Diary (2): Tigers Leave Their Hide, Men Leave Their Name
Tigers leave their hide when they die, and men leave their name. It's a proverb expressing the idea that one should accomplish great deeds in life to leave a shining legacy for future generations—a hallmark of humanity. Among all animals, humans possess the highest intelligence, yet we retain the same instincts as any living creature. The desire to leave something behind, whether children, a name, or achievements. That's why so many people live and die by the pursuit of honor. It determines how grand a name you'll leave for posterity. Humans are driven by this deep-seated urge to pass on their legacy to those who come after.
Keeping a diary fits right into that. It might seem childish, but it's a surprisingly profound hobby. People write diaries for all sorts of reasons, but at its core, it's the act of leaving a record. The diaries of great figures hold immense scholarly value and have even rewritten history on occasion. Even the diary of an ordinary person isn't without worth. They may look unremarkable at a glance, but they're infused with life itself—offering wisdom or serving as cautionary tales. Plenty of value there.
"Did I... say something unnecessary?"
Snow-white hair and skin. A stunning beauty with a seemingly cold demeanor. Selena, the woman who had suffered from an incurable disease but regained her vitality thanks to Grill's help, was anxious. Her expression remained as icy as ever, but her trembling eyes betrayed her inner turmoil.
"What if this hurts Mr. Grill's feelings?"
Selena understood Grill's situation all too well. A confirmed death versus an unpredictable one—subtle difference, but both danced close to the grave. Thanks to Grill, she was now fully free from the terror of death, but the fear hadn't vanished. If anything, she knew exactly how terrifying it was. That sensation of teetering on the edge of madness. Even as she entered the stage of resignation and the terror slowly receded, she remembered it vividly.
"For someone in Mr. Grill's position, keeping a diary means they've reached the resignation stage..."
Writing a diary is good. Leaving something behind is meaningful in itself. But for those brushing against death, it usually happens when they've resigned themselves—quietly awaiting the end or preparing for the unknown moment it strikes. It's common, and at first glance, it feels like a final desperate act.
"Is he really from another world?"
The issue was Grill. Selena stared intently at the photo he'd sent. A notebook filled with unintelligible script. Even she, fluent in countless languages, had never seen anything like it. Remote regions often share linguistic roots—think dialects for simplicity. But Grill's photo showed something entirely new, not even a dialect.
"If he's truly from another world, then even if Mr. Grill leaves a diary, no one would understand it."
A diary is something embarrassing to show others. Ironically, though, it's born from the wish that someone would understand you. If you wanted to keep secrets buried, you'd lock them in your heart, not scribble them down. Selena had written hers with that mindset and still reread it occasionally, even after her cure.
"How heartbreaking and pathetic that must feel."
A legacy no one recognizes—or rather, can recognize. Only his Gallery posts would remain. If it were a language she knew, she might have taken his diary and preserved it. But coming from another world meant it was indecipherable.
"The best solution would be for Mr. Grill to teach me the script..."
But could someone fighting for survival every moment afford that luxury? Hardly. Death stalked him hourly. Hadn't he just posted in the Gallery about surviving another near-death scrape today?
"Mr. Grill helped me out of pure kindness. I need to repay him properly."
Selena pondered. How could she ensure his legacy endured? Separate from platitudes about never losing hope, one must prepare for everything. She'd sent elixirs and tasty snacks occasionally, but it wasn't nearly enough.
"...Alright. Here's what I'll do."
After a long yet brief deliberation, Selena reached a decision.
"Compile all of Mr. Grill's Gallery posts into writing, and record his deeds as well."
Gallery records aren't eternal. Like the dead who speak no more, the Gallery deletes the traces of the deceased. When a fixed-nick's posts vanish entirely, it signals their death. If Grill's disappeared, it would mean the same.
"If I can't help him directly, the least I can do is ensure his death isn't meaningless—record it properly."
It was all she could manage. Selena silently cursed her own limitations. She'd tried analyzing the Four Seasons Forest mathematically, but the conclusion was singular: impossible. Seeing footage of the river flowing backward into the sea had sealed it.
"So no one else shipwrecked in the Four Seasons Forest dies in vain."
Grill's survival log would become a priceless asset for future victims. With that in mind, Selena retraced his steps, starting with his very first post—the one where he'd suddenly plummeted into the Four Seasons Forest, plunged into chaos.
"He was suffering from the very beginning."
Helping Cheonma, only to be chased by a mad dog pack right after. Then the Guardian's appearance. His arm nearly torn off by a mad dog, saved at the last second by SwordTasteStar's aid. Discovering an adult mandrake, leading to her own cure. In just ten short days, a whirlwind of events. Compiling them alone took considerable time.
"I need to note the fixed-nicks too..."
The Gallery being what it is, it brimmed with colorful personalities. She skipped the trolls—vermin, no, idiots, no, morons. Human-skinned floaters for the most part. A few key ones offered vital advice, like fish-gutting techniques, but the rest left bizarre comments.
"The deathmatch with the sword-tooth tiger, yielding a Dragon Heart that matched the rescuee's heart..."
The more she reviewed, the more she wondered: How had Grill endured this hellish forest? Even with Gallery help, the Four Seasons Forest broke all but the mightiest. His posts alone brimmed with deadly beasts.
"He must have exceptional combat instincts."
No wonder Cheonma and SwordTasteStar had taken notice. His talent was extraordinary. Even more impressive was his intellect on display in the Gallery. Blunt and slangy with PassingDwarf or floaters, yet unfailingly polite and kind to fixed-nicks. In an anonymous space, his courtesy shone undeniable. That's what caught Selena's eye.
"What on earth did Mr. Grill do before coming here?"
He'd adapted astonishingly well. He'd already built a base. Even more intriguing: his resentment toward the gods. Anyone in his shoes would curse them—it'd be weirder not to. But his wasn't mere venting; it bordered on blasphemy, laced with earnest gravity.
"And yet he perseveres."
The deeper she delved, the stranger he seemed. His deeds matched in eccentricity. As Selena chronicled them in her book, she mulled them over bit by bit.
"From what's been revealed so far..."
Kindness repaid with kindness. Ruthless severance if betrayed. Polite by default, but casually crude with friends. Fair and orderly even in gloom, yet cleverly nudging rules aside when justified. This was Grill's personality, gleaned from his Gallery actions.
"He mentioned being an orphan... What experiences forged this character?"
Orphans inevitably lack certain foundations—not discrimination, just reality. Deprived of parental gifts, they're shaped profoundly by their environment. Thus, defensive and prickly by nature. Grill bickered with the dwarf but showed no such edge. Utterly ordinary.
"Maybe it's the Gallery persona..."
It could all be calculated. But unlikely—that would've shown. And if so,
"He never would've helped Cheonma."
Selena steadily documented him. Whatever became of this record, it'd wield influence—especially on Four Seasons Forest research.
Knock knock knock—
"Milady. It's Mary. May I come in?"
She was scouring the Gallery for records when Mary knocked. Selena closed her book. No one was seeing this yet.
"Come in."
Creeeak— With permission, the door opened slowly. In stepped Mary, the maid who'd stayed by Selena's side to the end. She bowed deeply and politely.
"What is it?"
"It's the Duchess—"
"The woman you'll soon call Mother. Isn't that a bit too formal?"
"Y-yes?!"
Mary startled, straightening up. Selena's face betrayed no emotion—positively chilly.
"You'll be adopted as her daughter soon. Practice now."
"H-how could I—!"
"You will."
"Y-yes!"
Unlike her gentle Gallery self, real-life Selena clung to curt speech. Unavoidable—her illness had dulled her emotions. At least it was improving lately. She rose. The Duchess—her mother—had summoned her. No more wheelchair; she walked proudly on two legs.
"Mary."
"Yes?"
"Hold my hand. Let's go together."
"B-but...!"
"It's a request from your sister."
"Y-yes!"
Still a ways to go before true closeness with Mary, but Selena took her hand warmly and stepped out. Human warmth once felt scorching now just soft and plush—no heat at all.
"I hope Mr. Grill never loses hope."
Selena whispered it inwardly.
*****
Around the same time, Grill—who'd resolved to keep a diary.
"Whoa."
He let out an exclamation viewing his test entry. So masterful that even his expression radiated awe. No one would ever read it, but that was fine. He'd use it like big data or a bestiary.
But an unexpected snag arose.
"My writing skills peaked in elementary school."
Not just bad—no, catastrophically so. He marveled at his own work. Like:
I tried stealing turtle eggs and met the mama turtle. She turned into a land turtle and shot lasers at me. I was scared.
Utterly objective. Grill dissected his scribbles, then shrugged.
"No one's gonna see it anyway."
Contrary to others' worries, he stayed utterly positive.