The Sin of a Past Life

「 What sin did I commit in a past life? 」

It's the kind of thing people spit out often when life turns miserable. But in a world where science explains everything, few people believed in past lives, reincarnation, or the cycle of rebirth—aside from the religiously inclined, anyway.

I was no different.

But at this point, I supposed I had no choice but to believe.

"His Highness doesn't cry at all, does he?"

"I know. Should we take that to mean he's remarkably strong, I wonder…"

The worried whispers of the maids watching me settled over the room like a soft, weightless drizzle, and I let out a silent sigh.

For some reason, the language of this world was identical to Korean. No—the script was different from Hangul, but the pronunciation itself was exactly the same. So while I couldn't read a word of it, even in my infant state, understanding what I heard posed no difficulty.

Which meant that moving my still-immature vocal cords to babble out something like "goo-goo, ga-ga" should have been easy enough…

But tragically, I was in a state where I could not speak at all.

Why was that so-called Chat Ban at once so alien and yet so painfully familiar? I did grumble about what sin I could have committed in a past life to deserve this, but the truth was, I knew better than anyone that I had no right to complain.

…I swore. A lot.

Calling it mere profanity might actually be generous—what came out of my mouth in my past life was closer to outright verbal violence. My own death at a fairly young age was also the doing of the filth I'd spewed from that same mouth, so did I really need to explain further? That was probably it, then: the karma of this life, forged from the sins of the last.

The fortunate part was that I wasn't entirely without a path back to speech. If I acquired all forty vowels and consonants of Hangul from my past life, I could combine them and speak words once more.

That said, judging purely from the description, holding an actual conversation with full sentences seemed impossible. And honestly, setting that aside altogether, I had absolutely no idea how to acquire consonants and vowels in the first place. Every now and then I could see them—the consonants and vowels lodged inside the people around me—but I couldn't obtain them.

There was presumably some special method involved, and the only possibility I could extrapolate was… killing the person who held them.

But that seemed unlikely. If this Chat Ban was a karmic atonement for the debts I'd racked up in my past life, would the system really tempt me into increasing those debts through murder?

"The Imperial Consort is on her way."

At those words, spoken through a door cracked slightly open, the maids tending me inside went rigid, each bowing deeply in respect.

Click.

The moment my mother stepped through the door, her beauty struck me as almost impossible for a woman who had just given birth. It was surely for that very reason that my father—the Emperor—had fallen in love with her, a former maid.

"Is Rohen alright?"

"Yes, milady. Just as quiet as ever."

My mother approached, lifted me carefully, and drew me into her arms.

"…My darling, when will I ever get to hear your voice?"

Because of the Chat Ban, I couldn't even produce a cry. The sound of breath drawn in and let back out—that was everything my vocal cords could offer the world.

"If you're hurting, I'd never know it, and that breaks my heart."

My memories of my past life were organized away in a corner of my mind like books neatly shelved in a library. I suppose you could say I could pull them out and use them whenever the need arose. Perhaps because of that, even with those memories intact, the self I had been before exerted remarkably little influence over my present ego. If it had, I'd be cursing up a storm inside my head right about now.

"His Highness is reaching out his hand."

At the maid's words, my mother, practiced by now, brought me up close to her face. I stretched out my tiny baby fingers and wrapped them around her neck.

A lovely scent drifted into my nose. So this was what a mother's scent was like.

I'd been abandoned at an orphanage the moment I was born in my past life; I never knew the embrace of a parent. So even with a self as firmly established as mine, in moments like these my instincts betrayed me—I acted spoiled without meaning to.

"Perhaps it's because he can't speak, but His Highness seems to be developing quickly in other ways."

"I suppose that's one way to look at it—but still, I want to hear my baby's voice."

This wasn't the first or second time she'd asked. Countless times I had strained to force my lips apart and produce some kind of cry, and every attempt failed. My voice simply could not leak out into this world by ordinary means. Was this how the little mermaid who traded away her voice had felt—that suffocating ache?

And yet, if losing my voice was the price I paid to be born as this woman's son, then I considered myself happy. Someday, once I gathered the consonants and vowels, I could lend her that voice. What was more, every word I spoke carried Lingual Magic within it, made real the instant it left my lips. For her—a woman who had risen from mere maid to Imperial Consort with no powerful family behind her—that could become a mighty shield.

With my past-life memories intact, I knew perfectly well that the Empress, the Emperor's lawful wife, looked on my mother with anything but favor.

'But seriously—how on earth am I supposed to get these consonants and vowels?'

My mother's body held the consonant hieut—the "h" sound. The Empress, the Emperor's lawful wife, held the consonant tieut—the "t" sound. And with no earthly clue how to obtain either one, all I could do was seethe with frustration.

My question would only find its answer four years later, when I turned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠six.

"…You look exactly like your mother, and it turns my stomach."

After writing those words on a sheet of paper and showing it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to her, I bowed. She sneered at the sight as if it were beneath her, venom glinting in her eyes.

"If only that mother of yours would drop dead, so I'd never have to lay eyes on her in this world again."

………

The Empress had borne a daughter. Naturally, the right of succession fell first to me, the male heir. She had shared the Emperor's bed again and again in desperate pursuit of a son, yet for some reason, after giving birth to her daughter she never conceived again. Rumors whispered behind closed doors claimed she'd suffered damage to her womb and could bear no more children—an infertile woman, they said.

No, "behind closed doors" wasn't even accurate. The gossip had reached the ears of a six-year-old, after all.

In one sense, I considered that a blessing. Because I was the sole prince in the first position of succession, my mother wielded a correspondingly powerful standing, and concentrated power inevitably swelled the ranks of her allies. My gentle mother's future—I wanted, without question, to protect it. It was the first time I'd ever understood just how precious family could be.

But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just as I was thinking that, the moment the Empress passed before me, something unfamiliar surfaced in the air.

Euphemia Paul Bertian. That was my mother's name.

'No way…'

So when a person who possessed a consonant or vowel made a genuine request of me, it was converted into a quest and delivered to me like this?

But then, why—my mother had told me, time and again, that she wanted to hear my voice. There was no way such a plea hadn't carried the most earnest sincerity imaginable.

And yet, in that case, why had it never become a quest?

One thing I could deduce: apparently, the wish to hear my voice simply did not translate into a quest.

'Ha…'

The real problem was that there was no way to refuse a quest once received. The one mercy was that it came without compulsion. And besides, I'd already known for a while that one other person in the palace held the consonant tieut, so discovering the acquisition method at last was more than enough progress.

With that in mind, I made my way to the library within the Imperial Palace, and turned my gaze on the old librarian sorting through the shelves.

'It's gone.'

The consonant tieut that had rested within the old librarian's chest had vanished without a trace.

And from that, one more fact fell neatly into place.

The instant I received a quest from someone who possessed a given consonant or vowel, the same consonant or vowel ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the possession of anyone else simply ceased to exist. In other words, until I completed this quest laid upon me by the Empress, I could not obtain the consonant tieut from a single soul in this world.