Chapter 1: Prologue: A Letter with Scribbled Handwriting

Prologue: A Letter with Scribbled Handwriting

To my beloved grandfather:

I hope all is well with you. After ten days of unpleasant trudging through snow, I have finally found a decent desk and chair to write you this letter.

Teacher Anderson, if you are reading this letter on my behalf, please do not be angry. There is truly no paper or pen here capable of writing the fancy letters you taught me—and even finding paper and pen at all is thanks to this heavy snowstorm: several traveling merchants taking a shortcut were trapped in this nameless village, and it took them a long while to dig out this seemingly unreliable pen.

As for paper, I brought some with me, but it got soaked. Several other sheets were accidentally reduced to ash when I tried to dry them—luckily, I didn’t have much to write.

Now for the matter at hand.

I did not meet the “true scholar” you mentioned—the one you wanted me to invite to become some kind of “enlightener” (if I recall correctly, that’s what you called him).

He now has a nickname, something like “The Firehand of Wenden Harbor,” which he acquired just half a month before I arrived in Wenden Harbor.

The general story is that during a demonstration of magical abilities before the local academy, he burned his left hand—quite severely, apparently. The description given by the scholar I met was so horrifying I’d rather not repeat it, though that’s not important, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to write here anyway.

What matters is that when a few scholars who hadn’t fainted took him to the doctor, small trinkets fell out of his burned sleeve—rumored to be connected to his so-called “magic.”

Had nothing unexpected happened, like other less skillful frauds, the confession of his self-incriminating apprentice would have been enough to send both of them to Wenden Harbor’s infamous seawater dungeon.

But now it seems he won’t get the chance to investigate whether the ghost stories are true.

The doctor said Mr. Firehand did not survive the amputation. How it came to that point—well, it’s deeply regrettable.

Honestly, I know you’re going to start lecturing me again about “it never hurts to try.” Since I was a child, you’ve always told me about the strange things you encountered on the battlefield—people with fire and light in their hands. Teacher Anderson also loved your stories and helped you study those books.

In my opinion, when you killed them, you never checked their sleeves carefully enough. Even if there truly were “magic users,” they’d have been recruited long ago by the powerful—why would one come swaggering into a place like Wenden Harbor and perform “magic” for scholars?

There’s little paper left. Though I’d like to copy the assignments Teacher Anderson gave me, there isn’t enough.

I will stay in this village for a few days, while Cousin Ryan will depart first. When he delivers this letter to you, I’ll arrive home a few days later.

Signed: Kraft