scatterbrained, and warm Gauwan Delhurst the mage had been.
As memories climbed back in time, the boy’s voice grew lower, quieter. Finally, reaching today—his master’s last moments—the young mage gripped his staff white-knuckled.
Last Spell. A mage’s one miracle, painting their world so vividly death couldn’t veil it.
What that spell—realizing Gauwan Delhurst’s entire life as man and mage—meant was crystal clear.
A desperate wish. A lifetime wind mage’s plea to the winds: *Watch over this child.*
Every wind carrying his cry grasped Astraad’s hand, and Astraad merely wove the spell as his master’s winds guided.
“Master gave to me until his dying breath. If someone asks if I ever knew parental love... I’d say yes. Instead of the father who abandoned me, I had a master more a father than anyone.”
“...”
Crackle. Crackle.
Sparks leaped from the campfire, riding the wind.
“What’re you gonna do now?”
“...Dunno.”
He truly didn’t. What to do. Where to go. His place was beside his master; his tasks, Home duties and caring for his ailing master. With both gone in an instant, Astraad was lost.
“...”
The Professor watched Astraad fiddle blankly with his staff.
Unfocused eyes, emotionless voice. The staff’s faint winds playing a monotonous, mournful tune.
He thought he was fine, but couldn’t bridge reality and emotion. Couldn’t cry, just dazed. Stirring someone so shaken wasn’t hard.
*Revenge. One word, and I could reel him in.*
A ferocious beast whose life or death was unknown. Mix in Bazur and the world’s crisis, and getting Astraad on our side would be easy. Solid motive too. Snagging talent like this isn’t simple for players; best to recruit him here.
But.
“If you dunno, go for that ‘walk’ after sunrise.”
Instead of pushing the boy, the Professor chose to watch.
*No revenge ghost ever got a happy ending.*
Viewers would riot: *Belly full of regrets, gains-loss calc worse than basic math.* Even he thought, *Isn’t this a mistake?*
But he didn’t want to break someone for personal gain. Not emotional— he wouldn’t last dragging a wreck around.
“Get some air. You wind mages always say it after screwing up: ‘Just a wind that blew.’ Turn village wells to geysers blasting skyward, random storms wiping harvests—pay reparations tenfold to lords, kidnap noble girls for cloud romps then return ’em. No way it’s planned. You wind mages don’t think and move. You ride your own winds.”
Called madmen, yet freer than any, living solely by their heart’s whim—that’s wind mages.
So the shaken young wind mage’s heart could rise on its own, not impulse.
Scratch scratch.
“...Not good at this stuff.”
Instead of revenge, the Professor drew a holy relic.
Even roughly propped on a stone shard, its seeping holy light brought temple reverence to the valley.
“Wh-what’s that? Doesn’t look ordinary...”
“Nope. Holy relic of the Radiant Church, infused with the Saintess’s soul no less. Hauling a whole city temple wouldn’t match its sanctity.”
“Putting something like that on dirty ground...”
“Saint in name only, but still a saint. What’s a cleric supposed to do before a boy who lost family?”
Never much for religion outside anyway. Barely knew a prayer as a so-called cleric.
But anyone could clasp hands. Like grabbing an offered hand, reaching for one’s own salvation.
Before the hazy dawn light, the Professor awkwardly knelt like some dim memory of a bishop and clasped his hands.
“Pray, Astraad. Spill whatever’s in your gut, even roughly.”
“But Master’s wind is already...”
“That’s mage-atheist heretic logic. In Roharam doctrine, the dead always return to the stars. If Roharam said it, it’s true. Your master’s wind scattered, but his soul’s up there somewhere.”
“...”
Thump.
Before the cleric knelt the boy who’d lost family.
No temple bells. No prayer soaking the heart. No incense. A sparse rite.
Yet fierce winds wrapped the valley like embracing sobs bearing his master’s name.
So the boy could weep freely.
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