The Village Where Letters Fly In (3)
Magic had always been wondrous to me. The gray landscapes conjured by certain women were beautiful and strange, and the streams of mana that empire mages occasionally unleashed near the palace were much the same.
Even the spectacle of mana scattered by one person—or a few—never failed to leave me in awe. I could never get used to it. It wasn't something you saw every day, of course, but it probably hit harder because there wasn't a single mage among the companions I'd scraped together.
In other words, magic had this way of making reality feel floaty and unreal, drifting off into the distance like a dream. It was utterly absurd, like stumbling into a scene from a fantasy, and it mesmerized you completely. You'd envy the lives of those born with the blessing of mana, only to sigh in regret when you realized not a scrap of it resided in your own hands.
So that's why.
"Woooow..."
"Whoa..."
"Ooh..."
"...Hmph. Bunch of country bumpkins."
We'd finally arrived at Litera, the village where letters flew in, and we couldn't hold back our gasps at the sight. The sky beyond the village was the same clear blue expanse as always, but inside the modest walls, letters floated lazily about like a flock of birds.
"With that many letters up there, one's gotta be for us, right, Tori?"
"Yeah. I wasn't expecting anything since Grandpa Horn struck out, though."
"...Are these brats turning into Ain, or what? No manners at all."
I ignored the grumbling voice from behind and gave the reins a sharp snap to urge the horses on. The village was already bustling. There were burly adventurers who looked plenty tough, mysterious women in robes, scouts spinning daggers on their fingers, guides tapping the ground with staffs. Cranky old folks and tiny kids like the twins. Ordinary people and those who seemed anything but.
All sorts gathered inside, eyes fixed on the drifting letters overhead, hoping one would come their way.
"...There are more people here than I thought."
"That's how many folks are desperate for just one of those letters. Even though most won't get a damn thing."
One letter. Useless scrap to some, lifeline to others. The strong yearned for it to climb higher. The weak, to escape their wretched lives.
"Haha... well, us... Uh, we'll just wait a week and head out anyway. But I wonder if we can even find a room..."
"Don't worry about it, quack. Most of 'em are too cheap to pay, so they'll camp out a week and leave. Plenty of rooms'll be empty."
And me? I was hoping for something a little different. A salvation, sure—but not for myself. For a certain woman. Not the strong's ambition or the weak's desperation.
Anyway. I snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled into the village.
"Let's go in."
"Wheee~"
The moment our wagon crossed the boundary, a clear ding~ rang out from the sky. The remnants of ancient magic announced the arrival of fresh fools to every corner of the village.
But no one paid it any mind. The letters fluttered on, and gazes stayed glued to the heavens—not us.
I muttered under my breath.
"...Fanatics, the lot of 'em."
"...Yeah, something like that. Desperation breeds zealots."
Horn spat the words with a bitter edge, his deep-set eyes flickering with something like the desperate longing of those staring skyward. Eyes sunk in the past. A dying spark flailing in memories.
I didn't like it, so I snapped the reins again to hurry the horses.
We found an inn and unpacked.
"The hell? Prices jacked up like this? These bastards aren't even seasonal hawkers—they're packed every day, and they still gouge us?"
I grumbled, hands still shaking from handing over the coin purse earlier. It was ridiculous how they'd hiked rates five times higher than any other city. The facilities weren't even a fifth as good.
And there was one geezer cackling at my expense.
"'Course they do. Suckers like you make it easy. One-week marks who'll never come back—prime for fleecing."
"...Then you're a sucker too, old man. You're my companion."
"Ain't my coin, so why would I be? Hmph, free lodging sure beats the air different, eh, brats?"
Horn smirked in a rare show of smugness, ribbing me as he ruffled the giggling kids' hair with surprising gentleness. Not aimed at me, though.
I sighed heavily and turned to the view out the window. Nothing but the swarm of letters we'd seen entering, and people reaching desperately for them. Especially those with raw, pleading faces.
Too pitiful, too urgent for just a week's wait. Their eyes brimmed with unrelenting yearning.
"Old man... even people that desperate only wait a week?"
I couldn't imagine them shrugging it off after seven days.
Horn sighed at my words and shuffled over. He raised a muscled hand, pointing out the window to a middle-aged—or elderly—woman by the central fountain, gazing skyward.
"...That old broad. See her?"
"Yeah, the one who's seen some years?"
He stared at her with a bitter expression before continuing.
"Yep. She was here fifty years ago when I passed through. Humans age fast. Almost didn't recognize her."
"..."
"Fresh-faced young thing back then. Now a hunched granny. Didn't expect her still waiting for a letter."
Fifty years. Half a human lifetime. According to Horn, that's how long she'd been waiting in Litera.
But as far as I knew—and as Horn said—
"You said if no letter comes in a week, it never will."
The unspoken rule was that letters arrived within a week of reaching Litera. No one who'd waited a month, a year, a decade beyond that ever got one.
"They all know that. But knowing and accepting are different beasts."
"Still..."
"No 'still' about it. If whining got everyone a letter, why would folks bail after a week?"
Most of the world saw it that way. Fifty years of desperation? The world was cruel—no salvation for that. Letters went only to the chosen. Not the ordinary, the foolish.
Letters between people linked hearts. These? Not so much.
I knew that much. No need to come here first just for a note.
Still.
"...Even so, after fifty years, couldn't they drop her one letter? It's not that hard."
Hearts aren't constant. Even strangers' tales shake you. I wanted to be rational, but I was emotional at heart, hoping for scenes like this not to exist.
"...The magic remnants or gods don't see it that way. What can ya do? Born as lowly mortals—that's the crime."
Wishing in your head changed nothing.
So I hated this world a bit. A lot, actually.
Looking at the core of it, it felt like extras like me—and those passed over—weren't worth even one letter. Like their role was just to yearn until they crumbled to dust.
The whole setup reeked of injustice.
"...Tch."
But with nothing I could do, I just clicked my tongue and drew the curtains.
Besides.
"Rookie, you're chasing the impossible too. Just not a letter."
Like Horn said, I was after something even more absurd than them. A nobody like me, trying to shift perceptions after centuries.
Litera, the village where letters flew in. One day in, and I already decided I didn't like it.
It was as romantic as I'd imagined. No more, no less.