The Old Man and the Girl (2)
The girl returned to her room, comforted by the old man's warm words, and I sat down at my desk. On the desk sat the bundle of parchment he'd left behind and a cup of warm cocoa.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
Scritch, scritch, scritch. The only sound echoing mournfully through the room was that of the quill moving across the page.
He hadn't scolded me. He'd simply stroked my head with a look of pity and said,
"That passion of yours to teach your friend is truly admirable, my dear. And that unique metaphor you used was quite intriguing. But oh, child, your way of conveying your heart is far too rough. Violence has a way of tarnishing even the finest knowledge."
Not a single word was wrong. As expected of a scholar recognized by the White Tower, his method of reprimand was pioneering, to say the least.
Scritch, scritch, scritch. The repetitive sound filled the room.
A reflection statement—something I'd never written even in school, the army, or at work in my previous life. And here I was, in this world's forest cabin, forced to write it with a quill.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
After repeating that sentence about a hundred times, it hit me.
The old man was scarier than I'd thought.
If it had been some medieval punishment like a beating or locking me in the shed, I could've dismissed him as a barbarian without a second thought. But he'd acknowledged my logic while simultaneously pointing out the crudeness of my attitude. From a modern psychological perspective, this was high-level discipline. It preserved the student's self-esteem while making them realize how much their actions undermined their own goals.
Scritch, scritch, scritch.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
And after scribbling it another hundred times or so, I realized something else.
That my condition was off somewhere.
I'd hit a girl no older than ten. And with all my strength, no less. And the reason? Her unscientific approach to practicing magic. I'd flown into a rage over that alone.
Why? Wasn't that weird? Since when had I been so obsessed with science?
In my previous life, I hadn't even majored in a related field—I was a liberal arts guy, far from science. All my knowledge came from skimming one-minute shorts or YouTube science channels. Vague concepts without foundations, structures, or equations.
So why was I freaking out like this? This wasn't me. I'd been the type to watch fantasy or SF movies and think, "Whoa, that's cool. Wish I had powers like that." Just ordinary daydreaming.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
Thinking back, the process leading to my anger was strange too. Like the intermediate steps had been outright deleted—a sudden acceleration.
This wasn't the first time. I recalled smacking the noble brats at the White Tower with a broom.
—Hey, did you hear? I overheard the teachers talking... her Destiny is...
—Shut up!
—Waaah!
My second trigger point. Destiny. Or Destiny and magic. In other words, irrationality and unscientific nonsense.
Was I raging at irrationality and unscientific things? But where was the line? Was Destiny's fatalism irrational? Was magic's mysticism unscientific?
If so, what about a count's family despising and neglecting their newborn daughter? Locking her away in a remote annex of the estate, selling her off to the White Tower, forcibly prying away her sobbing little sister? Was that rational?
And the magic reagents in the old man's cabin shed? Mandragora root that induced hallucinations for three days just from its scream, or silence spring water that rendered you mute for a full day on contact? Scientific?
All irrational, all unscientific. Yet I'd freaked out at the top ones and stayed calm at the bottom.
What was the difference between those two?
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
I tried recalling my name from my previous life. Couldn't.
My name in this life. Couldn't.
Family, little sister, the servants who tended me. All gone.
The old man and the girl's names. The ones I'd heard drilled into my ears these past few days. Gone.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
Violence is not a means of conveying the heart.
—Oh dear... Is her Destiny already starting to devour her Heart Image?
I suddenly recalled the White Tower elder's words to me. Irrational, unscientific nonsense. I couldn't accept it. Just thinking of it stirred a sticky rage.
Why? Why couldn't I accept it? Wasn't I clearly abnormal right now?
The quill in my hand sped up. The old man's reflective method was truly pioneering. Each stroke, each word, forced me to look inward and sort my thoughts.
I slowly retraced my actions, pinpointing the oddities one by one.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
When I came to, I'd used up all the parchment. The desk was covered in my dense script.
And then, gazing down at those countless lines, I finally recognized it.
Violence is the most reliable means of enlightening ignorance.
That my self was slowly being devoured by something.
"……"
I picked up the now-cold cocoa cup and stared out the window. The sun had set, and thick darkness gazed back at me.
Mornings in the cabin always followed the same routine. Eyes fluttering open naturally without an alarm, the scent of dry wood. Sunlight brushing past my nose from the window.
Stepping out of bed into the living room, there was the silver-haired girl bustling about in her apron, as always. The savory stew aroma made my stomach growl.
Having skipped dinner and crashed, my belly felt like it was glued to my back.
Entering the kitchen, I saw the girl's shoulders flinch as she stirred the pot with a ladle.
Ah. Right—first time facing her since yesterday. From her perspective, I must seem pretty uncomfortable.
"……H-Hi."
She turned, forcing an awkward smile. Trying to act normal, but her eyes dodged mine.
I shut my mouth for a moment. Should I apologize? No, what should I do? I'd used violence, so apologizing and seeking forgiveness was basic human relations, right? Why was I hesitating?
I opened my mouth to apologize for yesterday.
It was my fault. Sorry.
"Your attitude yesterday was total trash."
"Huh…?"
Hmm. Definitely a problem. A pretty serious one.
"Heh heh, that's enough now, child."
The old man, who'd been quietly watching our exchange, stepped in to mediate as the girl's eyes welled up.
"Let's eat breakfast first. You must be hungry."
He patted the girl's back, sat her in a chair, and pushed a bowl of bread and stew toward me.
"Eat it before it gets cold."
I lifted my spoon and scooped up some stew. The well-cooked carrots and potatoes mashed softly in my mouth.
Clink, clink. Hunger is the best sauce, they say. It was true.
I focused solely on chewing and swallowing, no time to savor.
After a silent meal, I spoke up.
"My condition's a bit off."
"Keh keh. A child who can't even remember her own name is suddenly realizing it now."
The old man just shrugged with a hearty laugh. He must've heard from the White Tower, yet he seemed relaxed.
I sipped the remaining soup and chose my next words.
"No, it's seriously off."
The White Tower was right. I still couldn't accept whatever this Destiny nonsense was, but something was clearly wrong with me.
So I decided to ask this old man for help. That's why the White Tower had sent me here in the first place—to fix that flaw.
"Realizing it now is what matters, isn't it?"
A deliberately casual tone. He'd surely seen the reflection I'd written yesterday. The parchment had vanished from my desk by morning.
So he couldn't have missed that final line. Yet he wasn't saying anything.
"You were so docile before, I almost mistook you for a doll. Now you're finally showing some humanity."
"…Pardon?"
"You've been fidgeting since earlier."
The old man dabbed his mouth with a napkin after eating, gazing at me with a kindly smile.
"The first step in treatment always starts with awareness. Don't worry too much. If you've recognized it yourself, it won't erode your Heart Image any further."
Heart Image. Hearing that word made something squirm inside me again. A familiar sensation by now.
Destiny, magic, Heart Image. For some reason, my three triggers.
I furrowed my brow and spoke.
"Heart Image? You think treating this with some vague concept like that? If it's psychological, just say subconscious or trauma."
"Heh heh, here we go again."
Yeah. Same thought here. What are you doing?