Prologue: A Scrawled Letter

To my beloved grandfather:

I hope everything is well on your end. After a rather unpleasant ten-day trek through the snow, I have finally managed to find a decent set of table and chair to write this letter to you.

Teacher Anderson, if you are reading this letter on his behalf, please do not be angry. There is truly no paper or pen here capable of producing the fancy script you taught me; even finding these was only possible thanks to this heavy snow—a few traveling merchants taking a shortcut were also stranded in this nameless village, and it took them quite a while to dig out this rather flimsy pen.

As for the paper, it was something I carried with me, though unfortunately, it got damp. A few other sheets were reduced to ash when I tried to dry them out, though thankfully I do not have much to write.

Now, onto business.

I failed to meet the "spellcaster" with "genuine talent" that you mentioned, the one you asked me to invite to serve as some sort of "Enlightener" (if I recall the title correctly).

He has acquired a nickname now, something like the Firehand of Wenden Port, which he only earned about half a month before I arrived in Wenden Port.

The general sequence of events is that while demonstrating his spellcasting methods to the local academy, he scorched his own left hand, quite severely by the sound of it—the description given by the scholar I met was so gruesome I would rather not repeat it, and of course, it is not important, nor is it appropriate to write here.

What is important is that when the few scholars who hadn't fainted from fright sent him to the doctor, some small props fell out of his burnt sleeve, which were rumored to be related to his so-called "spellcasting."

Under normal circumstances, like any other clumsy con artist, the testimony provided by his own apprentice—who confessed without much prodding—would have been enough to land them both in the signature seawater dungeon of Wenden Port.

But as things stand now, I am afraid he will not have the opportunity to explore whether the ghost stories about that prison are true.

The doctor stated that Mr. Firehand did not survive the amputation surgery. As for how it escalated to an amputation, let us just say it is a great pity.

Honestly, I know you are going to start nagging about how "there is no harm in trying" again. Ever since I was a child, you have been in the habit of telling me about the strange things you encountered on the battlefield, people with fire or light in their hands; Teacher Anderson also enjoys your stories and helps you research those books.

If you ask me, you must not have checked their sleeves very carefully when you hacked them to death. Even taking a step back, if "spellcasters" truly existed, they would have long since been recruited by those big shots; they would hardly be strutting about in a place like Wenden Port, performing "spells" for those scholars.

Paper is limited, and although I wanted to copy the assignments Teacher Anderson set for me, there is not enough left.

I will be staying in this village for a few days, while cousin Ryan will depart first. By the time he delivers this letter to you, I should be home in a few more days.

Signed: Kraft