Chapter 6 : Ugly eight years old (2)

Can the ashen love?
This is a question carried from ancient times, one that will likely remain unanswered.

There have often been those who harbored affection for those born with the ashen curse, but their endings were rarely good.
The emotions of the ashen are like the sea—seemingly calm and peaceful, yet capable of turning into a towering wave in an instant, engulfing all.
These are not emotions, nor people, that can be restrained. Ordinary folk are swept away by that wave in a moment.

Even in passionate love, a single moment of argument can spark an ashen fury no human can withstand.
After killing their lover and realizing it, the ashen’s madness can engulf an entire village and still overflow, becoming a calamity.
In ancient times, when fear of the ashen was less, records only speak of the many who returned to dust because of this.

So, we ask again.
Can the ashen truly love?
As individuals, as someone’s beloved, can they weave emotions with others and live?

…

In this era, is there anyone left who can love them?

If such a thing were possible, perhaps the slaughter called witch hunts could be stopped.
At least, I, who have studied the ashen my entire life, believe so.

• [Excerpt from Episode □□. A Scholar’s Journal]

I can say with certainty.
My actions yesterday went beyond the role of a watcher—not just one step, but at least two.
They were too emotional.

This novel’s world, its settings, its plot, its future calamity.
As someone who knows even a little of these, as someone who’s lived an adult life, it was an irrational judgment.
Because of it, the witch’s faint, flickering emotions began to find their place.
The balance she raised wavered weakly, then pointed to me.

So.
To avoid being pulled into the eye of this storm, I need to restore that slightly tilted balance with measured indifference and distance.
You might think stacking goodwill could be countered by stacking ill will, but we can’t forget that the ashen’s story has persisted for centuries for a reason.

The emotions of the ashen are like the sea—seemingly calm, but capable of turning into a crushing wave in an instant.
What does that mean?
Build goodwill to keep it calm, but stack ill will, and you’ll get crushed by that wave.

The ashen’s emotions are fundamentally different from human ones; a mere human like me can’t control them.
I haven’t scoured ancient texts in this world, so I can’t say it’s absolute, but from what I read in the novel, there was no other outcome besides that end.
Whether it was pure kindness or malicious scheming, that’s what being ashen means in this world.

Thus, the best way to restore balance is to make a vague promise while her emotions are still faint, letting her feel indifference and distance.
“…I’ll come back next time.”
I think I set the starting point well enough.

But.
As I ponder my next actions, I realize again.
The human heart is something I can’t fully understand, no matter how hard I try.

The ashen girl won’t die now.
She’ll survive until some point in the future, burning brightly as a calamity before fading away.
So, I could delay that vague “next time” as long as possible, warn my parents to evacuate at the right moment, and leave to travel.
That way, I’d push the witch back into the novel’s plot and live my life as an extra.

Yet I keep recalling her, bleeding but clutching that old clothing tightly.
“….”
A wound on her head—if she can’t wash properly, it shouldn’t be left alone.
A handful of candies won’t ease her hunger.
If she keeps living there, she really might die.

Those thoughts keep filling my head, and no matter how I try to shake them off, they creep back in, clouding my judgment and worries.
Pity?
That’s laughable.
What’s an extra kid pitying the ashen witch, destined to be a calamity?

And those thoughts are interrupted.
“Ain! Come help with this!”
“…Yes, I’m coming.”
By my mother’s call, scattering the thoughts in my mind.

In our house, our family has one ironclad rule.
No matter what, we all eat dinner together, without exception.
It’s my mother and father’s effort for our family.
From when I was a newborn to now at eight, it’s never been broken.

“Son! Dad’s almost home, so wash your hands and help set the table!”
“Yes, just a sec.”

At Mom’s call, I rush to the bathroom, wash my hands, and help with her tasks.
The food, stir-fried to match Dad’s return, still steams.
“It’s hot, so be careful!”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”

My body may be a child’s, but my mind is an adult’s.
There’s no way I’d clumsily spill food or get hurt like a kid…
Oh.
I grabbed the dish wrong while distracted.
Damn, that’s hot as hell.

Suppressing a scream, I hurriedly place the dish on the table.
“Ain! I told you it’s hot! Let me see, are you hurt?”

I moved it quickly enough to avoid a burn.
Just a bit embarrassed.
Every time I think I’m an adult, I make childish mistakes and act like a fool.
Ugh.

Aka.
Murasaki.
One of these would cool this heat right down…
…Stupid kid.

Anyway.
As I set the food on the table, the bell on the door jingles.
“Lane, Ain! I’m home~”

That cheerful voice paired with a hulking figure always feels mismatched.
“Zven, good work.”
“Yeah! I worked hard today.”

My bear-like dad approaches with a wide grin, and Mom lightly hugs him.
“Welcome home.”
“My son! Wow, you’ve grown taller already!”
“…Uh, yeah.”

It’s been, what, 24 hours? No way I’ve grown.
Feeling awkward, I nod, and Dad grins, lifting me up.
Here we go.

“Haha, my son’s too mature for his own good!”
“…Save me.”

The beard attack.
It’s his way of showing love, but I get why kids scream for it to stop.
Every time, I realize getting poked by that scruffy beard actually hurts.
Still, I don’t push him away.
I let myself be dragged to the table, enduring his affectionate beard assault.

Dinner wraps up like that.
Mom and Dad chat and laugh, I nod along to their stories.
I agree with Dad’s grumbling about the same menu every day, only to face Mom’s chilly expression.
The scene feels warm, and despite myself, I flash a childish smile, only for it to harden as my worries resurface.

When my full stomach makes me put down my spoon, my parents urge me to eat more. I shake my head, but a piece of meat inevitably lands in my bowl.
I grimace at it, but their “I love you” and smiles make me reluctantly eat it.
Through this routine, I feel affection for my family.

And that’s a bit uncomfortable.
Not the relationship itself, but the persistent question and the new dilemma of choice nagging at me, poking at my insides.
“Good night.”

With that, I wash up early, change into pajamas, and say goodnight before heading to my room.
My head’s a mess.
Maybe it was arrogant to think of myself as the witch’s watcher.
As an extra, shouldn’t I be content with an extra’s life? Was it foolish to act on stubbornness?
But I’ve already rolled the dice, and I’m constantly urged to choose.

“….”
So.
Creak—
“Son, you asleep?”

My father’s voice, peeking through the slightly open door, interrupts my thoughts.
“…No, not yet.”
“Good. Mind if I come in?”

A considerate man, asking permission to enter his son’s room.
“Of course. What’s up?”
“Well, you didn’t look happy at dinner. I thought maybe my beard teasing upset you, so I came to apologize.”
“…No, it’s not that.”

A man who notices such small things.
“Then is something bad going on?”
“…Nothing bad.”

A man who worries about me.
“I’m just worried because you don’t look yourself.”
“….”
“Is it hard to talk about?”
“…I have a dilemma. I don’t know which choice is right.”

Because he’s that kind of person, I let a bit of honesty slip.
I want to ignore the ashen witch.
I want to help her.
I don’t say that outright, but I toss out the dilemma of my difficult choices.

“Uh… My son’s so mature, asking questions I didn’t expect.”
“It’s okay. I can figure it out alone.”

Dad lets out an awkward laugh, surprised.
It’s an odd thing for a kid to say, and he seems to be pondering what a father should say.
After about thirty seconds, he seems to find an answer, smiling and gently placing a hand on my head.

“Right!”
“…?”
“I think you should do what you want.”

A simple answer.
After all that thought, his words are recklessly straightforward.
Like a kid, I tilt my head and respond.
“…But what if it’s the wrong thing?”
“It’s okay!”
“….”

What’s okay about it?
There’s nothing okay about this conversation, you bear of a man.
Even though I don’t voice my doubts, he smiles and answers again.

“You’re still a kid, so it’s okay to make mistakes. If it goes wrong, Mom and I will help. I’m sure she feels the same.”
“….”
“So don’t overthink it. Do what you want.”

Truly kind people.
Unreasonably on my side.
I suppress the fundamental questions bubbling up and nod cautiously.
His words, without strategy or reason, oddly calm my heart.

“Okay.”
“Good. Sleep well, son. I love you.”

With that, Dad leaves, and the dark room fills with its fitting silence.
“….”

What I want.
A choice driven by emotion rather than reason.

So.
Bang—
“But, son, you know not to cause big trouble, right…? I’m scared of Mom getting mad…”
“Right! Good night, son!”
Creak—Click.

So.
“….”
Right.
A choice where reason and emotion find a middle ground.
Let’s go with that.