Episode 1-a. The Village Where Letters Fly In. (4)
Letters flew through the sky like birds, adorning the heavens of the village. Some would ask, if no letter came to you, why not climb onto a high roof and snag one with a net? Even if it wasn't yours among the countless envelopes, it might still hold something useful—so grab someone else's and make it your own, they'd say. For skilled adventurers, mages, or knights, at least, that seemed plausible enough.
Not that there was any shortage of fools curious enough to defy the remnants of ancient magic head-on. And so, atop Litera's high roofs, a few dimwits would always perch, swinging long nets to swipe at the letters—whoosh.
To cut to the chase: yes, you could catch letters with a net. The snagged envelope would thrash desperately in the mesh, twisting and writhing. But the moment someone reached in with sparkling eyes, it would slip away like a mirage—poof.
And then the voices of the idiots would ring out.
"Ah, fuck! I had it!"
"You moron, you gotta grab it quick!"
Those who didn't believe the tales would try it themselves, wasting the whole day before finally realizing the truth. Nets could catch them, but hands couldn't. That was the remnant of ancient magic.
The letters filling the skies above the village only faltered in their flight—twitching their wings, hesitating oddly—once their intended recipient set foot in town. Some, clever ones, darted straight to their owner and whispered for them to keep walking. Others, utter dimwits, took nearly a week to catch on, then fluttered in panic.
In other words, if the countless letters' owners never came to the village, they'd just keep soaring through the sky forever.
"Fifty years gone by, and the number of flying letters hasn't changed a bit... incredible."
Eventually, when the would-be recipient returned to the earth's embrace without ever claiming their letter, some of those envelopes lost their qualification alongside their owner and vanished into the beyond.
"That means they've died and been reborn over and over... but seeing it like this again, it's bittersweet."
Thus an episode ended, credits rolled, and the cast list showed: Villager 1. Clearly, the potential to shatter a world trapped in the same old rut had simply fizzled into an ordinary life.
So I muttered softly.
"...If the actor doesn't want their role, can't they just hand the leftovers to those people?"
If someone tossed away an opportunity they didn't want, why not give it to the woman who'd begged for fifty years, or the children clutching tiny hopes with empty eyes? Or the twin siblings clinging to my legs, one each, or the old man scanning the scenery with sunken eyes once more.
Couldn't we share them out, one by one?
"What the hell's that supposed to mean, you punk? Can't you fix that habit of spouting cryptic shit?"
"Forget it. He doesn't even know he's doing it—must be a dwarf thing."
"...Have you ever seen such a rude little shit? Dwarf discrimination!"
I moved on with those thoughts, stepping forward. Two days from Litera. I plunged into the unchanging morning landscape.
Truth be told, there was nothing for me to do in this village. Like everyone else, I just had to spend the week hoping a letter would come for me.
But I thought. To exist as myself, I kept thinking.
"Why is that, I wonder."
"Why what, you brat."
"Why can't you get a letter if you're not selected?"
"...You losing it 'cause you think you won't get one?"
If I didn't get one, sure, it'd be a shame—but that alone wouldn't drive me mad. I'd already gone off the rails once, saving that gray witch as a kid and vowing to defy the world. Turning back now would just make me normal again.
So it wasn't said lightly.
"Horn, think about it. The remnants of ancient magic aren't some toy the gods keep winding up."
"Why not? Gods are almighty sky beings—it could be."
No. Gods weren't almighty.
"Gods exist, sure. But they just exist."
"...I have no damn clue what you're on about, punk."
Gods—or whatever they were—were just observers up in the high heavens, occasionally peering down at the world and tilting their heads.
"What I'm saying is, they're observers running a simulation they made. Unless there's a major glitch, that's probably it."
They couldn't see or hear what hid in the shadows. If gods knew and did everything, they might've squashed a glitch like me like a cockroach before I twisted the story's flow, mangling assigned roles and screwing up the plot.
Since they hadn't even bothered with that, they sure as hell weren't sifting letters in this tiny village.
"So what's your damn point?"
"If it's just ancient magic happening without god meddling."
Under the premise of no divine intervention, I was certain—and built a hypothesis.
"It's magic, ancient or not. Meet the activation conditions, and even those who can't get letters could get one, right?"
I figured the condition was being assigned a role.
"...You're batshit crazy. Now you've got some nutjob thinking he can defy ancient magic."
"Of course. If I wasn't crazy, I wouldn't dream of saving a gray witch in this world."
"Ah, right. You were always nuts. My bad, punk."
To the pitiful woman who was just Villager 1, to the kids who were merely orphans without parents.
To the twin siblings with sparkling eyes at my side, the dwarf elder sighing and shaking his head, the quack doctor clapping in approval of my idea.
If we could assign them roles worthy of receiving letters, maybe the magic would trigger and deliver.
There was a huge chance it wouldn't, but during this one-week limit, I wanted to try. Without gods, it was just magic in the end.
On the novel's stage with its characters, that was reason enough.
That was my conclusion. A thought only someone like me—from outside the novel—could have.
To exist as myself, I thought that way. Because I didn't want to end as a mere villager, because I was a traveler stuffed with foolish dreams.
I had to come up with thoughts fitting that.
And so.
"Whew... So what's step one, punk?"
"“Tell us what we can do too!”"
"Haha... As expected of Ain. If there's something for m-me too, please let me know..."
The ones around me were just as dumb and crazy as I was. We exchanged glances and grinned.
Assigning roles. Grand words, but my plan boiled down to how much influence these folks could wield on the world.
They might not become world-changers, but could they spark a tiny shift? I figured starting by planting that possibility.
People who could lead stories. Characters who could write their own episodes. Or rebels twisting their fated scripts to defy the gods.
Unlike them, these folks only stirred pity—no such spark. Just desperate longing from despair, not resolve.
For those craving letters, the letters had to become a means, not the goal. They needed to press on, clutching letters to carve their names into the world—not collapse after achieving some purpose.
So.
"So part of your plan is fixing those despairing faces first?"
"Yeah, and your rotten dead-fish eyes too, old man."
For now, I wanted to ignite a spark of hope in eyes that looked ready to drop dead—or at least sprout some tiny emotion beyond desperation.
"...My eyes shine way brighter and cooler than yours, punk."
"Must be nice. You mope in the corner every time."
That was all I could do.
"Hey, you cheeky bastard."
"What? You want a letter too, right, Horn?"
They weren't my comrades; I couldn't take full responsibility for their lives.
My emotional impulse here was limited to my stay.
"Not even sure if it's right!"
"Better than nothing. Got any good ideas, old man?"
I had to fan the embers in my comrades too.
"Ugh... Let's go, kids. Quack, hurry up."
"“Yes~ Fighting!”"
"Haha... L-Let's get to it..."
I had to repay those who trusted and followed my choice.
So. I'd build them a stepping stone to walk on.
And seize my own letter.