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 or so days of unpleasant snow travel, I have finally found a set of tables and chairs decent enough to write you this letter.

Mr. 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 was thanks to this heavy snowfall: several merchants taking a shortcut were trapped in this nameless little village, and it took them a long while to dig out this seemingly unreliable pen.

As for the paper, I brought some with me, but it got soaked. Several other sheets turned to ash when I tried to dry them by the fire—luckily, I didn't have much to write.

Now for the matter at hand.

I did not meet the "true scholar" you mentioned—the "Enlightener" you wanted me to invite (if I remember correctly, that's what you called him).

He now has a nickname, something like "Firehand of Venden Port," which he acquired just half a month before I arrived at Venden Port.

The general story is that during a demonstration of magical ability 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 sent 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 skilled frauds, the confession of his self-incriminating apprentice would have been enough to send both of them to Venden Port's infamous saltwater prison.

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

The doctor said Firehand did not survive the amputation. How it came to that point—well, it's a great pity.

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. Mr. Anderson also loved your stories and helped you study those books.

In my view, when you killed them, you didn't check their sleeves carefully enough. Even if there truly were "magic users," they'd long ago have been recruited by the great ones—why would one come swaggering into a place like Venden Port, performing "magic" for scholars?

There's little paper left. Though I'd like to copy down the assignments Mr. 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, wait a few more days and I'll be home.

Signed: Kraft