Episode 1-a. The Village Where Letters Fly In. (6)
Time passes relentlessly. What started as a single day stretched into two, then three and four, pushing past five to six days. Before long, we were hurtling toward the end of that fixed week. In the meantime, we'd achieved nothing concrete. The eyes of those we helped began to flicker with brighter sparks, and my companions seemed to take real satisfaction in making it happen. But ridiculously enough, beyond that bit of self-satisfaction, neither they nor I had received a single letter. I felt a quiet bitterness about it deep down, and maybe it showed on my face, because my companions threw a few words my way before heading out of the inn first.
“Ain hyung, no letter's fine! You're the one guiding us anyway, right?”
“Yeah, Ain oppa. If no letter comes, you just work a little harder?”
“..., If you're gonna console me, do it right.”
““Cheer up!””
The kids burst into mischievous laughter, snatched their bread, and scampered off like they were escaping.
“I'll give it a shot. Their faces look a hell of a lot better than a few days back, at least.”
“Thanks, Horn gramps.”
“Yeah.”
Gramps seemed lost in some old memory, wistful-like, and stepped up for my request without a gripe.
“Haha..., th-then I'll head out too. Let's try hard to s-save lots of folks today....”
“Hey.”
“Y-yes...? Wh-why call me?”
“Don't fuck up. Help people right.”
“Haha..., d-don't worry.”
Aberly threw his shoulders back, spouted some confident bullshit, and headed out. After that first allergy meltdown, no real problems since, so he'd manage on his own.
With my companions out first, I grabbed bread and meds in both hands and followed. Couldn't just sit back while they did all the grunt work.
Ridiculous, really. Lucia Vicente Todorica Simeo—who'd opposed the very commoner salvation she dreamed of—and here I was, peddling her ideals in Litera.
In Litera, the village where letters rain from the sky, any circulating rumor inevitably tied back to those letters. Tales of burly adventurers snagging one and bolting. Or lofty mages arriving, grabbing theirs on the spot, and smirking like it was nothing. Silly stories of idiots trying to net one from rooftops and tumbling off. Or fools so crushed by rejection they ended it all.
Letters drift down from above like gentle rain, while whispers slither up from below.
Mostly from the rejects. Envy and jealousy for the chosen, mixed with awe and spite. They had little else to yap about. They'd come for letters, lived staring at the sky for letters.
In Litera, conversation always boiled down to that one desperately craved sheet of paper.
But right now, different rumors swirled. Word of strange folks helping people, spreading from mouths all over the packed village.
“Here, eat this. Rub this on your wounds.”
“Ah, thank you....”
Their mutters about us courting needless hardship flowed on, gradually filling Litera. I heard it clear as day—I was right in it, and so were my companions toiling nearby.
I noticed how eyes once glued to the heavens now drifted toward us and our crew, bit by bit.
They called it laughable. Why line up for the hopeless rejects when you could cozy up to the likely picks?
Hypocrites, they whispered. Idiots doling aid to the pitiful just to score a letter with their pathetic schemes.
And honestly? Neither take was wrong. It was the majority view—sound, logical even.
But it didn't break my stubborn streak. I'd been a hypocrite since kid days; no plans to ditch the mask now.
“Kid, what kinda letter you hoping for?”
“....”
Maybe it started back when I helped that little gray-haired girl.
“Don't wanna say? No sweat. Take the bread and meds.”
“I...”
“....”
That hypocritical motive got muddled, trampled flat—gone were the cold calculations of cost and worth.
“I kept praying to be a great adventurer....”
“Got it.”
Their dull, foggy eyes now bloomed with sharp flames—so damn beautiful.
“But now... I pray to be an adventurer like you, hyung.”
“....”
“I wanna help people too.”
“..., Yeah. You will.”
“I'll work hard myself. No more clinging to letters.”
The seeds I'd scattered, the hopes I'd planted—they were sprouting, plain as day. Enough to choke me up.
The barren, heartless landscape shifted. Our measly few days' efforts planted feelings beyond despair and yearning.
“Tersi, ya remember that? Back then, kid-you bawled nonstop; everyone called ya Crybaby, not by name.”
“Haha..., No clue what ancient tale you're dredging up. Nowadays..., I don't cry much.”
The old woman, once sky-staring in utter hopelessness, perched by the fountain, chatting with Horn.
“Hah, bullshit. Saw ya welling up the second ya laid eyes on it, kid.”
“Gramps might still see me as a sprout, but human-wise, I'm in my twilight years now. Must be all that sky-gazing wore 'em out.”
Her raspy voice had smoothed out, chatting almost normally now.
“Hmph, I get it now. How fuckin' long fifty years is, kid.”
“Haha..., Guess that's not dwarf-bashing.”
Her eyes, crushed of all hope and fixed upward, now held something new. No more sky-gazing. She looked at Horn with a distant gaze, smiled bittersweetly, kept talking.
“I'll probably shove off tomorrow. Comin' along? Can drop ya in the city.”
“....”
“Whatever, kid.”
“I..., wanna wait just a bit longer, gramps.”
“..., Fine.”
She hadn't ditched her letter obsession, but her lips curved upward a touch.
I stared at the scene blankly, then turned away.
Litera teemed with kids. Mostly lost parents or dumped by 'em, grasping at vanished warmth.
Ridiculous—even this podunk village shunted kids to people-free alleys.
“Yahoo! I win! Tori, ya lost—sing up!”
“No way...! Yaki, that's cheating!”
“No cheats in the brutal game world. Right, guys!”
“““Yeah! Sing, Tori!”””
Head into the alleys, and there's a pack of grubby kids clustered around the twins, cracking up.
“Ugh..., fine, I'll sing....”
“Hehe! Gonna snitch to Ain hyung at the inn!”
Marbles in one hand, bread in the other, all giggling away.
Tori, loser of the marble game, pops up red-faced and belts out a tune.
“Sh-shall we go to Jongno~ Or Myeongdong~”
“Tori, no. Ain hyung's ditty?”
“D-don't care...! Only one I know...! H-how 'bout Cheongnyangni~”
It was my cart-humming song, sure, but the kids laughed their asses off, delighted.
The twins hustled in their own way. Not like Horn's, but it tugged those lips into grins.
“Done...! Song over! Rematch!”
“Guys, make Tori sing again!”
“““Woo!”””
They breathed real spark into kids once limp and sky-fixated. Helped 'em laugh like actual kids.
Doctors are sacred. Don't knock their grind. That pure, white-hot drive to save lives? Heroic shit.
“Haha, pain eased up any?”
“Yes, way better, thanks.... Grateful, doc.”
“Nah. Just my job.”
That's why Aberly was crew. Shitty training, crap gear—might flop anyway.
“Others faring okay? Lingering hurts?”
“Ah, no. All good. Truly, doc, thank you....”
“Haha, gotta hit the next spot. Catch ya.”
His eyes gleamed starry, no defeat in sight. Kept hunting fixes, failures be damned.
Truth was, day one: allergy mess, called quack, chased off. Horn whispered he'd dragged back to the inn, spirit shattered.
But he grinned through it. Bowed apologies to his cursers, smiled, helped anyway.
“Haha, everyone holding up?”
“Aigoo, doc—worlds better!”
“Glad to hear.”
Till they dropped suspicions and thanked for real, he just kept smiling.
“Anyone hurting? Lemme help.”
With patients, no stutter. Tonight back at the inn, it'd return—but facing them, he stood as a doctor.
We kept planting those hope seeds right up to night six.
Hoping they'd grow tall, sprout leaves, and finally fruit with letters amid the green.