Episode 1-a. The Village Where Letters Fly In
Emotions ripple like heat haze.
The heart flutters, drifting along with the wind.
Because simple words and actions, simple expressions and gestures can't contain it all.
Sometimes, conveying it through other means becomes even more precious and valuable.
That precious abundance slips away so easily if it's not held close.
So people capture it on paper and pass it to others.
Being able to express something in writing is surely a blessing.
Someone pours love into it, someone affection.
For one, it's memories; for another, bitterness.
And for yet another, something truly needed is delivered to someone else.
Letters.
That's what they're called.
And there is a village where letters fly in.
Letters flutter down from the sky like birds.
From the past, the present, or the future—or even from beyond the river of death—they carry someone's heart to connect fates.
The love and affection already mentioned, memories and bitterness.
Heartache and longing.
Indescribable emotions and stories that words can't convey.
Or gray.
That's surely something necessary for the one continuing the journey for the sake of the gray.
So.
I wish you luck.
May letters fly to you as well.
May the letters that fly to you carry the fortune you desire.
The carriage jolted along.
Every time it hit a rock on the mountain path, the heavy cargo thudded down like it was falling on its ass.
But it didn't have a mouth to wail complaints into the driver's ears.
The wooden planks that should have been sturdy just got scratched bit by bit, joints loosening until they spilled out in a clattering protest.
So, in other words.
At least the cargo had deep patience, only venting its accumulated pain when it reached its limit.
"I'm gonna die, I'm gonna friggin' die. Can't even drive a damn carriage right, gonna kill me, you bastard!"
"That's carriage discrimination, Elder Horn."
"Not carriage discrimination—it's driver discrimination."
Meaning your typical dwarven elder was griping even more than that mute cargo.
"Yeah. Driver discrimination, Elder Horn, you sturdy-bodied dwarf."
"...You're full of shit again, brat. Gotta fix this carriage when we arrive. Can't go on like this."
"That's what I told you before we left. Why'd you get so stubborn then?"
The kids were sleeping soundly, the quack doctor reading and researching even in the shaking carriage.
But the cranky dwarven geezer kept yapping nonstop to make sure I didn't doze off at the wheel.
"I told you thirty times, I'm a blacksmith, not some carpenter hack, you brat."
"Hm, are all dwarves this cranky by nature?"
This might be a dwarven trait not written in the novel's setting.
Mountain- and ore-obsessed folk.
The emotions and hearts of the dwarven race.
"Told you thirty times that's dwarf discrimination too. And if we're splitting hairs, elves are crankier and ruder. That's why you can't trust tree-huggers."
"I told you thirty times that's carpenter and elf discrimination too."
They talk tough, but their true feelings burn warm like flames.
"None of your business?"
"..."
Hm, yeah, no way.
This freaking racist.
The carriage rolled on, and the dwarf elder's mouth showed no sign of stopping.
Maybe this was part of him opening up, but at least my ears would bleed by the end of it.
Litera, the village where letters fly in.
That's what they call our destination.
Not because it has a post office and deliverymen.
Letters literally float through the sky there like they have wings.
Ancient magic remnants lingered in Litera, sending letters flying in unbroken for centuries.
The novel said the hero and saintess took their first steps there, and it had become custom for all travelers and adventurers to start there.
A tiny village always bustling with crowds.
A place where, if you're lucky, you might receive a letter sent to you from some time.
That's why so many stopped by, hoping to get what they desired.
"You won't get one, brat."
"Elder, cursing your comrade like that ain't cool..."
"The odds of getting the letter you want there are slim. If you don't get one in a few days, you leave empty-handed. Honestly, it's a waste of time."
"Well... yeah, but out of our four, at least one might get something, right?"
But like the elder's curse, not just anyone gets the letter they need.
Some get meaningless junk.
Others get love letters or worried notes from family.
Letters about the path ahead usually go only to those who'll become heroes.
So the kind I want goes to the hero Fris, saintess Lua, sword saint, grand mages, that sort.
Hero Fris, Saintess Lua.
Sword Saint, Tric Belium.
Grand Mage, Insenia Ignostos.
Those who change the world.
Those who carve their mark deep.
Only the chosen get letters from antiquity.
So.
"We're no hero. No way we'd get one like that. Don't expect too much. Big hopes lead to big disappointments."
"Mm... yeah, fair point."
His words weren't wrong—we're not even average, so no letter for us.
Maybe it's obvious.
"Most leave without a single one or sigh over useless junk. I did too."
"You've been there before, Elder?"
"...Lived a few centuries, so once or twice. Didn't get what I wanted. And if nothing comes the first visit, nothing ever will. That's how it works."
Horn said even non-heroes like us would just get ordinary letters—or none at all.
Then he fell silent.
Horn's eyes sank deep, lost in some unknowable past.
Time's traces aren't just wrinkles—they're the faint, dying spark in murky pupils.
I still didn't know his past, and he hadn't opened up that much.
But if I had to guess, he had no lingering attachments left to life.
He'd nodded to my persuasion and joined the journey, but one glance back showed he was seeking his deathbed.
Was that a dwarven trait after centuries, or had he finally let go of his last regrets?
I didn't know that either, but his eyes kept darkening.
His grumbling stopped for a long while.
Somewhere off the road in the woods, night fell, and we decided to camp.
Crackle, crackle—the campfire's sound always flows peacefully.
A big pot hung over it, and the two kids were stuffing all sorts of ingredients inside with their tiny hands.
Couldn't travel eating just jerky.
We always packed veggies and fresh meat in an expensive magic-etched ice box before leaving.
So the kids were picking what they wanted from the box and dropping them in one by one.
"Tori, that'll taste bad. That's why Ain oppa said no mushrooms."
"No picky eating, Yaki. Can't eat mushrooms? Ain oppa'll toss you."
"When did I say that, you two?"
Their giggling squabbles over ingredients were pretty cute.
But.
"Wait... where'd that mushroom come from anyway?"
No memory of packing that kind in the ice box.
"We picked it over there."
Have they lost their minds?
"Hey, that's a poison mushroom. Throw it out unless you wanna kill us all."
"Okaay~"
The twins' attempted poisoning was thwarted by my intervention.
"What a shame."
"Elder, what're you pitying? We'd all die eating it."
"What. Was gonna eat it if you survived. Get cautious after living long."
"..."
Horn was back to spewing curses.
And.
"Haha... it's fine. If you eat it, I'll try detox once. Ti-time-wise, three tries... should save you."
"..."
Aberly, who'd been quiet, muttered something creepy and gave an awkward smile.
Suddenly, I thought,
I wanted to see a normal person.