Chapter 25 : Ugly twelve years old (8)

Life holds mysteries science can’t explain.
Like the occult—stories of mysticism, spells, ghosts, spiritual phenomena people probe and believe in.
Or the absurd claim of reading the future through tarot, horoscopes, or astrology.
Major Arcana, fate’s code, the stars’ whispers—some nod to it all.

I didn’t buy it.
Ghosts, unfixable by coordinates, were illusions born of human distrust or madness.
The future, unobservable, made roadside tarot shops—ten a street—beneath my notice.
More accurately, I had no time to waste on such delusions.

I was always average, stuck in the middle despite my efforts.
A mere mortal, I lacked the luxury to chase fantasies.
Even paths others strolled felt daunting, so I ran frantically.
Past thirty, looking back, I regretted it.
I thought I’d worked hard, but only useless ashes trailed me, leaving me wistful.

Maybe that’s why I started reading novels—to seize fleeting joy.
I believed they saved my life.

I don’t know why I’m rambling like this.

Point is, I dismissed anything beyond science.
Even if others believed, if I couldn’t observe it, it was fake.
But one thing, once a delusion—should’ve stayed a delusion—I now believe.

“Ain.”
“Yeah, what?”

It was always a fantasy.
“Cotton candy’s yummy.”
“I’ll buy more if you want.”

To my eyes, she has black hair, deep brown eyes.
“Na, I wanna try other stuff too.”
“If that’s what you want.”

This world calls it magic.

I no longer call a necklace hiding her identity a delusion.
“Ain.”
“What?”

Seeing it work, out here proving itself, I accept it fully.
“Cotton candy’s yummy.”
“You said that already.”

I wonder if such convenient magic stunts this medieval world’s progress.
As someone from a modern era, it’s all so inconvenient.
But my musings scatter, sinking deep within.

“Still yummy.”

Her beaming smile, saying it’s yummy, pulls me back.
“Alright, I’ll show you more tasty stuff. Let’s go.”
“Kay.”

I grab her hand, munching cotton candy, staring at me, and head into the bustling street.

This is the third time I’ve gone out with her, trotting along, holding my hand.
First, the parade, her in a robe; then last fall’s festival.
Since then, she’d stayed in the alley or the shop’s small room.
I’d told her to, anxious about potential risks.
The Empire, like a stage with lights off, lacks strong figures, but no need to stir trouble.

Why now, despite my caution?
Because wandering alone, I judged it safe enough.
“Ain, Ain, this looks weird.”
“That’s fermented food.”

The peaceful market street holds only background-like folks.
No trace of unease, no seed of it sprouting.
Wearing the necklace, she’s fine to roam.

“Ain, this smells like the alley’s gutter.”
“…Saying that in front of the stall owner’s rude…”
“Smells like the alley’s gutter.”
“….”

I didn’t expect her blunt words to plant unease.
I taught her formal speech as courtesy, not to dress up rude remarks.
Gotta reteach the basics later.
I bow to the owner’s wry chuckle.

Our market outing continues.
“Ain, what’s this?”
“A bug-catching tool.”

She doesn’t just eye food, dragging me to whatever catches her curiosity.
“So it catches bug-like people too?”
“…That’s a bad phrase. Where’d you hear it?”
“Shop’s male customers said it. If it’s bad, I won’t say it.”

Pointing at random trinkets, her eyes sparkle.
“Ain, look, this is cool.”
“Just a shelf decoration. Want it? I’ll buy one.”
“No way. That’s wasting money. You didn’t get a bonus, so save it.”
“….”

She explores eagerly, lips slightly upturned, finding it fun.
“Ain, that looks tasty.”
“Nope, it’s not.”
“Can’t I try it once?”
“…I’m not eating it.”

Sometimes, she fixates on weird stuff, making me sweat to dissuade her.
Why crave grilled larvae or fried crickets when juicy pork sizzles nearby?

Time passes; the sky, once blue, is painted anew.
Thanks to Uncle’s kindness, we started near noon, but chasing her excitement, dusk falls.
“This is good. Wanna try, Ain?”
“No.”

She sways, thrilled, chewing hot grilled larvae.
Respecting her choice, I let her eat, but the issue is her urging me to try.
I’m picky about food’s appearance, avoiding anything gross-looking by principle.
Yet, she munches, glances slyly, and insists I try one.

“It’s good, just one.”
“I’m really fine.”

I refuse firmly, but—
Her beaming smile fades.
“Ain, you hate what I offer…?”
“….”

That’s unfair, hitting me with emotions like that.
Her gloom flusters me.
Since her emotions sharpened, this has been tricky.
Ashen feelings, usually calm, can darken swiftly.
They often burst into mana surges.
The novel’s lore and ancient records say such moments birthed ashen tragedies.
I don’t think she’d drown in emotions like other ashens, but—
“Sorry, Ain. I won’t ask again.”

Seeing her ready to toss the larvae, I shut my eyes and blurt,
“…Just one.”
“You’ll eat it…?”
“Yeah… Ah.”

Eyes closed, mouth wide, I wait.
Passersby might see cute lovers, but my heart’s never raced harder.
I avoid oddly shaped mushrooms, let alone larvae I’d shudder at.
“You’ll love it, Ain.”

Something soft, squishy, with a hard bit, slides in.
“….”
“Chew quick, Ain.”

I bite hard.
Hot, lukewarm juice bursts, flooding my mouth.
Sticky, creepy, my skin crawls.
The hard part—its head?—crunches.
“How’s it? Good?”

It’s f*cking awful.
I can’t say that, so I chew, swallow, and force out,
“…Yeah.”
“Huhi.”

Opening my eyes, she’s smiling brighter, laughing oddly.
So thrilled I ate her offering, she pops another larva in, chewing, and asks,
“Want one more?”
“N-No, other stuff. Let’s find something else!”

I grab her hand, pulling her away.
Time’s short till we part, so if I distract her, I win.

Before parting, I ate another.
“….”
f*cking hell.

Days later, after work and gym, I got home.
Mom greeted me, unusually giddy.
“Son!”
“…What?”

I eyed her suspiciously.
She grinned and asked,
“Got a girlfriend!?”
“Nope. No such thing.”

I answered firmly.
Maybe in my past life, but not this one.
I knew who she meant, but we weren’t what she hoped.
Besides, having lived to thirty in my past life, I wouldn’t lust after a teen.
Even in this medieval world, such an age gap brands you trash, even among nobles.
I’m not trash.

“But the market’s buzzing about your girlfriend!”
“…She’s a coworker from the shop. She wanted to see the market, so I took her.”
“Holding hands, too!”
“To keep her from getting lost.”

Leaving her, distracted by sights, risked her attracting weirdos or us losing each other—unpredictable chaos.
“You even fed her food!!”
“…Larvae.”

To others, it looked sweet, but to me, it was just gross, lukewarm larvae.
Recalling the texture, I grimace.
Mom nods, her expression odd.
“Hm, that’s it?”
“Yeah, just that.”
“Too bad, I was excited for my son’s first girlfriend.”

She smacks her lips, disappointed.
Mom’s super chill about my dating.
I shake my head and head inside.

But her talk doesn’t end.
“Son.”
“What now?”

I brace for more weirdness, but her face shifts, unreadable.
“Be good to her.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”

Despite my denial, she smiles, steps close, and pats my head—now taller than hers.
“That’s why. Be good to her, regardless.”
“….”

It’s a parent’s voice.
Not about a naive girl younger than me, but a mother raising and loving a child.
It resonates softly.
“You’ll leave her when you travel. Be kind till then.”
“…I will.”

Parents are like magic—strange, wondrous.
“They seem clueless but know everything, smiling at you like this.”