Clang! Clang! The rhythmic sound of striking metal echoed.
The pungent smoke of coal, and the warmth of a father's large palms.
That deeply nostalgic and beloved sound suddenly twisted into the clash of swords and deafening roars of anger.
From the northern lands battered by heavy blizzards, Samsa's consciousness was dragged entirely into the memories of her past.
The loss of her emotions was, in truth, her natural self-defense mechanism. Yet, no matter how coldly she voided her heart, it was only this memory that periodically flared up and burned her from the inside.
The proud back of her father, once a military commander, collapsed to the ground amidst a fierce war against a neighboring country.
Her birthplace, Geyrnata, once filled with the spirit of iron-forging, was ruthlessly trampled, burned, and pillaged. The everyday life of an innocent girl running around the blacksmith's workshop in her white dress truly ended right then and there.
The reality awaiting the survivors... was far crueler than death.
Dragged away as the spoils of war, Samsa fell into the hands of slave traders. In a dim and filthy basement, amidst air thick with the stench of burning iron, the Slave Crest was mercilessly pressed into her small body.
The horrifying sound of sizzling flesh, and an excruciating pain that choked even the screams in her throat.
From that day on, Samsa ceased to be a "human" and became "property."
Shedding tears, grimacing in pain, or raging at injustice—all of it only became a hindrance to her survival.
Because of that, she drowned her heart deep into the bottom of a dark sea. By abandoning her emotions, she turned into a doll that could only continue to breathe.
Not long after, she was sold to another faraway village.
Her days were spent covered in mud from dawn till dusk, forced into hard labor while being treated worse than livestock. However, even that hell abruptly met its end.
It happened one day when the overcast sky unnaturally blackened.
Wars between humans still had objectives like "plundering" or "conquest." But those who appeared in the village that day—Demons—had only one goal: Slaughter.
There was not even time to scream. People were trampled like insects, magical flames devoured the houses, and the village instantly turned into a sea of blood.
Samsa didn't know why she managed to survive.
Was it because she merely held her breath behind the rubble amidst the blazing fires? Or was it because her lifeless figure simply looked like an ordinary object in the eyes of the Demons?
When she came to, the demons were gone, and all that remained in the village was the stench of charred flesh and the silence of death.
Ash fell quietly like snow.
Around her lay the gruesome corpses of the villagers who, just yesterday, had been cursing and whipping her. Samsa sat dazed among the ruins, staring blankly at the scene with hazel eyes that had lost all emotion.
There was no sorrow, nor any sense of relief. All that remained was emptiness.
"Ah, everything is gone again."
Crunch... crunch...
The sound of footsteps stepping on the ash could be heard. Had the demons returned? If so, she would definitely be killed this time. That's fine, though. After all, there's no reason left to live anyway, right?
Samsa didn't even try to run. She simply directed her empty gaze toward the sound of the footsteps.
However, what appeared there was not an evil, horned monster.
Tearing through the billowing smoke emerged a slightly older man with strikingly clear blue hair.
He wore a pristine, flawless white coat, and at his waist rested a beautifully ornate longsword. His appearance was so absurd, as if he had just stepped out of a fairy tale, entirely out of place amidst the bloody tragedy around him.
The man glanced briefly at the surrounding ruins, then noticed Samsa sitting among them.
He approached calmly, and right in front of Samsa, heedless of his white coat getting dirty, he smoothly knelt on one knee to meet the girl's eye level.
"Are you hurt?"
His voice was so clear, sounding incredibly gentle.
Samsa did not answer. She merely stared back at the man's face in silence. A handsome face. Yet still, no emotion surfaced in her heart.
The man didn't seem offended by Samsa's indifference; instead, he smiled gently.
"Oh, could it be that you're at a loss for words because of my extraordinary handsome looks? It's only natural. When I entered the village, many people held their breath at the sight of my handsomeness."
In a situation like this, amidst burning ruins and scattered corpses, it was an incredibly inappropriate joke.
Yet, for some reason, there was a strange warmth in his voice that seemed to knock on the girl's frozen heart.
"...Why."
From a mouth that hadn't been used in a long time, slipped a very hoarse voice.
"Hm?"
"Why... am I the only one who survived?"
Hearing Samsa's question, the man's smile shifted slightly.
His eyes fell on the burn scar peeking from Samsa's neck; the Slave Crest.
"Because I... uh, I am nothing but an object," Samsa, noticing the man's gaze, spoke in a flat tone. "A slave has no value to live. No one needs me. My hometown was burned, my father has also d-died, and I... I have nothing left. Why... am I the only one alive?"
Those words were facts, which had transcended even despair.
However, the man didn't validate Samsa's words in the slightest. He gently enveloped Samsa's tiny hands—dirty with dust and nearly devoid of warmth—with his own.
"Your hands are cold. You've been shivering all alone this whole time, haven't you."
The man's hands were so warm. It was hard to believe, really. Just as warm as her father's hands that used to hold hers in the blacksmith workshop back then.
"You survived because you are meant to live." The man's sky-blue eyes stared straight, piercing through Samsa's empty eyes. "There is not a single human in this world whose life is without value. Even if your hometown was burned, your father died, and this village is destroyed... as long as you are alive, the fact that they once existed in this world will never fade away."
The man lowered his gaze to the pendant left by her father, resting on Samsa's chest.
"Within your memories, they live on. Every time you breathe and look at the world, they will also see this world with you. Because of that, you must live. To be the proof that they once lived."
Deep in Samsa's eyes, something trembled.
Since becoming a slave, no one had treated her as a human. No one had ever told her that her past, her memories... held meaning.
"But... as long as I have this crest, I..."
As Samsa curled up slightly, the man gently shook his head.
"That crest is not a chain that binds you. It is a proof of strength, that you have survived and continued to live in this cruel world."
The man stared at the burn scar.
"Right now, it might just be a painful, shameful scar. But someday, with your own hands, you can turn it into your own mark of pride. Because your life, by your own will, can be repainted as beautifully as you desire."
Those words were like light seeping into the depths of darkness.
"I am Himmel. What is your name?"
Himmel.
It turned out the hero wasn't just a fairy tale. He was really there in front of her right now. Himmel then slowly released the hands enveloping Samsa's, and this time, he firmly reached out his right hand to pull the girl from the depths of despair.
"...Samsa."
"A beautiful name. Samsa, would you like to come with me?"
Himmel said it with a playful tone, as if he were asking her for a walk in the park.
"I will teach you how to swing a sword. The strength so you can return to your hometown on your own two feet, which no one can ever take away from you."
Samsa stared at the large, outstretched hand.
Her emotions hadn't returned yet. Her heart still ached terribly. However, she slowly reached out her hand and returned Himmel's grasp.
From that day on, she was no longer a slave, but a "disciple" of the hero.
***
The sound of the blizzard colored Samsa's vision white once again.
In her right hand, the memory of the warmth of Himmel's grasp back then and the cold sensation of her father's pendant lingered simultaneously.
...to my hometown.
That was one of the travel goals burning in her heart.
Samsa brushed the snow off her body, then began walking toward a light in the distance. It looked like a village.
***
Winter in the Northern Lands, where fierce blizzards raged, was like the grim reaper's scythe that easily claimed lives.
The freezing wind whipped Samsa's short pink hair violently. She pulled her haik tighter—which reached her mid-thigh—and covered her mouth deeply with her scarf.
The journey to her final destination, her hometown of Gryrnat, was still so incredibly far that it felt despair-inducing. Right now, all she needed was shelter from the fury of this white snow.
The timing was a bit awkward, not entirely dark enough for dinner yet. There was no one on the streets of that small village, and the inn's dining hall was probably still in preparation.
Samsa walked along the cobblestone path almost covered by snow, stepping into a small stone church standing silently in the middle of the village.
As soon as she pushed the heavy wooden door open, the sound of the cruel outside world was instantly cut off, as if it had all been a lie. The inside of the church was dimly lit, and the sweet scent of candles burning at the altar wafted through the air. At the entrance, Samsa carefully brushed the snow off her boots and cleared the ice crystals clinging to her coat. She herself was not a devout believer. However, she still maintained respect for those offering their prayers in the midst of this dusk. Muffling the sound of her footsteps, she sat quietly on the backmost pew.
Inside the church, several people were scattered at equal distances, bowing their heads toward the goddess statue at the altar. Samsa observed them with an expressionless face. Her habit of reading enemy movements on the battlefield hadn't entirely vanished. Or perhaps, by imagining the lives of others, she was trying to avert her gaze from the emptiness within herself.
In the seat diagonally to her front right sat a middle-aged woman. Her apron was worn out, her fingertips were rough, and long sighs could occasionally be heard from her. Her prayer was earnest, yet it did not imply despair. Most likely, it was the simple prayer of a mother, praying for the safety of her child—who might be coming home covered in snow again today—and hoping for a better tomorrow for them.
In a seat further ahead, an old man with a hunched back could be seen. His eyes were cloudy, but in his trembling hands, he tightly clutched a hairpin. Ah, he must be praying for his wife who had been called to heaven before him, so she could rest peacefully by the goddess's side.
Humans were indeed easy to understand. Clothes, posture, belongings, and the curve of their backs while praying. By looking at those things, one could roughly guess what burdens they carried and what hopes they held in their lives. For Samsa, observing humans was her way of better understanding this world.
However—
Samsa's gaze suddenly stopped at one corner of the church.
"He" was there. A back as broad as a massive boulder, clearly distinct from the other villagers. He wore a simple monk's robe, but the unusual thickness of the muscles beneath it could not fool the eyes of Samsa, an experienced swordsman.
Yet, what surprised her the most were the long, protruding ears.
"—Elves are truly awkward creatures, aren't they."
Suddenly, the nostalgic voice of her mentor, Himmel, rose from the depths of her distant memories. In the past, sitting around a campfire, Himmel had gazed at the starry sky and spoken cheerfully.
"They live in a completely different flow of time from humans. Hundreds, even thousands of years... Because of that, they are also slow to understand the subtleties of emotion. But you know what, Samsa? When they hold something close to their hearts, that memory will continue to shine like a jewel, piercing through that incredibly long passage of time."
Is he... an Elf?
Samsa stared intently at the tall monk, even forgetting to blink.
She couldn't read him at all.
How old was he? If using human standards, he looked like a tough man in his thirties, but borrowing Himmel's words, he might have lived for hundreds or thousands of years. Did he have a family? From that back of his, there was not the slightest trace of the shadow of loneliness, nor the warmth of loving someone, to be felt.
And most importantly, she could not guess at all what he was praying for. Wealth? Fame? Health? For someone he loved? Or perhaps, begging for forgiveness for his own sins?
It felt like none of those. The figure of the praying Elf felt like nothing she had ever encountered before. She continued to stare sharply at Kraft's back. Hoping to find even one tiny piece that made up his existence.
It was then. Flinch. The Elf's long ears twitched slightly.
...Shit. Samsa softly held her breath. Although she didn't emit any killing intent, she had been observing him too obviously. It was painfully clear that the Elf realized he was being watched, whether due to his sharp hearing or the weight of the gaze piercing his back.
However, the Elf did not immediately turn around. At his own pace, he slowly finished his prayer. Then, he stood up calmly and began walking toward the church exit without looking back.
As they passed each other, his face was slightly visible. A face with sharp features like a stone statue, where not a single ripple of emotion could be seen. The heavy door opened, the howling sound of the blizzard roared into the church, until finally, the door closed again.
Even after the Elf left, the unease in Samsa's heart did not subside.
She didn't know. She couldn't understand. What burden was that Elf truly carrying in his life? Just as Himmel had told her, was he also keeping something precious within that extraordinarily long span of time?
Unconsciously, Samsa had stood up. The thought of killing time until dinner had vanished from her mind. Her feet moved without her realizing it toward the church doors.
She pushed the heavy door and stepped back out, facing the raging blizzard outside. Ice crystals battered her face mercilessly. In the midst of this white-blanketed world, Samsa narrowed her eyes.
The Elf's pace was surely fast, and Samsa might have already lost his trail.
Just as she was thinking that.
"...."
Behind the siege of snow, a figure's silhouette stood. Ah, he hadn't left yet.
Just outside the church, the Elf stood motionless with his arms crossed, as if he had known from the very beginning that the girl would come out after him.
Samsa's footsteps halted.
Behind her scarf, she let out a small sigh.
The man was actually waiting for me, huh.
The Elf slowly turned his head toward Samsa. Even amidst the blizzard, his deep-colored eyes stared down at Samsa, radiating a terrifying calmness.
Breaking through the sound of the wind, a low yet clearly echoing voice fell upon the snowfield.
"Do you need something from me, little girl?"
Samsa, with the edge of her haik fluttering in the wind, stood directly facing the long-eared stranger without showing any expression whatsoever.