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Sheesh, that was dark! Tsk– Tsk– Al’s not being a good boy, he should know that it’s bad to play with fire. (๑>•̀๑)
Five years had passed since that fateful day.
The Kingdom of Arcadia had overcome a long winter and was now welcoming the arrival of spring. This year, the winter had been harsher than usual, with many succumbing to the cold or starvation.
Thus, the advent of spring, a season desperately awaited by all, was a time of widespread celebration.
A bookstore, in a corner of the kingdom's capital, was no exception. While books sold during the winter, new releases were scarce.
Without fresh titles, the regulars lacked stimulation, and given the literacy rates, it was challenging to attract new customers. As such, spring, when the imports would resume, was a much-welcomed season for the bookstore.
"Hey, could you get that one from shelf thirteen? I've forgotten the name. Uh, the one on anatomy by, ah, Marcia or something."
Taking the order from the customer, the bookstore owner called for his assistant at the back of the store.
"Hmm, it should be ‘Human Anatomy’ by Denvour, right? Do you want a copy or a translated version?"
"Yeah, that's the one. But wait, the translated version shouldn’t be available yet, right? I thought it was a new release."
Cough.
"I actually translated it myself."
The owner's eyes widened in surprise, mirroring the astonishment of the customer.
A translated book is one that has been converted into the language of this country from a different language. It requires proficiency in at least two languages and is a challenging task that demands a good sense of language and translation skills. And now, this boy was claiming that this task had been done with a new book that had just arrived.
"Then I'll take the translated version, please."
"Always a pleasure. Hey, bring out the translated version!"
"Yes, please wait a moment."
While the assistant fetched the book, the owner and the regular engaged in small talk. It was essential to entertain the customer.
"That boy, he's quite exceptional."
"When he first arrived, he couldn't read or write, and I didn't know what to do with him. But he studied hard, read books, and before I knew it, he knew more about books than I did."
The owner beamed with pride as if boasting about his own child.
"Now he can handle transactions quite well and even communicate with foreign traders. In fact, he's better at foreign languages than I am. Not that I am bragging, though."
The customer could only offer a wry smile in response to the clearly proud owner.
"Well, there is one flaw…"
The owner glanced towards the back as footsteps approached, and the one who emerged was—
"Here's your order, the translated ‘Human Anatomy’. Cough. I've tried to keep the translation as accurate as possible. If there are any parts that are unclear, please call for me, and I'll come help you."
A gray-haired youth. His messy, gray hair was long enough to cover his eyes. His skin was pale and dirty, almost as if covered in ash. He had a bent back. He wasn't short, but his posture was terrible. His appearance was unremarkable, unimpressive, and easily overlooked. He was an utterly unremarkable youth.
"If only he tried to keep himself tidy. He used to be quite cute as a child, but as he became engrossed in books, he ended up like this. Well, he's excellent, so I won't complain too much."
The youth seemed accustomed to such harsh criticism of his looks, showing no particular concern.
"Well, isn’t he fine as is? Thank you, lad. I had been looking forward to this all winter, but sadly I don't understand Marcia's language. Even if I had gotten a copy, I would still have had to rely on a translator. You've saved me that step. I truly appreciate it."
With that, the regular pulled out twice the standard price of the book from his pocket.
"This is for your trouble. Please accept it."
"Cough. Are you sure?"
The youth looked to the owner for confirmation. The owner nodded; it was proper to accept the customer's generous offer.
"Thank you very much."
The youth took exactly half of the book's value. Satisfied, the customer picked up the translated book made of parchment and left the store.
"Is it alright for me to accept this?"
The boy asked the owner.
"It's a fair reward for your work. Take it."
The youth confirmed once more before finally pocketing the money. Yet, just as he was about to do so, he erupted in a fit of violent coughing.
The owner looked at the boy’s face, which was paler than usual.
"You seem to be under the weather lately. You can finish up for today."
"Cough. Thank you, I will do that."
Though it was early for closing, the owner began to shut the shop, concerned about the youth's health. The youth tried to help, but—
"No need to help. Instead, focus on getting better. No reading books; go home, eat, and sleep. And come to the shop early in the morning. Got it?"
"Yes, I'll be leaving ahead of time then."
The boy bowed politely and left through the back.
"If it's just a cold, he should be fine."
The owner watched the youth's bent back with worry as he departed.
༺༻
The young man went unnoticed by everyone. An inconspicuous presence, like a wisp of mist.
Straying from his usual route home, he walked in a different direction, yet no one paid him any mind. Even the regular customer from earlier had likely already forgotten what he looked like.
The back alleys became quieter, and the foot traffic grew sparse. The young man moved forward without hesitation. Even in the royal capital, there were dead spots. Places no one passed through. No one was around. Just a nondescript backstreet with a small ditch running beneath it.
"Oh, you are here. That was quick."
"It seems I might have a talent for acting."
The young man ran his fingers through his hair, revealing eyes with an unusually energetic gaze.
"Here, Kyle, Favela. I bought some apples with some extra cash I got."
He tossed the apples to the two. Before one knew it, his stooped posture was gone. His aura had also completely changed.
"Thanks, Al."
The young man was Al. Five years ago, he lost his sister, leading him to swear revenge. The boy had now become a young man. His voice had deepened, and his appearance had matured. Though the intense aura of his past had faded, he was unmistakably Al.
"Oh, do the gladiator arena's rising star and the elite of the Thieves Guild even like something as meager as an apple?"
Kyle and Favela had also changed over the five years.
Kyle had grown taller, his large frame now noticeable, and he had been sold to the arena. Since then, he had been stirring up the gladiator scene as a promising new talent.
Favela had moved up from the Thieves Guild to the Assassins Guild, mastering stealth techniques that rivaled those of the assassins. She had grown into her feminine charm, which became another weapon in her arsenal. Her skills as a thief were top-notch.
"So, what brings you here today? You've been too busy to even show your face."
It had been a while since Al had met with Kyle and Favela. The last time they had met was six months ago, and even before that, their meetings weren't frequent.
"Can't be helped. There was a hell of a lot to study. And not to mention properly learning it."
Both Kyle and Favela had been busy, but Al was in a league of his own. He devoured books without rest, accumulating knowledge and training his body to prevent decay. When he did meet with Kyle, it was mostly to practice and gain experience from the arena.
"But there's nothing left for me to learn."
Everything was for this day—
"My body has grown too. Well, I've been slimming down for the acting, but a bit of eating and sleeping will bring me right back."
Al had been lying low. For those five years, he had focused solely on accumulating power. Al's winter had continued since that day. But it would end today, and spring would come for Al as well.
"So, I get that you're making your move now, but what exactly are you going to do?" Kyle asked Al.
The two of them never questioned Al’s need to act—the past five years had been for this purpose. However, they had never heard the specifics from Al.
"Well, first, you'll have to kill me."
"Wha—?!"
Al's sudden, outrageous statement left Kyle and Favela with no response but shock.
"First off, this country isn't designed for a slave to rise in one generation. Even if a slave is freed, they remain a 'freed slave,' not a citizen. We're not even allowed to participate in the most accessible game for commoners to rise—the war."
Freed slaves had rights close to those of citizens, but they were still within the realm of slavery. The next generation, their children, could rise to the rights of citizens, to commoners. In other words, even if a miracle happens, the individual will forever be labeled a slave.
"That won't do. I have to prove it to them, or it's meaningless. Right, sister?"
Al caressed his stomach tenderly, and Kyle and the others wore complicated expressions.
"No matter how much money is piled up, a freed slave can't even surpass a citizen. The bureaucracy is monopolized by the nobility, and political participation requires rights above those of a citizen. Even among commoners, farmers don't have the right to participate in politics. War is the only way to rise and achieve something extraordinary."
It's a vicious cycle; those who were slaves could not climb up.
"That’s why I need to die. Kill me, kill Al the freed slave, and erase the label of slave that clings to me."
Al's reasoning was clear. A slave cannot climb up. Even if one reaches the pinnacle as a gladiator, they cannot participate in war. They won't be socially recognized. But killing oneself for that is putting the cart before the horse.
"For now, Kyle, go to the bookstore tomorrow. Tell them that my condition has worsened, and I need some time off. Apologize for me. Also, ask them to not visit me to nurse me. They might get contaminated if they come, and I can handle it by myself."
As he entrusted the message to Kyle, Al headed towards the ditch. He scooped up water with his hands and washed his face. The sickly pallor washed away, and the dark circles under his eyes vanished, revealing healthy, youthful skin.
"Favela, you've gone to a lot of trouble. It was good makeup. Is this what women use all the time? Heh, women are quite the con artists."
"But I'm not wearing any makeup."
"Is that so? That feels like a cheat in its own way. But alright."
Al raised his face, now transformed into a fine young man. No, rather, he had been hiding his true face with makeup. For the past three years, there hadn't been a day he hadn't worn it. Just removing the makeup changed his atmosphere almost entirely, and then—
"Hmm. So, now I just have to cut and wash my hair. Then, it will be perfect."
His hair was a dull gray. What should have been white hair looked gray from dirt, but once washed, it would reveal its chalk-white color. This too was part of the disguise. These meticulous preparations laid the groundwork for killing Al, the freed slave.
"Well, that can wait. For now, I'm counting on you, Kyle. Make it as tragic as possible, as if you're really sad."
Al wiped his wet face with his sleeve.
"And Favela, I have a few favors to ask of you. Come by my home later."
"No problem."
"What are you planning to ask?"
"Oh, just a little something."
Kyle looked puzzled, but Al acted nonchalant, brushing it off smoothly.
"Then let's meet here again in a few days. I'll talk about the details then."
And with that, the three parted ways.
༺༻
"So I keep telling you, I have a plan. I don't need my identity card anymore."
"But who rips apart their identity card?! If you're going to take such a drastic step, you might as well calmly look for a way to climb up from slavery! You could be highly valued as a translator, couldn't you?"
"Hah, a translator is just a pawn of the trading companies, the rich, and the nobility. They would use me as their pawn!"
"But what about your identity card?!"
Al and Kyle's minor argument was sparking. Favela maintained an indifferent stance.
"I said it before: it's impossible to rise from slavery."
"But those who lose their identity card are less than slaves. In this country, they're not even treated as human."
"When were slaves treated as human?"
Al's gaze pinned Kyle down. Something akin to murderous intent spilled out.
Seeing Kyle's intimidated look, Al also regained some composure.
"Phew, sorry. That's why it's no good for me to remain as a freed slave. It’s impossible for me. From the moment I was born, I was destined to be a failure. That's what it means to be a slave. It’s impossible to rise up."
Al, having his hair neatly trimmed by Favela, had already become a completely different person. No, he had returned to his true self.
"It's impossible in this country, at least. You get it, right?"
"...?! Are you leaving the country?"
Kyle finally realized. In this country, slaves are not allowed to rise up. However, in other countries with different legal systems, it might be possible.
"Half right. Well, it's true that I'm leaving. Secretly, without anyone finding out."
But there lay the problem. Just like illegal immigration was forbidden, so was illegal emigration for those without an identity card. In the first place, the existence of people without identity cards was not permitted in the country.
For Al, who had ripped apart his identity card, leaving the country was already a difficult problem.
"Hey, don't panic, Kyle. Think about it. How is Favela here? How did Favela's parents come here from abroad?"
"I see." Kyle scratched his head, realizing.
Favela didn’t have an identity card. Her parents had illegally immigrated to this country. So, if one were to trace it back—
"It's possible to leave this country. However, the path is difficult."
Favela spread out a map she had prepared beforehand. It was a map of the royal capital's sewer system. Kyle looked at it and sighed deeply.
"Al, this is impossible. The sewers are filled with feces, and to push through this distance to beyond the country’s border is madness."
Al chuckled at Kyle's words.
"Kyle, don't get me wrong. No matter how unpleasant, or how much hardship there is, as long as it's not impossible, it can still be done. Feces? What about it? Should I take a sip of it? If it’s for the sake of rising to the top, I'll eat or drink whatever there is."
Al had long since resolved himself. He would climb up by any means necessary. Even eating feces was not beneath him.
"The sewers are not a problem. I'll just have to check for any injuries later on though."
A sea of excrement teeming with pathogens. Al would have to go through it for the plan. If he got even a small cut, it would get infected, causing diseases like tetanus or worse.
"Alright. But what will you do after leaving the country? Even if you make a name for yourself in another country—"
"You're wrong there too, Kyle. I'm going to rise up in this country. What's the point of proving myself in another country? I'm leaving in order to rise to the top, in this country and nowhere else. So, my leave will be temporary."
Kyle looked puzzled. Favela didn't understand either. Seeing this, Al chuckled and embraced the two.
"Just watch me. I don't wait for miracles. I'll seize the opportunities myself."
Al's expression was unseen by the two.
"When I return to this country, that will be the debut of the new 'me'!"
The time to rise had come, after five whole years of hiding. Now was time for the avenging spirit to make his move.
"Ah, right. Favela. Did you deliver the letter I asked for?"
Al clapped his hands and turned towards Favela.
"Yeah. But why 'there'?"
Kyle was dumbfounded. The favors asked of Favela, he knew nothing of them. Had he known, he might have been able to stop them.
"It’s because I have to be dead, you see? Not only from the records but also from the memories."
Al chuckled.
"So, it can't be helped."
The meaning behind that smile would only be known to Kyle after everything was over. Without giving them a chance to stop him, without a moment's pause, Al went his own way.
On the night Al entered the sewers to leave the country, a beloved bookstore in the royal capital vanished. It was a friendly store loved by the intellectuals of the capital, but in the end, it was engulfed in flames. Books burn well, after all.
Misfortune often comes in waves. The fire was blamed on the negligence of the owner. Unfortunately, the owner, his wife, and the 'helper'—three people—burned to death. The incident was thus settled. And the memory of a single bookstore, like many others, was forgotten, eroded by time.
The existence of these three people was erased from this country. From the memories, from the records.
The truth of this matter would remain in the dark.