Prologue

Prologue – Moonless Night

“There’s no such thing as a story without salvation,” declared the novelist, looking up at the moonless night sky beside me.

The silence that enveloped us was almost deafening, and the crisp early spring air carried the remnants of winter. With each breath I took, my senses seemed to sharpen, and I felt the coldness deep within my lungs.

Our horses rested in the shadows of a rocky outcropping, occasionally letting out soft whinnies. Apart from that, there was no sign of life in the vicinity. Ahead of us, the faint silhouettes of the mountains we were heading towards were barely visible in the darkness.

We had left the town far behind and were now surrounded by a desolate wilderness. It felt as though only the two of us remained in this world. Yes, that was the kind of night it was.

“That kind of thing isn’t even a story anymore,” the novelist added, her gaze still fixed on the night sky.

I couldn’t discern what she was staring at in the cloudy expanse. Only darkness was visible. Her face held a melancholic or perhaps even a smiling expression thanks to the dancing firelight.

“Reality is different from a story,” I stated the obvious, but the novelist shook her head immediately. “That’s not true. Anyone’s life can become a story.”

“Anyone’s life can also become a tragedy,” I retorted.

She sighed in disbelief, “I’m not sure what kind of ‘tragedies’ you’ve been reading, but strictly speaking, there’s always ‘salvation’ in them. That’s what creates catharsis. A tragedy without salvation is like stale, tasteless bread that doesn’t even make you cry, let alone salivate.”

Her witty and clever words, befitting of a novelist, left me sighing in defeat.

“Unfortunately, I don’t read books very often,” I admitted. Actually, I don’t read them at all.

“In that case, you should change your way of life. Reading books is a way to deepen your insight into the whole world. It’s never a waste of time.”

“Insight, huh?” I murmured sarcastically. If there were a mirror here, it would have shown the expression I despised the most. I quickly grimaced and scoffed, “What’s the point of learning anything now?”

No matter how much you know, or try to learn, unforeseeable events always arrive in the worst possible way. That was my experience.

The novelist asked, “Do you hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“This reality, the world itself.”

“I guess I do,” I answered honestly. But she denied my response. “No, what you hate isn’t the world. It’s yourself.”

Before I could retort, she continued, “The world doesn’t deny anyone. It exists to affirm you and me.”

She spoke with such confidence, as if it were the ultimate truth. I couldn’t help but laugh. But unfortunately, her aphoristic words, though like a newspaper headline, failed to stir my emotions. I had heard too much abuse to trust her words.

I exhaled a puff of purple smoke, “I wish I had heard those words in my early teens. Maybe then they would have moved me.”

“You’re a twisted man,” the novelist said, smiling wryly at me. But I didn’t smile back. Instead, I asked with a serious expression, “Do you truly believe that?”

She nodded without hesitation. “I do. Even when I’m pushed to the limit, I try to look forward.” She gazed up at the cloudy night sky as if she were searching for the moon’s light.

I wondered why she could believe in such an idea. Naturally, this question bubbled up inside me.

The story she had told me earlier about her life wasn’t exactly a happy one. It could be called a tragedy. Her past could have easily led her to burn herself out with hatred and throw away her life. Yet here she was, unshakable in her conviction.

She had achieved success as a novelist and her talent was recognized. But she still approached life with enthusiasm. I found this remarkable, as it wasn’t a way of life that I could achieve. But then again, that’s probably because we’re two completely different individuals.

A world without running away, a sense of responsibility, and the dawn where self-hatred isn’t ignored—these are things she must have experienced in a world different from mine.

If it came down to choosing between black and white, she was undoubtedly the type to choose white. As for me, I don’t think I could choose either one to the end.

“Don’t belittle yourself like that,” her words came to me as I found myself unconsciously looking down. “You’re not as insignificant as you might think,” she continued, with words that seemed to see right through me.

I scoffed at her perceptive remark. “What a heartwarming thing to say,” I replied, sarcastically and self-deprecatingly.

The novelist chuckled softly at my self-mockery. “The only thing I appreciate about you is that you never pity yourself like that. That alone is worth admiring.”

I was about to blur out that it didn’t matter if that would make her like me or not, but her gentle smile as she looked into my eyes stopped me in my tracks.

“Not pitying yourself shows that you are still looking ahead. You only need to acknowledge that part of yourself, no matter how small it is.”

Her words inexplicably resonated with me, slipping easily into my heart. It was a clichéd sentiment, one I’d heard many times before. But somehow, it carried an unusual persuasiveness when she said it.

I turned away from her and stood up, pulling out a sleeping bag from my backpack and tossing it her way, without looking at her. For some reason, I just didn’t want to be seen.

“We’ll arrive at our destination tomorrow morning. Get some rest for now,” I gruffly advised her, wrapping myself in a blanket.

“Okay,” she replied calmly, taking the sleeping bag and curling up in it. Like last night, she didn’t bid me goodnight.

I sat by the campfire, wrapped in a blanket, and gazed up at the night sky. Between the clouds, a faint glow of moonlight illuminated the world.

For just a moment, I thought it was beautiful.

◆

In the spring of 1873, I embarked on a journey with a novelist to confirm the legend of a town that was said to have been destroyed overnight. This town was rumored to be located on a cursed mountain that was not marked on any map.

Let me share this story with you.

Of course, when it comes to telling stories, the novelist was more suitable than me. She had the ability to turn it into a tear-jerking masterpiece with clever dialogue and skilled grammar. Her words could have reconciled the past, and perhaps even helped me take a step towards a new tomorrow.

But I deliberately wanted to tell this story in my own words, to convey what I saw, what I felt, and the conclusions I drew.

Even though my narration may be clumsy.

Even though salvation may not be the end of this story.

This is a story that I must share. It’s the story of when I, a mercenary, traveled with a certain novelist.

A tale of swords and typewriters.