Embers and a Place to Return

Loa could not remember how long he had knelt before those ruins.

It seemed like only a moment, yet it also seemed as long as an entire winter. Eventually, the cries around him gradually faded into stifled sobs and numb silence. Bright sunlight shone on the devastated town and on him, but he felt no warmth at all.

People began slowly emerging from the cellars where they had hidden and the gaps between collapsed houses, their faces covered in dust, their eyes blank. After a brief, deathly silence came an even greater surge of grief and frantic activity. Calls for missing relatives, screams at the discovery of bodies, urgent shouts as the injured were carried away, and desperate sobs before shattered homes... That morning, Wushan Town was steeped in the heavy mingled smell of blood, dust, and sorrow.

A crowd soon gathered in the clearing at the center of town, a temporary shelter Hillman and the Guard Squad had marked out. Townspeople with minor injuries bandaged one another, while those who had lost their homes huddled together, at a loss. Several women with some knowledge of herbs busied themselves boiling water and washing wounds. The bitter smell of cheap blood-clotting herbs mingled with smoke in the air.

Hillman's face was darker than the bottom of a pot. With several subordinates, he moved swiftly through town, counting the casualties and surveying the damage. Each time he entered another completely collapsed house, his lips pressed a little tighter together. By the time he finished his rough count and headed to the Baruch Mansion to report to Hogg, even this usually steady, resolute leader of the Guard Squad spoke with a barely perceptible tremor.

"My lord," Hillman said hoarsely, trying to keep his report orderly, "the preliminary count... the casualties are heavy. The bodies we've found... already number over eight hundred. Many more are buried deep. I'm afraid..." He paused and took a deep breath. "Even more are injured. Many houses have collapsed. The western streets and the neighborhood near the training grounds... are almost completely destroyed. Food, winter firewood, so many household belongings... they're all buried underneath."

Hogg stood beneath the eaves with his back to him, looking out at the wreckage in the streets. He had changed out of yesterday's somewhat formal clothes into old clothing that allowed him to move easily, but his back remained straight. Yet now, even that straight back seemed to bear an invisible weight.

A town of over five thousand had lost nearly a fifth of its people at once... These were not merely lives lost, but countless shattered families, and a blow to Wushan Town's vitality that would take years to recover from. The kingdom would not reduce its taxes over a "natural disaster." Seeds for the spring planting, materials to repair houses, grain to support the bereaved... each was a heavy stone weighing on Hogg's shoulders.

Only after a long while did Hogg slowly speak, his voice much lower than usual. "Understood. Do everything possible to treat the wounded first, and properly lay out all those... you can find. Organize everyone still able to move to clear the roads. Dig out the grain and essential supplies buried near the surface first. Check the wells too. Make sure they haven't been contaminated."

"Yes, my lord," Hillman answered.

"Go," Hogg said, waving a hand. "See where help is needed most... every little bit helps."

Hillman accepted the order and strode away, immediately calling together the guards and able-bodied townspeople who could still move to begin the arduous, grief-stricken work of clearing the wreckage.

Because Linley had injured his forehead, the old housekeeper Hiri had persuaded him to take some medicine shortly after his return, and he had fallen into a deep sleep. The Baruch Clan's ancestral home was fairly sturdy and had suffered little damage.

Loa, meanwhile, was still sitting in the ruins of the smithy.

He seemed only then to be slowly coming to his senses, beginning to pull at the bricks, stones, and timber with his hands. The rough edges and broken tiles soon cut his fingers, drawing blood that mixed with the black ash, but he seemed unable to feel the pain. He dug with his head down, following his memory, and unearthed the iron sword he had forged himself from where the counter had once stood. A thick layer of ash covered the blade, but once wiped clean, its edge still gleamed coldly-it was the last blade Old Jack had sharpened for him before his death. At the time, he had said, "A sword needs regular honing to keep its edge. People need honing too."

Then, from roughly where the inner bedroom had been, he dug out the remains of the little wooden chest. The pictures on tanned leather inside were badly damaged, their edges blackened and curled, Old Jack's gentle smile blurred. He carefully picked them out and spread them beside him, trying in vain to smooth them flat with his palms.

There was also the chest armor sewn from Rockskin Boar hide, crushed out of shape beneath a fallen roof beam and covered in dirt and ash. A Fang Dagger, however, remained intact. He picked it out from beneath the rubble, wiped it clean, and gripped it tightly.

One thing after another was dug out and laid beside him, like a small, sorrowful exhibition. Each was tied to a memory, to Old Jack's presence. But now, the "place" that had held those memories was gone. The smithy was gone, the courtyard was gone, the ringing of hammer on iron, the dancing fire in the stove, the old man coughing as he called him to eat... all of it was gone, wiped clean by that battle in the sky, a battle that had nothing to do with him yet had so easily crushed his entire world.

He sat amid the wreckage, clutching the sword and damaged pictures, his eyes empty, not knowing what to do next or where to go. Rebuild? With what? Even if he put up another house, it would no longer be Old Jack's smithy. It would not smell of the old man's pipe. Its every corner would not have the familiar feel he had known for ten years. It would only be a strange, cold shell.

"Loa, lad!" Old Brown the cobbler limped over. One corner of his shop had collapsed, but he was unharmed. Looking at the boy sitting blankly in the ruins, he sighed. "As long as you're all right, that's what matters. That matters more than anything! The house is gone... ah, once everyone's caught their breath, we'll help you build it again! You're still young. You have plenty of years ahead!"

Uncle Pete the mason came over too, his face streaked black and white, his clothes torn. "That's right, Loa. Don't sit here in a daze. Come to the clearing with us first. There's hot water to drink. A house is only a few bricks and some timber. We people of Wushan Town still have our hands. There's nothing to fear!"

They spoke sincerely, offering the simplest care neighbors in a small town could give. But they did not understand that, to Loa, this was more than a house that sheltered him from wind and rain. It was everything Old Jack had left him, the entire backdrop and warmth of his ten years of life. No matter how fine a rebuilt house might be, it would be new. It would belong to someone else. That "home" with Old Jack in it had died along with these ruins.

Loa did not look up. He only tightened his arms around his belongings, his lips pressed into a pale line, and said nothing.

Old Brown and Uncle Pete exchanged a glance, shook their heads, and sighed again. They still had their own messes to deal with. Seeing that Loa would not move, they could only urge him a couple of times to try not to dwell on it before turning back to their work.

After a while, steady footsteps approached. Hillman reached the spot on his inspection and stopped. He looked at the boy sitting amid the ruins, seemingly merged with the desolation around him, then at the belongings carefully dug out and arranged nearby, especially those damaged leather pictures.

The Guard Squad instructor, known for his strictness, had his brows tightly furrowed. Black ash and sweat obscured his expression, leaving only his bloodshot, exhausted eyes clear. He did not offer comfort as Old Brown and the others had. He simply walked silently to Loa's side and patted his shoulder heavily, again and again, with his large hand. The blows were strong enough to rock Loa's slight body.

Then Hillman turned to a man clearing the road nearby and asked hoarsely, "Any liquor left? Give this child a mouthful."

The man paused, looked at Loa, then at Hillman, and silently untied a small leather flask from his waist and handed it over. On the Yulan Continent, it was nothing unusual for a boy of ten or so to drink a little liquor, especially at a time like this.

Hillman took the flask, pulled out the stopper, and tipped his head back for a swallow first. The fiery liquid made him narrow his eyes. Then he pushed the flask into Loa's hand.

"Have some." Hillman's voice was rough and hoarse, but there was less command in it than usual, and more of something else. "Once you're drunk, it won't hurt so much. If it's all bottled up inside, if it hurts... cry it out. No one here will laugh at you."

Blankly, slowly, Loa turned his head to look at Hillman. Dust and exhaustion had softened the hard lines of the instructor's face. Only his eyes held something Loa could not quite understand-not his usual sternness, nor simple sympathy, but something deeper, the complicated emotions of a grown man who had witnessed too much helplessness and pain.

Loa's gaze shifted from Hillman's face to the rough leather flask in his hand, then to the wreckage beside him that had once been home. The fingers gripping the flask began to tremble, harder and harder.

"...Uncle Hillman," Loa said, his voice as dry and rasping as broken bellows, carrying a faint sob he did not even notice himself, "the smithy... is gone."

He paused, as though it took every bit of his strength to force out the next words. Without warning, great tears rolled down his face, cutting two bedraggled tracks through the black ash.

"Grandpa Jack... is gone too."

"I think... I don't have a home anymore."

Once those words finally came out, the dam he had struggled to hold together, wrapped in shock and numbness, collapsed. Loa could no longer hold back. Sitting on those cold ruins before the stern instructor, his shoulders began to heave violently, and he let out stifled, broken sobs, like a child who had truly lost everyone he could depend on. He clutched the sword and pictures to his chest, tears and snot covering his face. There was no dignity in his crying, but it was more genuine than he had ever been.

Hillman stood beside him without stopping him or offering any more comforting words. His large, rough hand simply settled once more on Loa's trembling shoulder, pressing firmly and steadily. Watching this child, who usually trained harder than anyone, whose gaze was the most stubborn, who had even dared face a magical beast alone, now sobbing so hard he could scarcely breathe, Hillman felt as though something had given his heart a vicious wrench, leaving it painfully choked. This damned world, this damned power! Why should a fight between those lofty figures destroy the homes and families of so many ordinary people below?

Only when Loa's crying gradually subsided into intermittent sniffles did Hillman speak again. His voice was still hoarse, but now held an unquestionable firmness. "Go offer your Grandpa Jack some incense. Go talk to him."

Loa raised his red, swollen eyes and looked at him blankly.

"The smithy is gone," Hillman said, his gaze passing over the ruins before turning to the townspeople around them, who had already begun doggedly helping one another clear the wreckage despite the devastation. "But Wushan Town is still here. We're still here. As long as we're alive, if a place is gone, we can find another! If your heart has nowhere to settle..." He paused and looked into Loa's eyes. "Then make Wushan Town your home! Your Grandpa Jack's grave is here, and so are all of us who watched him raise you! As long as you stay, Wushan Town will have a meal for you and a place for you to rest! Do you understand?"

Loa listened in a daze, looking at Hillman's dust-covered yet utterly earnest face, and at the neighbors around him, still striving to live despite their misery.

After a long while, he gave a very slight but forceful nod and squeezed a single, heavily nasal sound from his throat. "...Mm."

He slowly stood. After kneeling and sitting for so long, his legs and feet had gone numb, and he stumbled. Hillman steadied him. Loa carefully secured the flask with its remaining liquor, then picked up the iron sword, damaged pictures, misshapen leather armor, and dagger scattered on the ground, one by one, and gathered them in his arms. They were heavy, yet seemed to give him a little strength to hold himself up.

He nodded to Hillman again, then turned with that pile of battered yet precious "belongings" in his arms and walked, step by step, toward the cemetery outside town. The afternoon sun stretched his shadow long behind his slight frame, but he no longer swayed.

Hillman remained where he was, watching the boy's stubborn, lonely figure recede. He raised a hand and wiped his face hard, whether to clear away sweat or something else was uncertain. He let out a long, heavy breath, a sigh filled with exhaustion and a trace of helplessness before fate's unpredictability, then turned and strode toward a place where more hands were needed.

Loa arrived at Old Jack's grave. The earth of the new mound was still damp, and it looked somewhat lonely beside the many older graves around it. He gently set his belongings to one side, sat down before the grave, and opened the flask. Slowly and carefully, he poured the little cheap but fiery liquor that remained onto the earth before it.

"Grandpa Jack," he began, his voice still a little hoarse but calm, "our home... is gone. The people fighting in the sky destroyed it."

Haltingly, he told him about the terrifying battle he had seen yesterday, about digging these things out of the ruins that morning, and about what Uncle Hillman had said to him. As he spoke, tears began flowing silently again, but he made no more sounds of crying.

"...These are all the things left. The sword you sharpened for me is still here. I wear the ring you left me close to my skin. The pictures... are a little damaged, but I'll do my best to fix them." He touched the scorched, curled leather in his arms. "Uncle Pete and the others said they could help me build another house... but Grandpa, even once it's built, it won't be our home anymore, will it?"

He was silent for a long time. There was only the rustling of wind through the weeds around the cemetery.

"I don't think... I have any reason I absolutely have to stay anymore." Loa raised his head and gazed at the outlines of the distant mountain ranges, dark purple beneath the setting sun. That was the direction of the Magical Beast Mountain Range, and the entrance to a wider world. "Wushan Town is good, and everyone here is good too... but I want to go out and see."

The seed of this thought had actually been planted in his heart long ago. He had witnessed the ferocity of magical beasts, the mysterious power of mages, the world-shattering might of Saints, and Old Jack's ordinary yet tenacious life and their final parting... The world was so vast, so wondrous, and so cruel. He did not want to spend his entire life confined to one place, even if that place had once given him warmth. He wanted to know what the outside world was like, to find a way to become truly strong-strong enough to protect what he wanted to protect, strong enough to control his own fate.

"I want to travel outside and see just how big this world really is." Before that mound of earth, he voiced his decision. "I'll remember to come back and visit you."

After saying all this, the heavy stone in his heart that had pressed down until he could scarcely breathe seemed suddenly to loosen a little. It was not that the pain was gone, but that his bewilderment and grief, which had had nowhere to go, had found someone to speak to, and a rough direction as well.

He sat quietly before the grave like that, holding those surviving keepsakes, watching the sun sink little by little below the ridge, watching dusk close in and the stars gradually emerge. The evening wind was chilly, drying the tear tracks on his face.

That night, he went nowhere. He sat beside Old Jack's grave until morning. He felt no fear. His mind was clearer than it had ever been, with a trace of resolve toward the unknown road ahead, mingled with sorrow.