Name - 1
Caw— caw—
Yes, the crow’s cry always meant the same thing.
The emperor was summoning us.
The game had been built on an extremely linear and simple structure: clear a quest, then freely tear through side quests until the next main one arrived. Four Seasons, which had succeeded in imitating an open world with remarkable precision, was that kind of game.
In short, the essence boiled down to waiting for the emperor’s orders and killing enemies in sequence.
But it could not be “in sequence.”
I drew a deep breath to rein in the sudden urge to surge ahead.
It had been less than a month since I realized something was wrong with my mind. I was already mixed, twisted, scarred—the scars carved into my psyche. Mental scars dug deeper than expected and left wounds so profound that I sometimes felt I no longer knew what kind of person I used to be. It would not be wrong to say I was someone else entirely now.
That was why I recalled and fixed it in place. I dropped an anchor into the deep sea of my mind, insisting that I was still here, so the ship of my identity would not be swept far away by the waves.
I stopped the deep breathing. I adjusted the deepened breaths back to shallow ones, like a haenyeo rising from the abyss onto dry land. Then I breathed through my nose again.
Good. I was calm.
The emperor’s crow circled the sky before descending toward us. The shabby black bird, scattering black feathers into the mud, fixed us with a stupid, vacant stare and dropped the letter with a soft plop. Still as rude as ever—handing over a single letter and flying off without so much as a greeting. I watched its retreating form, then shifted my gaze to the letter.
This time I was the one who received it. Being closest, I managed to snatch the letter mid-fall toward the filthy mud of the front lines. I slowly tore open the letter, its red seal striking, and the words inside read as follows:
Move to the Southern Front and stop the Big Wave.
The contents were truly simple and clear.
Yes—Wave. Tide. A natural disaster in which a massive wave of black mud swept the front lines like a tsunami. The black mud itself did not move, yet mud-formed beasts surged endlessly for hours like a wave, which made the whole thing vicious. The developers’ naming sense was worse than expected. A random event that spawned somewhere on the front lines and gifted players hellish difficulty—an all-around shitty event.
But at this level of strength, no problem. No—there should be no problem. That was the normal way. We only needed a little preparation.
I showed the letter to the Hero and Jerome. I waited until they had fully understood the single short line, then, deciding they had finished reading, folded it without mercy and tore it apart. Someone else would dispose of it. I handed the torn pieces to a soldier who came running; he tossed them one by one into the flames beneath the cooking pot as if long accustomed to the task. The emperor’s words turned to ash and vanished. Destroying the orders was something we always did.
Anyway, we needed to prepare. I picked up a pen and began writing with familiar ease. In truth, over the past month I had found a way to somewhat alleviate this damn “aphasia.” But it came with troublesome side effects, so I had not used it yet.
—Ain, there are things we need to prepare.—
Ain answered as if used to it.
“Yes.”
Ah—Ain? What was that? It was the Hero’s name. Calling him “Hero” every time, I had honestly been on the verge of forgetting it, until one day the Hero suddenly approached and asked if I could call him by his name. So I simply agreed. That was all there was to it.
Anyway, I glanced briefly at the Hero waiting familiarly for me to finish writing, then wrote again.
—Five potions, three fireballs, one shield scroll, one oil bottle—per person.—
Ain hesitated a moment, then asked me.
“Aren’t we bringing holy water and holy oil?”
Originally we had always packed holy water and holy oil, but now I had a bit more confidence, and the sky-high prices of those blessed items that greedily devoured party resources like mad were burdensome beyond measure. Even the party’s support funds found them heavy. So even if it strained my body a little, making them myself was more efficient. Local procurement was possible, too. I should have done this sooner.
Anyway, I quickly wrote a reply and showed it to the Hero.
—From now on, I’ll make them myself.—
“Yes.”
The Hero resolved his doubt, answered shortly, and returned to the tent to begin maintenance. Jerome did the same. Honestly, if anyone asked why I had not made them myself until now, I would have had no excuse—but them not asking was pure luck.
Anyway, I started preparing as well. Over the month, pooling the party’s support funds, I had bought various pieces of equipment; a subspace pouch was one of them. Although the price range of subspace pouches was smashing the magic-tool market like a bitcoin graph, it was still not unbuyable. Still, not cheap—if I stuffed a little over ten items, it would overflow. I haphazardly crammed the notebook, pen, paper, and preparations inside and stepped out. And just in case, for any unforeseen situation, I stuffed one extra sheet of paper. On that paper, written small, was Voice Chat.
The carriage we were sick of seeing came to pick us up.
The rattling interior of the carriage had become all too familiar—something experienced far too often in just a single month. For that reason, even if we traveled all day in the rattling carriage, even if the wheels sank into mud in dense forest, even if every foul stench vibrated from outside, we could ignore it and pass by. I put a great deal of effort into not showing dizziness, but the best prescription was adaptation. Once the smell of blood feels like mere foul odor, once the path over corpses is simply rattling, once blood-soaked ground feels like mud—if you ride until you are sick of it, you too will surely adapt. Isn’t that so?
…Who am I talking to.
It felt as though my mind was drying out and twisting more and more. It would be better if it simply became comfortable. I snapped back to myself and looked ahead with eyes that had regained their light.
Had Ain and Jerome also grown used to this scenery and experience? In the end, people wear down in just a month’s time; emotions are scraped away. When a person died before my eyes, I used to feel something strange. Now I felt nothing. Even though I thought of this world as reality, no impressions arose. I clearly understood with my head that one should never grow used to people’s deaths—yet I had changed.
The first time Jerome saw a person die on the battlefield was the second day. A newly arrived freeman said he had taken up the sword to lighten the burden on his parents. Jerome looked at him fondly, taught him the basic sword stances, and had him practice. That same day, swept up in a small Wave, he was found with his neck torn open, wrapped in black mud. Jerome cried that day.
Two weeks later another freeman arrived. Jerome did not grow attached to him, and when the man died and was buried a week later, Jerome did not cry.
The Hero—Ain—did not change. Even as people died before him every time, he looked at them with black eyes that had lost all inorganic color, then turned elsewhere. He moved like a machine, yet if the matter involved comrades, acquaintances, or Superhumans, he rarely showed emotion. I felt fortunate to be Ain’s comrade. If he ever met my eyes with those inorganic pupils, could my mind have endured it? No—useless imagination. Ain was not that kind of person.
Thinking various thoughts and soothing my worn-out mind while waiting in the shaking carriage, faint torchlight shone on us through the dense forest. It was the guide post. Seeing the guide post, one idle thought rose: why had every person who guided us died? Was it a jinx or something?
Ahaha—
Laughter came ou—
Damn it, snap out of it.
Preparing to climb down slowly from the carriage, I saw the Hero and Jerome sleeping and shook them awake. They looked startled for a moment, then, like seasoned warriors, quickly regained spirit and composure, finished their preparations, and stepped down. Our appearances were a mess, yet to the soldiers we were still symbols of hope. If you reduce ninety deaths out of a hundred to about fifty, that is surely called hope.
In the dim night we arrived at the Southern Front—the most gloomy front line, buried deep in the dark forest.
Please, let nothing happen this time. Let it simply pass.
Ah—
Aaa—
Aaaa—
Jerome, Jerome, Jerome, Jerome.
Why.
◈ Locks Erosion Rate
◈ Permanent mental debuffs (hallucinations, etc.)