Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Please Grant It
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After sharing a brief conversation with Roca, the child started peeking at me less.
Now, even when I was inside the house, she would wander around the room. She still found it hard to meet my eyes directly, so when I greeted her with a smile, she would flinch and bow her head, but the fact that she no longer fled at the sight of me was tremendous progress.
‘Faster than I expected.’
Day by day, the changes felt slow,
but when viewed week by week, they came quicker than anticipated.
I could endure solitude because the Lord was always with me, but that child had no one to communicate with, so perhaps it wasn’t so fast after all.
‘I wish Roca had a friend.’
Would she like having a cat or a dog around the house?
...Would she? I didn’t know much about beastkin habits, so I truly had no idea.
‘Beastkin live in the northeast of the empire, a place I never have reason to visit.’
The western continent. I had ventured into the demon realm ruled by the demonkin as casually as eating meals during my adventures. I had even been to Elvenhome in the southeast, a forest no ordinary person could enter.
The eastern plains I had only heard about in stories, never seen for myself. The tales were no different from the old folktales I heard from elders back home—pure fantasy.
Demonkin and demon lords were mostly to the west and south, not the north.
With one exception. The one who always escaped the qualifiers like “mostly” or “generally.”
The ancient demon king, Grimudo, who alone resided far to the north of the empire. Perhaps his monster horde was with him, but monsters couldn’t speak anyway.
‘Even getting there was no easy feat.’
The Arctic was like that. No one wanted to live there.
To begin with, the continent’s highest mountain range, the Karkamir Mountains, barred the northern continent. Only by somehow crossing them could one glimpse the northern snowfields. Even with the blessing of one of the Lord’s miracles, the Bluebird’s Feather, the journey had been grueling.
Grimudo dwelled alone in such a harsh place, in his lonely Arctic fortress at the heart of the most unforgiving wilderness, where mere survival was an endless ordeal.
‘Pathetically, I may never see him again.’
Grimudo had told us he set his monsters free at will.
If one attacked your hometown village, it wasn’t by my will, he said.
It was probably true. He had overwhelmed us throughout and had no reason to lie. But hadn’t he been the one to raise those dangerous monsters in the first place?
I couldn’t help resenting and hating him.
If I could hurl ashes in his face, I would do it a thousand times over.
But I had already failed, and the Lord had taken away my greatest miracle.
That revenge would have to be left to Yurinel. Facing him alone again would be suicide, and gathering new companions would only make it mass suicide.
Tap.
At the table lit only by a single candle, I quietly sipped my tea, lost in thought.
Thoughts of Grimudo always stirred me like this. I lost my composure and grew radical without realizing it.
The scars of that tragedy remained etched in my heart and would never fade. What had happened couldn’t be undone, wounds of the body could heal, but those of the heart could not.
They might scar over, but they could reopen at any moment. If even an adult like me struggled, how must it be for that little child?
Overcoming wounds and moving forward was hard for anyone. Until she took her first step on her own, I could only wait and support her silently.
That was when it happened.
‘Indeed.’
Creak.
The door cracked open slightly, and cobalt-blue eyes sparkled through the gap.
‘She really was bored.’
Those eyes scanned the living room busily, but seemed to miss me.
Patter patter. Like a mouse scurrying through a ditch, the child dashed out toward the vegetable garden. Her gaze was fixed on the swing the whole time.
She had watched me ride it closely and now wanted to try it herself.
Somehow, making it felt worthwhile. I felt a swell of pride.
“Hup.”
The child climbed onto the swing and kicked her legs to make it move. It barely budged. The seat was set a bit high, so with her sitting, Roca’s feet couldn’t reach the ground.
Even so, once she grasped the knack, riding it wouldn’t be hard.
But that was like saying good farming brings a bountiful harvest. Easy to say, but ignoring the effort required.
The child kicked futilely for a while. When that didn’t work, she stood up on the swing entirely.
Grabbing the ropes with both hands and swaying back and forth did make it move—a little, like swaying in a breeze.
I set down my tea with a soft clink and smiled.
It takes two hands clapping to make a sound. She had mustered her courage, and I had no intention of just watching.
Roca. Toward the child whose name I had only recently learned, I walked slowly.
Even in the darkness, I could see her drooping ears. She seemed disappointed.
Now it was time to perk those ears back up.
“Not working well, is it?”
Her ears twitched upright as she flinched. The child whipped her head toward me.
“S-Sorry...”
“Everyone struggles at first. Roca, want to try sitting again? Swings don’t start with riding alone.”
She reflexively apologized. What could she possibly be sorry for?
Life might bring plenty of reasons to apologize, but children had the privilege of being a bit shameless.
The child hesitated, wavering. I simply smiled.
Child, you’ve done nothing to be sorry for.
If you’re scared, it’s fine to stop now.
If Roca ran away again, it just meant she wasn’t ready to open her heart yet.
She just needed more time. But she didn’t run.
The wolf of our house merely plopped back down awkwardly. Clearly, her desire to swing had overcome her fear of me.
“I’ll push gently, so don’t be too scared.”
I gave her light body a nudge, launching the swing. It swung forward, and would soon swing back. I caught it softly and pushed again. That was the simple charm of the swing.
As it swung higher, Roca’s expression brightened. But the real fun wasn’t in being pushed—it came from mastering it herself, swinging by her own power.
“Roca, I’ll stop pushing now. Try keeping this speed yourself.”
“Y-Yes...?”
“If it slows, I’ll push again. Give it a try. You’re not alone, after all.”
But learning the knack from a still swing was tough.
One could learn alone, but that wasn’t the proper way. Everyone started with a push from behind. Watch until they could do it solo, then push again if needed.
Mastering it from a moving swing was far quicker.
“Nngh... Hngh...”
Her first attempt was pure flailing. Roca strained to move it, but the swing only slowed further, with no hope of revival.
When effort failed utterly like this, I extended my arm and pushed once more—like before, until it nearly reached seventy degrees.
“See, it’s not working...”
“Want to stop? Should I keep pushing?”
“...No. I’ll try.”
Her second flail was just as futile, but Roca seemed to find resolve.
She refused my offer and kept struggling. Her kicks merely stirred the air, leaving no trace. But every moment was learning, absorbing.
The third time, she maintained speed longer than before. It slowed again, of course.
The fourth showed promise, but still failed. Progress was visible, though. After repeated failures, Roca developed a spark of defiance—call it competitive spirit or stubbornness.
“Nngh...”
Watching her bite her lip in frustration, I simply pushed her back.
If she overcame failure, refused to give up, and kept going, she could surely do it.
Yes, right here and now.
This moment she had longed for so desperately.
Like magic, the slowing swing began accelerating again.
“Whoa?!”
Under the bright moonlight, joy lit Roca’s face. I didn’t push further. The swing kept gaining momentum from its own rebound, swinging ever higher.
Her face beamed with happiness. The first time since we met.
All the burdens she had piled up. All she had endured. All the hardships she couldn’t voice.
I hoped she could send them all flying away like smoke on the wind.
“Ahaha, ahahahaha!”
That joyful, unselfconscious laughter was the true face a child should wear.
How little she must have had to laugh lately—her smile looked forced, awkward. Her laughter sounded stiff, breaking with each burst. Smiles like that hurt to see.
“Lord, please grant that child happiness.”
Long ago, a child who lost her parents to a manticore,
and all the villagers who lost neighbors and family,
recalled the faint smiles they mustered when flowers of laughter should have bloomed brilliantly.
Smiles born of sorrow are always heartrending.
They don’t bring joy, only pity.
“No, I pray You grant it.”
Never seeing such expressions again was my small selfish wish.
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