Deep inside the Sleeping Woods, next to Roken Village, a 14-year-old youth stood facing a towering tree with an axe in hand. Slender and delicate-looking, the youth was breathing roughly, completely exhausted. Heavy drops of sweat streamed down his well-defined face, catching the dimming light of the forest.
"It looks like I won't be able to cut down this tree before nightfall." Through the gaps in the dense foliage, he could see the last rays of the setting sun painting the horizon with a deep, bruised orange hue. Behind him lay a neatly stacked woodpile. Observing the fruit of his labor for a moment, he slid the axe back into the leather holder secured to his waist.
"This will have to do." He sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his fatigue. He loathed this part of his daily routine with all his being—hauling the heavy wood back to Roken. Reaching down, he grabbed the thick leather strap on the ground, the other end of which was bound tightly to the wooden sled beneath the woodpile. With a silent breath of self-motivation, he started his grueling journey back to the village, dragging the heavy burden behind him.
If things continue like this, I won't be able to meet the monthly quota.
The depressing thought fell like a heavy rock into the depths of his heart. The juvenile and his grandfather had come to this remote village 14 years ago. At the time, his grandfather had been youthful and robust. Unfortunately, a bizarre, wasting disease had flared up shortly after they settled in Roken.
His grandfather had weakened day by day, his vitality draining as if stolen by an unseen phantom. Now, he looked hundreds of years old, his skin weathered like ancient parchment. It was as though time itself flowed at a terrifying, accelerated speed for him alone. Because of this cruel affliction, the youth had been forced to mature far more quickly than children his age. He started working as a woodcutter for the village, trading his sweat and blood to afford scraps of food and medicine for his ailing grandfather.
Recently, however, the village supervisor had decided to arbitrarily raise the monthly wood quota. When the youth had humbly expressed just how difficult it would be to meet the new demands, the supervisor had merely smiled. That smile was one of utter disregard and menace—a cold expression that clearly translated to: If you know what's good for you, stop giving me lip and start working!
The underlying reason for the new quota was painfully obvious, at least to the youth. In a single word: Greed. The supervisor wanted to squeeze a surplus of wood out of the laborers to sell outside for a personal profit. After all, the original quota had always been more than sufficient to cover the heating and building needs of every villager, making any increase entirely unnecessary.
Alas, human nature was treacherous. To satisfy his endless greed, the supervisor cared nothing for whether he risked the livelihood and well-being of honest woodcutters. A formal complaint could have been made to the Village Chief, but because the supervisor was a blood relative of the chief, justice was a luxury they could not afford. Resistance was futile, leaving them at the mercy of a tyrant.
Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, the youth swore a silent oath to the darkening forest. This kind of powerlessness... there will come a day when I won't need to feel it ever again.
The walk back to Roken was excruciating. Every step sent sharp pains shooting through his shoulders and calves. The rough leather strap he used to drag the sled bit mercilessly into his skin, and his muscles strained against the continuous physical exertion.
Still, he soldiered on. The village was less than a mile away now. He felt a sudden surge of warmth and renewed energy simply at the thought of his grandfather waiting for him. Just as he reached the familiar outskirts and the village's rustic fences came into view, a sharp, acrid scent caught in his nose—the unmistakable smell of burning wood.
Moments later, a cacophony of abject fear, screams, and agonizing cries pierced the evening air. His grip on the leather band slackened instantly, and the strap slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
No... don't tell me...
Dread settled like ice over his features. Without another thought, he broke into a frantic run, leaving the woodpile forgotten on the path. As he hurried forward, frantically praying that his gut feeling was wrong, the distant cries grew louder, sharper, and utterly chaotic.
After a couple of breathless minutes, he finally burst through the treeline and entered the village. Before his eyes lay a scene of pure, unadulterated carnage. Bandits had broken into Roken Village under the cover of dusk and were ruthlessly ransacking homes, murdering the innocent, and dragging villagers into the streets. The terrifying cries he had heard earlier came from his panicked, defenseless neighbors.
Grandpa!
Panic gripped his chest. He ran desperately toward his home, needing above all else to know his grandfather was safe.
Unfortunately, fate disdained him. Before he even reached the small wooden cottage, he could already see the signs of destruction. He had successfully woven through the chaos, narrowly avoiding roving bandits and ignoring the pleas of others along the way, only to find his worst fears realized.
His front door had been splintered completely off its hinges. Even amidst the noisy backdrop of the pillaged village, the sounds of furniture being smashed inside echoed clearly in his ears. His head began to buzz violently. Moving almost like a broken puppet, he stepped slowly across the threshold into the house.
The first thing that caught his vision was a still, lifeless figure sprawled on the floor, with a dark pool of blood slowly spreading underneath.
He stumbled closer, his breath catching in his throat, and recognized his grandfather. He was dead. The attack must have come and gone quickly. He had likely been shoved aside in the confusion, losing his balance and hitting his head against a sharp wooden corner of the table. The youth desperately wanted to believe that his end had been painless.
Unexpectedly, faced with such profound tragedy, the youth did not break down, scream, or cry. Instead, the ringing in his head simply grew louder, drowning out the world. He knelt silently before his grandfather's corpse and bowed three times, his movements stiff and mechanical. Then, he stood up with terrifying calm and unclipped the wood-chopping axe from his belt.
While the youth was not a trained hunter, years of living near the Sleeping Woods had taught him how to move quietly through the underbrush. As he stepped across the creaky floorboards, his footsteps made not a single sound. Turning the corner into the back room, he finally spotted the culprit responsible for his grandfather's death.
The noises had been coming from here. The bandit had stumbled upon this modest house and found only a frail old man. Annoyed by the presence of a witness, the brute had casually shoved the surprised old man away, unintentionally killing him in cold blood. The bandit didn't care in the least; to scum like him, human life was worth little more than a blade of grass—far inferior to copper, let alone silver or gold.
He had searched the modest place thoroughly, only to turn up a meager fifteen coppers hidden in a jar. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to buy a few skins of cheap wine at the next tavern. He hadn't expected much from this impoverished village anyway; it certainly wasn't a place of prosperity. Still, he figured he could at least scrape together fifty coppers by the time this raid was through.
Alas, banditry is becoming more and more unprofitable, the bandit thought to himself with a disgruntled scowl as he checked the floorboards to see if anything else had been missed. At that exact moment, he crouched lower because a section of the wood sounded hollow. Excitement suddenly flared in his heart. The corners of his lips curled up into a greedy grin—and then, a head wearing a wide, happy smile tumbled across the floorboards.
Behind the headless body, which was now spurting dark blood like a geyser, stood the youth. In his tight grip, the axe previously used to chop firewood dripped crimson.
The youth parted his lips and spoke softly into the quiet, blood-soaked room.
"Grandpa, your little Rain killed someone today. You always told me that taking a life was difficult... but Grandpa, in reality, it is quite easy."
A smile, far uglier and more chilling than any cry of grief, stretched across the youth's pale face.
Rain turned his gaze slowly toward the window, looking out into the burning village.
"Grandpa, don't be lonely out there. There are plenty of people just like the man who killed you running wild in the village right now. They will keep you company so your journey won't be lonesome. I'll make sure of it."
Expressionlessly, the youth stepped out of the house, his knuckles white as he gripped the blood-stained axe handle. In the distance, the harsh cries of a bird echoed through the gloom. Rain raised his eyes to the sky, which seemed to have been dyed an unnatural, dripping crimson.
There was no bird in sight.
Lowering his gaze, the youth stepped forward into the burning night, seeking out bandits to slaughter. His grandfather shouldn't be made to wait too long. After all, the old man was already growing cold.