Prologue

Volume 1: The Soldier And The Novelist

Prologue: On A Night Without A Moon

“There isn't a single story that doesn’t have salvation.”

While looking up at the moonless night sky, the novelist next to me said that.

The surroundings were full of tranquility that dominated my ears. The air of early spring carrying the remnants of winter was freezingly cold, and every time I breathed, it felt like the nerves from the deepest part of my lung were grinded.

Other than the occasional neighs from our cart-horse parked in the shadow of the boulder, there were no signs of life around us. The illuminations of the city that surrounded us last night had faded away in the far behind, and the desolate wilderness stretched out in front of our eyes. Beyond the night, I could barely see the shapes of the mountains we were heading to.

It was as if the only ones surviving in this world were this girl and me.

This was the kind of night where I could only think like that.

“That isn't applied to only stories.”

The novelist added while looking up at the sky. I don’t know what this girl is looking at in the night sky. To begin with, only the endless darkness spread out in this cloudy night sky. The novelist seen from the profile looked both sad and smiling because of the flickering campfire.

“The stories are different from reality, right?”

I tried expressing such obvious things in words. But, the novelist immediately shook her head left and right.

“That is not true. Anyone's life can become a story.”

“Anyone’s life can also be a tragedy.”

When I retorted, the novelist sighed in dismay.

“I don’t know what kind of ‘tragedy’ you’ve read so far. But, strictly speaking, ‘salvation’ also exists in ‘tragedy’. That’s why Catharsis was born. A tragedy without salvation isn't different from a loaf of dry and tasteless bread. Not to mention tears, even your saliva won’t be able to come out.”

This time, I sighed at the witty words that are typical of a novelist.

“Unfortunately, I don’t read that many books.”

To be precise, I read nothing at all.

“Then, you should change your way of living. Reading books can also give you a deeper insight on your views of the world. By no means, it is not a futile effort.”

“Insights, huh?”

The shape of my mouth unknowingly contorted in cynicism. If there was a mirror here, my reflection in there would have been the expression I hated to see the most. And, I would frown and immediately throw it away.

“What do you know to tell me that now?”

No matter how much you know or how much you try to know, unpredictable things will always come in the worst possible ways. That is my slogan.

The novelist asked.

“Do you hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“This reality and the world itself”

“I hate it.”

I honestly said my true feelings. However, this girl rejected it.

“Not quite, it isn’t the world that you hate. It is yourself.”

The novelist spoke out with an all-knowing manner before I could say anything.

“The world doesn’t deny anyone. This world exists there to affirm you and me.”

Till the end, the novelist was confident as if to say it was the truth. I ended up laughing unintentionally.

“These words were the ones I wanted to hear in my early teens.”

With a dry laugh, I took a puff of tobacco.

“If so, it might have moved my heart a little.”

Unfortunately, the witty words of this girl couldn’t sway my feelings as much as the headlines from the old newspapers. I’d already heard too many ridicules to put my faith into those words.

“You really are a twisted man.”

The novelist looked at me and made a wry smile, but I didn’t laugh this time. With a slightly serious expression, I asked her.

“What about you? Do you really think so?”

The novelist nodded without hesitation.

“I do.”

“Why, how can you think as such?”

“Even if I am pushed to the very end, I am sure I’d like to look ahead if possible.”

Having said that, the novelist looked up at the cloudy night sky again. It was as if she was searching for the moonlight up there.

———Why, I wonder how this girl still can think like that?

Such a question naturally sprung up inside me.

The life story of the novelist I heard earlier was neither a fulfilling one nor a joyful one. To put it simply, it was more of a tragedy. It was the kind of past in which it wouldn’t be a wonder even if one was to give up on life after burning oneself with hatred.

And yet, this girl is here, unwavering. Having gained the social position as a novelist, her ability has been recognized as well; even so, she is still passionate about such a life. As for me, I can’t help but feel strange in this spectacle. At least, it is a way of living that I can’t achieve.

But…, no, that’s why there is something I understood just a little.

Undoubtedly, this girl is completely different from me.

A shallow escape and a half-hearted sense of responsibility, the daybreak that thoroughly disregards self-loathing—this girl must have lived in a world unrelated to such things.

Between white and black, if this girl is forced to make the final choice, she is definitely the kind of person who can choose white.

If it were me, I am sure I wouldn’t be able to choose either till the end.

“Don’t loathe yourself so much.”

The words from the novelist reached me as I was looking down unknowingly.

“As a person, you are not as insignificant as you think.”

I clicked my tongue at the words that appeared to have seen through me.

“Those are some nice heart-warming words.”

The novelist laughed at my self-ridicule.

“The only thing I like about you is the way you never have mercy on yourself. Only that point of yours is worthy of favor.”

I was about to retort, “Even if you like it”, but I swallowed it back.

Because the novelist was looking into my eyes with a gentle smile.

“That’s why be proud of yourself, even if it’s a little.”

She said as such.

“Not being merciful with yourself is evidence that your eyes are still looking forward. Even a little is okay. You only need to acknowledge it properly.”

Those words mysteriously settled down in my heart without resistance. They are common words I’ve already heard somewhere. Though it should be as such, when this girl said it, it was strangely persuasive for some reason.

Averting my face, I stood up and silently took out a sleeping bag from the luggage. Without meeting her gaze, I tossed it to her. Right now, I somehow didn’t want my face to be seen.

“We will arrive at our destination before noon tomorrow. Go to sleep.”

Having said that brusquely, I wrapped a blanket around my body.

“Ok. Let’s do that.”

After replying indifferently like usual, the novelist entered the sleeping bag. There were no bedtime greetings just like yesterday night.

Wrapped in a blanket, I sat down in front of the campfire and looked up at the night sky.

A faint moonlight was illuminating the world through the gaps between the clouds, though it was only a little.

Just a little, I thought that light was beautiful.

Only a little.

***

The year 1873, Spring.

I embarked on a journey with a novelist.

To the devil’s mountain that was not recorded on the map. To the ‘town that perished overnight’ that was said to have existed halfway up that mountain. And, in order to confirm that legend.

I am thinking of telling this story.

Of course, when it comes to storytelling, the novelist is better than me. If it is the novelist, she might be able to make this story an emotional blockbuster with stylish dialogues and skillful grammar so that it can't be read without tears. Also, by burying the past, I might be able to take a step toward a new tomorrow.

However, I deliberately want to talk about this story with my own mouth. About what I see, what I experience, and then what kind of ending I will reach.

I am sure it isn’t the novelist, who should be telling the story, but myself.

A story I should tell.

No matter how awkward the narrations may be.

Or, even if this story can’t reach salvation.

From here on is a story of me, a mercenary, traveling together with a certain novelist.

A story of an iron sword and a typewriter.