The room buzzed with relentless commotion. From the rising tumult, it was evident that the man addressed as the village chief had run out of words, visibly overwhelmed, yet obstinately refusing to yield. Their verbal sparring echoed like clashing blades, the heated voices so loud that even the fool outside could hear every word.
Just then, as the quarrel reached yet another crescendo, the fool gently knocked on the door. Discovering it unlocked, he pushed it open without waiting for permission.
What unfolded before him was a well-appointed hall, tastefully decorated. Wooden flooring stretched underfoot, and paintings adorned the walls. A crowd of men, varied in attire but identical in their hardened years, filled the space—some seated on the sofas, others standing, or crouching directly on the floor. They encircled a man in his fifties, dressed in a wool vest, a thin mustache dusting his upper lip, his demeanor harried and cornered beside the fireplace.
Spittle flew through the air, nearly coating his face, yet he had no time to wipe it away. Both hands moved desperately in gestures, trying to placate the mob and plead for a moment of speech.
The atmosphere was...Undeniably dire.
The more he spoke, the darker the villagers' expressions grew. Some rolled up their sleeves, posturing for a brawl. The village chief, trembling at their intent, collapsed into a squat before the hearth, hands shielding his head, too terrified even to speak further.
"Speak! What do you intend to do about it? The August 1st offering is nearly upon us—it's already late June! There's barely a month left! If we fail to prepare, if we anger the Harvest Deity Veman, who will bear the wrath? You?!"
The fool looked up and placed his bag by the wall. He had confirmed it now—this was the village of Desapush, and the target of his mission was indeed that Class-One magical beast—Veman.
Amid the furious torrent of accusations, the village chief cowered like a startled hare. He endured their scolding in silence, yet who among them could comprehend the bitterness lodged deep within his heart? By now, he must have been praying for the night to pass swiftly, for the shouting to subside, and for the angry crowd to disperse.
"I am here to fulfill the task."
In the midst of the stifling heat of voices, a cold, piercing tone cut through the clamor. Perhaps it was too subdued—its chill smothered almost instantly beneath the shouting. Yet the village chief, startled by the unexpected voice, snapped his head toward the back of the room.
There stood a child—an eleven-year-old beggar cloaked in snowflakes, silent and still.
Coldness spilled across the hall like creeping frost.
As the village chief stared, one by one, the villagers turned their heads. Two, three, then dozens more followed—until every eye had fallen upon the strange child. With unkempt black hair, a blank expression, rags like a vagrant, iron shackles bound tightly to his limbs, and a pair of jet-black eyes that seemed anything but human.
Who is he?
The question bloomed simultaneously in every mind. But when their eyes dropped to the small girl slumbering on his back, surprise flickered anew across their faces.
Who was he?Why had he come?What did he intend to do?
Three questions gnawed at them as the boy walked forward, drawing closer to the village chief whose face twisted in stunned disbelief. Dozens of gazes followed him, fixated now on their fearful leader.
"You... you are...?"
The chief pointed a trembling finger at the boy, then toward the infant on his back, his eyes clouded with confusion.
The boy said nothing. Instead, he produced a mission brief and extended it without ceremony.
"You submitted this task request. I accepted it. I am here to carry it out."
"A mission?!"
The word stunned the crowd into silence. Then, murmurs of agitation flared up. One burly man strode forward, snatched the brief from the boy, flipped through it hastily, and, after a cursory glance, hurled it back into the chief's face with fury.
"You bastard! Everyone, listen up! This man—our village chief—actually submitted a bounty to Wind Sand City, requesting the slaying of the Harvest Deity Veman! What were you thinking, trying to kill a god?!"
The room ignited.
Yet just as chaos surged again, the village chief leapt to his feet and roared—
"Enough! You all blame me, but tell me—what would you have done in my place?! I acted for the village's safety! Yes, I submitted the task, but I never imagined the Empire would send a mere child! Clearly, to them, our village means nothing. And now, I still can't escape the curse of Veman… If it were you, what would you have done?!"
Silence fell like a curtain. Perhaps it was the sudden outburst that stunned them. Perhaps it was the glimmer of tears in the chief's eyes. Either way, no one spoke. They glanced from the frail boy to the beleaguered man…
Was this truly their fate?Since that deity's gaze fell upon their village, had all been predestined?
Anger—yes, they had burned with it. But anger changed nothing. The ritual loomed. Nothing could alter what had already been set in motion.
"Chief…"
A young man stepped forward, his tone softened. But an older villager grabbed his arm, shaking his head in warning. The task had already been assigned. The boy carrying a child bore the burden now, and the tear-streaked eyes of their chief had said everything.
The boy lowered his head, his gaze like frost sweeping each face. Then, turning his eyes back to the chief, he spoke again.
"Details. Requirements. Speak."
Glances were exchanged. No one believed this child could accomplish anything. Heads shook. Sighs filled the air.
The village chief stared up at the ceiling, tears streaming, unable to utter a single word.
"Child, let it go. You're being used by the Empire, aren't you? Sent all this way for nothing. This isn't something a child like you should face. Stay here tonight. Tomorrow, return home. Do you have money for the journey? If not… I'll give you some."
Understanding his words, the villagers knew what they had to do. One by one, sighing, scratching their heads, they departed in silence. The once-crowded hall swiftly emptied, leaving behind disheveled sofas and a floor sullied with footprints—evidence of the storm just passed.
Once they were gone, the village chief dusted off his pants and picked up a misshapen cushion from the floor, setting it back onto the couch. Gazing at the chaos, he called toward the stairs:
"Delia, come down and help me tidy up."
A woman's face timidly peeked from the second-floor stairwell. Pale and frightened, she hesitated before whispering down:
"Are… are they really gone?"
"Yes, they're gone. Come down. We have a guest tonight."
"Oh…"
She descended slowly. Under the firelight, the boy finally saw her clearly.
She was a woman in her early thirties, lovely even in fear. A delicate face with small cherry lips and tousled hair that lent her a mature charm. In her arms, a boy of three or four clung tightly to her blouse, burying himself in her embrace.
The village chief turned to the boy, offering a weary smile.
"This is my wife, Delia. My son, Stephen. I also have an eight-year-old daughter and a six-year-old son. Are they asleep?"
Delia nodded softly. The chief ran a hand through his thinning hair and collapsed onto the couch.
"Whew… I'm exhausted. Delia, prepare a room for our guest. He'll leave tomorrow. Make sure he sleeps well tonight."
Delia glanced at the boy, then past his shoulder at the child on his back. The boy in her arms stared wide-eyed at the little girl, perhaps enchanted by her rare pink hair, or the serene way she slept, curled like a blossom.
Delia gave a gentle nod. She walked over and extended a hand, her smile warm and motherly.
"Little one, come with me. I'll find you a soft bed—so comfy you won't even wake up in the night."
The boy looked her over silently. Then, without a word, he bypassed her and stopped before the village chief once more.
"I have accepted the task. Now tell me everything."