A Master's Final Wish
The child had black hair — the very image of Madri. I was so startled I nearly failed to stop the blood-crazed orc from killing him. I felt sorry for the boy. Madri had taken so strongly after our mother's blood that her hair was black, and for that alone my little sister was pointed at for no reason at all. She carried many wounds from those years. Will this child suffer the same?
The child sleeps, snoring softly. The little one wet himself in front of the orc. I washed his trousers by hand. The fabric was something I had never seen before — remarkably tough.
He had worn those trousers until they were torn to shreds around the knees, so he must have been a poor child. It brought back old memories. When Madri was little, there was no one to look after her but me. The family offered no support. Those were hard times. But if I could go back, I would endure those hardships a hundred times over.
The child cannot speak our language at all. He uses another tongue instead. I have always prided myself on my interest in languages, but this was a speech I had never heard in my life.
I went to the long-lived Ant Queen and asked her, but she did not know it either. That would mean he came from much deeper in the forest — but how could he have made it this far? The thought occurred to me that he might have a guardian, so I asked the Queen to search the entire forest and its surroundings. I told her to find a body, if nothing else.
A week has passed, and the Queen found nothing. That leaves only the ruins as a suspect. Did the ruins spit the child out? But if this child is what decades of preparation behind the Great Magic Barrier were meant to produce... just what is this child, and where did he come from?
The translation cut off abruptly. The princess was studying Messi with her eyes — his head, to be precise.
"That's right. That child was me."
"I thought so, kyu! Then the story's about to get even more interesting, kyu!"
The princess must have been curious about Messi as well. What followed was a record so obsessive it read less like a diary than a log of observations devoted entirely to him.
At first he called himself "Uno," but after hearing my name, he later said "Messi." I do not know which is the correct one, but both are unfamiliar names. The child was wise. I could not tell what race he was, but there was refinement in his manner. He did his best not to be a burden, and I could feel his effort to contribute even a little to our daily life. That was when I became certain. Ah. This child is alone.
I was desperate back then... Master was the only one I could trust. I threw myself into every household chore I could find, terrified he would send me back into the forest.
His master must have found it pitiful. Perhaps he saw his own past as the family's unwanted child reflected in Messi, because he went out of his way not to make the boy feel like a burden.
Watching the child sleep beside me, I find myself worrying. I do not think I have much life left, and I do not know what to do with him. You cannot raise a child in the Forest of Resentment. The environment is too dangerous, and too lacking in anything resembling society. I think it would be best to leave him in Benuda Village. I have grown close to Leto of late. That friend would look after him well, I believe.
I brought Messi back from Benuda Village. I had meant to leave him with Leto, but once they learned the child was an other-race, the whispering had already started. Messi must have felt it too — he would not leave my side. Madri suffered for nothing more than black hair. This child is a different species entirely. How much persecution would he face? I cannot send Messi to a place like that.
If I die, will this child be able to survive? I had given up on everything... and suddenly, I was afraid of dying.
From that point on, the diary's contents changed dramatically. What followed was his master's own great campaign: teaching Messi everything he needed to adapt to this world. Language. Culture. The nature of the world itself. And beyond that, the skills to protect himself, and a lifetime's worth of physical training.
Unfortunately, the disciple had not a scrap of talent for using his body.
I am at a loss. The ability to protect oneself is the most essential skill for survival, and he cannot keep up at all. This is a serious problem... I think I will have to focus on hunting techniques — archery, dagger-throwing, slinging.
Thank the gods! He shows talent for magic. The breadth of his comprehension is far wider than most. A good sign. If he trains hard and finds a good teacher, he could become a mage of the higher circles someday.
But magic is a closed discipline. The snobs of the Ivory Tower made a show of opening the introductory methods to the public, but they kicked away the ladder to the higher circles long ago.
Would those bastards give Messi a chance? Absolutely not... It is not that I do not know any mages, but if he goes to them with a letter of introduction from me, Messi will be dragged into my past. I will never allow that.
His spirit affinity is not bad either. But spirit arts are an expensive discipline. The materials needed to prepare for a spirit contract are numerous, and I cannot provide them. If I had known it would come to this, I would have set aside my severance properly... I have spent every last coin of it over these ten years, so I have no excuse. I am sorry...
I have been teaching him Heal intensively! I never received a formal education in it myself, but after treating my comrades' wounds I developed a fair bit of expertise.
If he pivots in this direction, he will have no trouble earning a living. There is a reason they call it bread-and-butter magic. And no human being can look down on the person who holds their life in their hands. If he masters this much, Messi will be able to live receiving the love of others.
Messi is.....
Listening to the princess's translation, Messi suddenly realized something. His master's little sister's name no longer appeared in the diary.
There was only Messi. It began with Messi and ended with Messi. Somewhere along the way, his master had come to grieve and rejoice because of him. The only thing that moved the man's heart anymore was his disciple.
He celebrated Messi's achievements more than anyone, and despaired at his failures more than anyone. He had probably been sadder than Messi himself, who was the one actually learning.
I was strict in my teaching. I did not indulge him the way I did back then. It was all for Messi's sake. There were many times I wanted to stroke his head, but I held back. I cut the praise to less than half of what I wanted to give. Sometimes I wonder if this is the right way... but perhaps because this is the second time, I feel this is the correct path. If Messi grows well in the years to come, I will apologize to him.
So that's what the apology he left before he died was for... I was truly fine with it...
Messi had always received praise. He had always been patted on the head. Even when his shortcomings showed, his master had never once gotten angry. If anything, he had offered comfort.
And that had been the reduced version. He could see now just how deep the man's affection for him had been.
"This is the last page, kyu."
Before he knew it, only one page remained. Swallowing his regret, he focused even harder.
I do not have much life left. There is no strength anywhere in my body. It is a sign I can no longer hold back Salgaras's poison. I delayed the Seven-Pace Poison for more than twenty years... that alone is a remarkable thing.
At this point, I have no regrets left. I feel as though I have burned my ending down to ash. If anything still weighs on me... it is Messi, of course. Was the child happy living with me? And will he be able to live happily from now on?
I hope the child never finds these writings. He probably never will. What reason would he ever have to come to the Woodsman's Fortress? And even if he found them, he would not be able to read them. An old habit from my student days — writing my diary in multiple languages — will serve as an excellent cipher for him.
But if someone from a later generation comes and reads this, I ask that you remember my sister... no. Remember that forty-five Woodcutters died innocent. Time will have passed, so uncovering the full truth may be difficult... but they were people who died fulfilling a sacred duty. Someone must remember them. They must.
And if there happens to be a kind-hearted soul who comes after me... I would ask that you come to this place and tell me whether my beloved disciple Messi lived happily and was laid to rest in a field. My flesh may rot from the poison, but my soul will wait here for that successor.
I was a Woodcutter who fulfilled a sacred duty, and in the end, a man who dared call himself Messi's master.
Barcelo
When the princess's translation ended and the flow of thought ceased, a deep silence settled over them.
Until the end... you were thinking of me even at the very end, Master.
Messi could say nothing. He looked out the window, where the sun was beginning to set.
The princess said nothing either. From time to time Messi's body trembled, and she understood that he was crying.
Before long the sun had sunk, and darkness had settled thick over everything.
"Princess. Master wanted me to be happy, didn't he?"
"Yes, that's right, kyu. He wanted you to live joyfully more than anyone, kyu."
"Master probably hoped I'd never learn his story, for the sake of my happiness. Because he was afraid I'd throw myself into his past..."
"That's right, kyu!"
The princess felt relieved. She did not know the human world well, but she understood the concept of vengeance. She knew it would be a hard road.
She had worried her friend might walk that path. But fortunately, it seemed he would not. If she just talked him down a little now...
"But... what do I do now?"
".....Kyu?"
Messi turned, and his eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming with a terrible light even in the dark.
It was a look that made even the princess flinch.
By the time Messi came down the stairs, a meal was well underway on the floor below.
Passing through the ant tunnels together must have fostered a little camaraderie among the knights and mercenaries — they were mixed together, eating something like a thick stew. They all waved him over when they saw him, but he declined with a slight shake of his head and made his way to Ereb and Ramang.
"Your face looks better, Messi."
Ereb took one look at him, scooped up a spoonful of stew, and held up a single finger toward a servant.
"That's a face I like. The face of a man barely holding down a boiling rage. Just who managed to do what even I couldn't, huh? Hah!"
"Young Master. The offer you made earlier. Does it still stand?"
Ereb, who had been about to put another spoonful of stew in his mouth, froze mid-motion. Beside him, Ramang lifted his face from his bowl.
"That's odd. You seemed completely uninterested earlier... wouldn't you say, Sir Ramang?"
"If he wants it himself, isn't that the best possible outcome?"
Ramang looked pleased. The man was his savior — there was no reason to treat him coldly. But Ereb was turning it over in his mind.
What the hell is this sudden change? Feels a little too convenient to just let it slide.
Was it because of that paper he'd been looking at upstairs? What was in it...
Sensing Ereb's hesitation, Messi accepted the bowl of stew the servant had brought and stood up.
"If you're not interested, I'll be on my way."
"W-wait! Hold on!"
"Weren't you uninterested?"
His body was already angled as if he might walk straight over to Ayla at any moment. In other words — to borrow a phrase of Ereb's — it was a declaration that he would take even the worst seat at the table.
Ramang quickly sat Messi back down.
"Don't decide something like your own future in such a rush, Messi. It's your path ahead. Shouldn't you be more careful about it than anyone?"
"I did my thinking upstairs. Then I came down."
"Good grief... just what happened up there?"
"I found a diary my master wrote, years ago."
"Your master? That... the one you always talk about?"
Ramang asked, sounding startled, and Messi answered with a nod.
Ereb, who seemed to understand now, smiled at his ease.
"So that's why the rims of your eyes were red... Heh. You cried?"
"Yes. It was sad."
"Must have been quite the moving read. So, what did he say?"
"...He told me to live happily."
"Ah."
Happiness. A fine word, that.
Ereb measured happiness by his own standard. Himself as head of House Ahental. Using that power to swell his influence, until at last he stood above all others.
That's right. Even an other-race has desires. Everyone wants power. Everyone wants to pile up wealth. It's just that most people don't have the qualifications or the circumstances.
If that was what this was about, there was nothing to worry about. He could promise Messi as much as he wanted.
"All right. I'll take you as my retainer. I'll use you as my right hand."
"No. I'm not finished."
"...There's more?"
Wasn't agreeing to become his right-hand man the end of the conversation?
"I have conditions."
"Messi, that's going too far!"
A note of anger entered Ramang's voice. Ereb gestured for him to settle down, and silence filled the room. Ramang's raised voice had drawn every eye.
"Calm yourself, Sir Ramang. Messi. Speak. You're someone I've acknowledged. I believe you're qualified for that much."
A stir ran through the room at Ereb's words. The knights, too, had rarely in their lives heard him say such a thing.
Every gaze turned to Messi.
What would he say? What conditions was he about to name?
They waited for his mouth to open.