Can Even Those Bearing the Gray Fall Ill Like Ordinary People?
Stones and blades bring pain, but can those who bear the gray suffer from disease and germs like ordinary folk? Their emotions rarely surface until they rampage. The powers they gain are far from ordinary. From ancient times, we've classified them differently. We call them cursed and shun them, yet view them as twisted evolution. We deem them dangerous and gaze with loathing, but to some, it was a power they coveted.
Based on accumulated data, they cannot fall ill like ordinary people. They don't catch diseases. They aren't infected by germs. Already harboring something far worse within, how could mere trifles take root?
Thus, if one writhes in agony from some internal cause and takes to bed. If they suddenly collapse and lie ill for days. That may be the sole chance to kill them without consequence. They become so frail, unthinkably for the gray, that a mere stone could fell them.
At that crossroads of choice, do not hesitate. It's either them losing consciousness defenselessly to awaken power—or a tragic end from emotional depletion. To prevent witch hunts and harden entrenched prejudices further. Close your eyes tight and sever that sprout. If you can't, at least flee far away. Then you might survive.
They were ordinary days, just like always. Up in the morning, working at the grocery from early on. Screaming through Rini's forced training at the gym. Starting to study other nations' languages bit by bit, thinking it was about time for language lessons. Home by evening for dinner with Mom and Dad as usual. And after a month like that, meeting the gray-haired woman in the alley. Those were the days.
Two years had passed with the Hero and Saintess pressing onward. The story I knew was unfolding far beyond reach. The stage lights had dimmed on their fading traces, and no incidents occurred on that safe, empty stage. So I felt secure there too. At least until adulthood, nothing would befall me.
Stretching my listless body, I rose from the counter and spoke.
"Uncle, make me some food, please."
"...You're starting to take this for granted, kid. Shouldn't you at least think about making it yourself?"
He wasn't wrong, but experience-born skill was something I couldn't match. She always ate his cooking way tastier than mine. Pitifully so.
"Can't match the flavor you make, Uncle. Oh, and make plenty while you're at it. Pooch has grown a ton and eats more now."
"It's not a pooch, you're raising a pig... Sigh, wait while I clean up back there, you brat!"
With that, he lightly flicked my forehead and headed to the kitchen. I did the cleanup he ordered, falling into the familiar routine. Time passed, and soon Uncle handed over steaming food with a booming shout.
"You little punk... Take this and scram!"
"Heh, thanks. See you tomorrow!"
Grinning at the familiar bellow, I left the grocery. Such ordinariness. Days stretching uneventfully to adulthood.
And so I thought—until after entering the alley, I realized today wasn't ordinary.
"Huh...?"
In the familiar alley, the woman who should have greeted me lay collapsed on the ground. No visible wounds, no bloodstains. Yet she convulsed like someone at death's door, welcoming me that way.
Reality crashed in, thudding my calmly beating heart.
The gray-haired woman had collapsed. Her face twisted, breathing faintly.
Words floated in my mind.
The gray cannot fall ill ordinarily.
They don't catch diseases.
They're not infected by germs.
Harboring something far worse, trifles can't take root.
That was why I'd cared for her in her wretched environment with minimal tending. The gray couldn't fall ill easily. As long as she avoided eyes and had food, survival was no issue.
But the novel said the moment had arrived.
They become so frail, unthinkably for the gray, that a mere stone could fell them.
At that crossroads, do not hesitate.
It's them losing consciousness defenselessly to awaken power—or tragedy from emotional depletion.
The floating words didn't end there, proclaiming the moment had come. Whispering crossroads again. Easy path or thorny one—which would I choose?
The narrator clearly urged: kill the witch without hesitation.
"...Bullshit."
I tossed the packaged food and rushed to her. Kneeling by the sprawled woman, I ignored the whispers, draped my robe over her, and gently lifted her.
Dismissing the kill urge as nonsense, I steeled my resolve. After all this suffering to save one person, I wouldn't undermine it now. This wasn't the narrator's choice—it was mine, judged and decided. Not yielding to the given path, but forging another.
Despite wanting to save her, a child's means were limited. Cursing my young body, I hurried onward.
The sun set. Even lightly, carrying a person while running was taxing.
"Huff, haa... Hup!"
The market street, dim now, still bustled.
"Hey? Ain! What happened?"
Someone called out, eyes worried. Normally I'd smile and reassure them, but no time now. Ignoring all, I pushed to my goal.
Feels like death. The woman groaning in my arms seemed about to die. I'd tried emotionless, seeing her as mere character—but cradled like this, on death's edge, my hands shook. I gripped tighter to not drop her.
Steps quickened desperately, lungs burning with gasps, eyes fixed ahead.
My choice. The path the novel steadfastly blocked. I chose it, shouting desperately at the man locking up shop.
"Uncle!!"
"Huh? What, Ain. You clocked out to see your pooch, why..."
Not knowing if right, voice trembled despite resolve.
"...H-help me, please. Fire me if you want, just this once... Help me once."
A decision years in avoiding. As a helpless child. No one trustworthy. They'd eye the gray with hate.
"..."
"Just once... This once, Uncle."
I'd hoped no one approached—such resolve. Child with few options, begging novel's adult foolishly, desperately.
"...Uncle."
Uncharacteristically pleading earnestly. Meeting his sunken eyes upon seeing what I held.
"Ain, you crazy..."
"Please... Just once. You're the only one I can ask."
Baring hidden feelings. Side with me once, not the novel's setup. Prove humanity, anyone. Muttering pleas, trembling hand clutched his sleeve.
Foolish, idiotic act. Could ruin all my work. Centuries of hate, novel's ingrained bias—crashing into that. Yet I rejected abandoning the witch, the urged path.
Emotions tangled, unknowing my actions. Fearing his loathing gaze. Hugging the groaning woman tighter, I muttered.
Thus, eyes reddening, I faced him.
"...Help me once."
"..."
"Just this time... Help her not die, Uncle."
Uncharacteristic desperation. Emotions spilling, clinging to his sleeve.
Cold gaze weighed me. No answer despite pleas. Harsh shake-off of my hand.
But time passed, and the grocery door reopened. Heavy air in the familiar space after years together. At least in the small room by the storeroom.
A woman lay on the cot, groaning. Gray hair spilled on the blanket, cold compress on forehead, barely moaning.
And.
"Ain."
"...Yes."
Two guarded her side.
"Didn't think ordinarily, of course. You wouldn't dote on a stray like that. Rain wouldn't hate dogs, so figured a reason."
"..."
Uncharacteristically grave, low voice. I knew not what to say.
"But she's not gray. Even a kid like you knows what that means."
"...She's a good kid."
"And a dangerous one. Your one wrong choice could kill us all."
"..."
Irrefutable, I couldn't deny.
"Why make this choice, Ain?"
But emotionally, I replied.
"...Just standing blankly, kids threw stones in the alley. Scratches from those left scars still."
"..."
Novel text I'd read, such tale.
"Starved, rummaging trash for rotten food. No shelter, shivering on moldy planks through winter."
"..."
My memory unearthed from passed time, such illusion.
"Couldn't leave alley, no washing, one rag for clothes—living like that."
"..."
Couldn't pinpoint which, but needless sufferings for her. Venting thus to Uncle.
"...She's a good kid."
"...Ain."
Not evil enough for scorn.
"Stoned by kids, never complains—stupid kid."
"Enough... Stop."
Just a stupid kid.
"Clings preciously to old clothes I tossed like trash—pitiful kid."
"..."
Just pitiful.
"Ordinary kid, marveling at firsts with joy."
"You idiot..."
At least as I'd seen her.
The novel's setup, world's history called her sinner.
Yet no wrongs committed.
So.
"Just born with gray hair, gray eyes—must live like that? Doesn't... make sense, Uncle..."
"..."
Gripping her unconscious, groaning hand, I poured emotions. Grimacing, glaring at Uncle.
I wished: prove not mere novel character. Face, experience, judge yourself.
Boundary novel forbids, but my new path.
And he proved.
"...Yeah."
"..."
Declaring not scripted puppet.
"Maybe I've been too rigid."
"..."
At least, face and judge himself.
"Ain."
"...Yes."
Believe child's words, stand by.
"I'll watch her today—go home. Rain'll worry if late."
"...Thanks, Uncle."
Thus patting my head.
Ink on unchangeable page blurred. Crack in eons-old setup.