Belia, the Era's Cursed Creation
Ah, creature cursed by the age.
Gray hair, gray eyes filled with naught but emptiness.
You shall never be loved by any soul in your lifetime,
and perish amid the scorn and persecution of countless others.
Child of curse, conceived in devil's blood, abandoned even by your mother.
Your path ahead lies shrouded in gray, lined only with thorns.
Therefore—since not even a handful of light graces your way—
harbor no vain hopes, however meager.
Only death shall be your salvation.
No.
“…, you dumbass kid.”
The girl sprawled in the alley, looking even more like a total extra than me.
Cloudy, faded gray hair, and dull gray eyes like she’d gone blind. It finally clicked whose features those were.
The gray witch. The empire’s calamity—no exaggeration.
That frail, powerless little orphan girl in her beggar rags. She was a witch who’d one day bring disaster to the empire.
I’d seen her wretched state and figured she was just your run-of-the-mill orphan.
But that tiny girl wasn’t some no-role extra like me. She was the calamity, the trial for the hero and saintess.
The novel made it crystal clear: in this world, in this era, only two characters bore gray with properly assigned roles. And yet here I was, the idiot who only remembered after getting home.
“Son, I love seeing you reflect like this, but where’d you pick up that filthy mouth?”
Oh.
“…, Sorry.”
And right now, the current me was bearing the brunt of my mother’s fury—tears streaming down her face because she thought she’d lost me forever.
“Hands up straight. Mom’s still mad.”
“…”
Yes, ma’am.
I clamped my mouth shut and, per her firm command, raised my trembling hands a bit closer to my ears.
I’d teased her about being childish, but this time I’d really screwed up.
Honestly, I hadn’t expected her to come rushing to the lost-child center, sobbing and hugging me tight. For someone like me, scheming how to minimize the punishment, it was a real stab to the conscience.
“Son, your hands are drooping lower.”
“N-no, they’re not…”
So.
As a proper son, even if it felt like death, I had to grit my teeth and endure.
But honestly.
Wasn’t dropping my hands partly her fault too?
“You look dissatisfied, son.”
“…, No way.”
Yeah, it was definitely my fault.
If I denied it after she’d cried her eyes so puffy, I wouldn’t be human.
But still.
“What.”
“…, I didn’t say anything.”
What’s a criminal got to say for himself? Shut up and keep the hands up.
This sucks so bad.
What should I do?
I pondered long and hard, thinking of the gray girl.
While she was still young and weak. While she was just barely clinging to life in that alley, looking every bit the helpless victim. Before she became a calamity—was there anything I could do?
It wasn’t pity for the gray girl, not really. I couldn’t say I felt none at all, but precisely, it was worry for my parents, who’d still be here when she turned into the empire’s disaster—unlike me, off on my journey by then.
Even if this world was a novel, I didn’t want to watch the people who raised me die.
So.
This was me—an extra with no assigned role—finding a new part for myself.
Before I grew enough to claim the “traveler” role, another purpose to fill my life until then.
A free choice I could make in my blank-slate state, a dilemma born from recognizing the gray girl’s existence.
I knew the gray witch’s life story from the side story, short as it was.
Left alone like that, she’d never see light until her dying breath. That was her role in this world, her enforced destiny.
Even sprawled pitifully, she got no help from adults. Penniless and huddled as the weakling she was, she still suffered kids’ bullying.
Bathed in the world’s hatred until, by some miracle, she gained power—then branded a calamity, hunted by the hero and saintess.
And honestly, she’d slaughter imperial citizens with a cheerful grin, so “calamity” wasn’t wrong. That was the meaning of gray in this world.
From birth to death, nothing but suffering, crumbling in tears—that was the gray witch’s role.
A novel character existing to make the protagonists shine, dying gloriously as Villain #1.
A tale offering no solace to the hero and saintess who’d belatedly pity the poor girl, nor to the witch cleaved in two by the hero’s sword.
Easy to nod along to in print, but now real, it stirred strange feelings.
Like the laws of the world itself.
So I kept agonizing: as an extra, could I really handle such a pivotal scene on my own judgment?
After much deliberation, I decided to go check on her again first.
Mom’s wrath had finally subsided, and I’d done my penance, dangling my numb arms.
Thus, I’d assigned myself the vital role of monitoring the calamity’s sprout.
“…, Mom.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet…?”
“I thought it over, son. No outings for a while.”
What?
Villain arc?
“M-Mom. I just wanted to go for a walk together…”
“It’s fine. The world’s too dangerous till you’re bigger, so I’ll hold back too.”
“…”
No, you don’t need to hold back on that.
I hadn’t expected my walk-loving mom to swear off even that.
My plan was to use a stroll as cover to casually scout that alley.
With that in mind, I broached carefully.
“So… how much bigger do I need to get to go out?”
“Hmm, probably after you turn six. That sound good, Ain?”
“…”
“Son, you don’t wanna answer?”
No, shit.
I wasn’t sure if leaving her in that alley for a whole year was okay, so I couldn’t answer straight.
I tried my best to persuade her for outdoor privileges, but lost to what might’ve been the novel’s scripting.
The roles you and I were assigned. The compulsion of a child to obey his mother.
This parent-child dynamic was so potent. Doubts kept rising, yet I couldn’t refuse.
Pulled into her embrace, my small body thrashed desperately at first, but that warmth made me stop resisting and yield.
“Son.”
Her call, brimming with maternal love, made me pout—then answer with affection of my own.
“…, Yeah.”
“Mom’s scared.”
“Sorry.”
Pretending not to notice her trembling arms around me, after five years with this woman, even trivial things became impossible to ignore.
“I know you’re more mature than other kids, but to me, you’re still my precious firstborn—too young.”
“…, Got it.”
How could parents care for their kids like this? It’d puzzled me in my past life too, and now as a no-setting extra in a novel, I still wondered.
“I won’t keep you inside till six for real. Stay home with Mom for now, okay?”
“Yeah.”
In the end, nestled in that cozy embrace, I nodded and drifted toward sleep.
Even as my eyes closed and drowsiness took hold, her gentle hand stroked my back tenderly.
And so.
I thought it again.
This love. This affection poured on me. All these feelings given for my sake—are they just as profound as my past-life parents’?
Is it scripted in the novel? Or their genuine hearts?
Over these five years.
I kept harboring such doubts.
In the alley, where even the air hung dark and heavy, a single twitch stirred.
Clutching clothes no better than burlap sacks, she huddled tight against rotten planks to fend off the cold.
Around those planks lay scattered pebbles.
Though the little girl had done nothing wrong, passing kids hurled stones at her as if it were natural, tormenting her.
Adults didn’t bully her so directly, but if their eyes met, they’d glare in disgust before hurrying away.
…, Hurts.
If a stone clipped her head or somewhere, drawing blood, the wound would ache and itch for at least a fortnight, worsening if scratched.
Hungry.
For food, she had no choice but to sneak out and rummage trash bins. Good luck meant scraps of pie or bread someone had left.
The girl gazed at the sky with her hazy gray eyes.
Light pouring from the heavens. The strange song echoing from the sky—la-.
Her blank expression seemed to recall them, but actually, something else flickered.
A boy whose name and age she didn’t know. A little one who looked about her age.
He just passed by.
Someone who saw her gray hair and eyes yet didn’t throw stones. Who didn’t look at her with loathing.
…, Weird person.
Just ignoring and walking past. Yet the girl thought that, tilting her head faintly for a moment.