Chapter 19 : Ugly twelve years old (2)

Can someone with ashen traits fall ill like ordinary people?
Not pain from stones or blades, but from disease or bacteria?

Their emotions barely surface until they spiral out of control.
Their abilities are far from ordinary.
Since ancient times, we’ve classified them as different.
Called them cursed, shunned them, yet saw them as a twisted evolution.
Dangerous, viewed with disgust, but to some, a coveted power.

Based on accumulated records, they cannot fall ill ordinarily.
They don’t contract diseases.
They aren’t infected by bacteria.
Harboring something far worse within, such trivial things can’t take root.

So, if they suffer and collapse from something not external, lying ill for days—
That may be the only chance to kill them without cost.
So frail they might die from a mere stone, unthinkable for ashen.

Do not hesitate at that crossroads.
It’s when they lose consciousness, defenseless, to awaken their power—or a tragic end from emotional exhaustion.
To prevent witch hunts, to keep their harmful perception from deepening—
Close your eyes and cut down the sprout.

If you can’t, at least flee far away.
That way, you might survive.

• Excerpt from [Episode □□. Researcher’s Journal] –

Days like any other.
Mornings at the shop, working early.
Screaming through Rini’s grueling training at the gym.
Starting to study foreign languages, thinking it’s time.
Evenings back home, dining with Mom and Dad.
And every month, meeting the ashen woman in the alley.

For two years, the Hero and Saintess have marched on.
The story I know unfolds far beyond my sight.
This stage, fading as their mere backdrop, sees no major events.
So, I felt safe here.
At least until adulthood, I thought nothing would happen.

Stretching my stiff body, I rise from the counter.
“Uncle, make me some food.”
“…This brat thinks it’s a given now. Ever think of cooking yourself?”

He’s not wrong, but I can’t match his seasoned skill.
She eats his food way more eagerly than mine.
Sadly.
“Your cooking’s too good to beat. Oh, and make extra. The mutt’s grown and eats more.”
“Not a mutt, a pig… Ugh, clean up and wait, you brat!”

He flicks my forehead and heads to the kitchen. I tidy up, a familiar routine.
Soon, he hands me steaming food with a booming shout.
“You cheeky punk, take this and get out!”
“Hehe, thanks! See you tomorrow!”

Smiling at his familiar yell, I leave the shop.
Such ordinariness.
No incidents, just days stretching toward adulthood.

And.
I thought so until I entered the alley and realized today isn’t ordinary.
“Huh…?”

Where she should greet me, the woman lies collapsed on the ground.
No visible wounds, no bloodstains—yet she convulses like she’s dying.
Reality hits, my heart pounding harder than ever.

The ashen woman is down.
Her face twists, breaths faint.
Words flood my mind:

“Ashen cannot fall ill like common folk.”
“They don’t contract diseases.”
“They aren’t infected by bacteria.”
“Harboring something far worse, such trifles can’t take root.”

That’s why I cared for her despite her harsh conditions.
Ashen don’t sicken easily.
Avoid attention, provide food, and she’d survive without issue.

But.
The novel says a moment arrives.

“They become so frail… a stone might kill them instantly.”
“Do not hesitate at that crossroads.”
“It’s when they lose consciousness to awaken power—or face tragedy from emotional drain.”

The words persist, declaring this moment’s arrival.
They show me a choice, whispering.
Easy path or thorny one?

The narrator urges me to kill the witch without hesitation.
“…Bullshit.”

I hurl the food basket aside and rush to her.
Kneeling by her sprawled form, I ignore the whispers, drape her in my robe, and lift her gently.
I reject the call to kill, steeling my resolve.
I’ve struggled to keep her alive—why would I undo that now?

This isn’t the narrator’s choice; it’s my decision.
I won’t fall for their path. I’ll carve my own.

Yet, as a child, I can’t do much to save her.
Cursing my young body, I hurry onward.

The sun sets.
Carrying someone, even light, is taxing.

“Huff… ha…!”
The darkened market still bustles.
“Hey, Ain? What’s wrong?”
Someone calls, concerned.

Normally, I’d smile, say it’s nothing. But there’s no time.
Ignoring them, I head for my destination.

She’s dying.
The woman groaning in my arms seems moments from death.
I tried not to feel for her, seeing her as just a character—but now, trembling, I grip her to keep from dropping her.

My steps quicken, breath ragged, eyes fixed on one place.
My choice—a path the novel blocks.
I shout desperately to the man locking his shop.

“Uncle!”
“Huh? Ain? Off to see that mutt, why’re you—”
“…H-Help me, please. I’ll quit if you want—just this once… please, help!”

I’m unsure if it’s right, my voice shaking despite my resolve.
A decision I couldn’t make for years.
As a kid, powerless.
No one to trust.
Fearing they’d scorn her ashen nature.

“….”
“Just once… please help, Uncle.”

A moment I dreaded, a resolve I avoided.
A powerless kid asking a novel’s adult for help—a reckless, unavoidable choice.
“Uncle…”

I plead with uncharacteristic desperation, meeting his gaze.
His eyes sink as he sees what I hold.
“Ain, you crazy…”
“Please… Just this once. You’re the only one I can ask…”

I bare my hidden heart.
Not for the novel’s rules, but to take my side.
Please, someone, prove you’re human.

Muttering, begging, I grab his sleeve with trembling hands.
A foolish act.
I might ruin everything I’ve built.
Challenging centuries of hatred, the novel’s ingrained biases, is madness.

Yet I reject the whispers to abandon her.
Emotions tangled, I no longer understand my actions.
Fearing his hateful gaze, I clutch her closer, muttering.
Eyes red, I face him.
“…Just this once.”
“….”
“Please… help her live, Uncle.”

Unfamiliar desperation.
Spilling mixed emotions, clinging to his sleeve.

A cold gaze meets mine.
No answer comes.
A harsh hand brushes mine off his sleeve.

But.
Time passes, and the shop’s door reopens.

In the familiar space of years, a heavy air lingers.
At least in the small room by the storage.
A woman groans on a cot, ashen hair splayed, a cool cloth on her forehead, only faint moans escaping.

And.
“Ain.”
“…Yes.”

Two others stand by.
“I didn’t think it was simple. You wouldn’t care so much for a stray dog. Rain wouldn’t mind pets, so I knew there was a reason.”
“….”

His serious, low tone leaves me unsure how to respond.
“But not ashen. You’re a smart kid, you know better.”
“…She’s a good kid.”
“And dangerous. One wrong choice could kill us all.”
“….”

His words are undeniable, and I can’t refute them.
“Why make this choice, Ain?”

I answer with emotion.
“…She was just standing there, getting pelted with stones by kids. Scars from scratching those wounds still remain.”
“….”

Words from the novel, a story.
“Starving, digging through trash for spoiled food, sleeping on moldy planks, shivering through winter.”
“….”

Memories from time passed, a vision.
“Trapped in the alley, unable to wash, with only rags to wear.”
“….”

I can’t pinpoint which, but she didn’t deserve it.
I pour my heart out to him.
“…She’s a good kid.”
“…Ain.”

Not bad enough for such contempt.
“Even pelted with stones, she never got angry—just a dumb kid.”
“Stop… enough.”

Just a foolish kid.
“She clings to the old clothes I tossed like they’re precious—a pitiful kid.”
“….”

A pitiful kid.
“She’s just a normal kid, marveling at new things.”
“You idiot…”

That’s how I’ve seen her, I say.

The novel’s rules, this world’s history, call her a sinner.
But she’s done no wrong.

“So.
Just for having ashen hair, ashen eyes, she has to live like that? That… doesn’t make sense, Uncle…”
“….”

I grip her hand, unconscious and groaning, spilling my emotions.
Gritting my teeth, I face him.

I hope.
Prove you’re not just a novel’s character.
Be someone who judges for themselves.
It’s a boundary the novel forbids, but a path I’ll forge.

And he proves it.
“…Right.”
“….”

He declares he’s not a scripted character.
“I might’ve been too rigid in my thinking.”
“….”

He’ll judge for himself.
“Ain.”
“…Yes.”

He’ll stand by a mere child’s words.
“I’ll watch her tonight. Go home. Rain’ll worry if you’re late.”
“…Thank you, Uncle.”

He pats my head as he speaks.

Ink on an unchanging page smears.
Cracks form in age-old settings.