The Weight of Memory

In this world, where printing technology remained immature, people replicated written materials by hand, leading to an ever-increasing demand for professional scribes within the Olavi Empire, which boasted an astonishingly high literacy rate.

Most scribes were monks of the church, receiving various transcription tasks from their superiors—priests, deacons, and bishops. Their workload was immense, yet their wages were fixed, or often nonexistent, as they were treated as mere human printing machines, enduring lives of considerable hardship.

However, in every profession, there are those who excel, and Mor was one such individual. The old man possessed exceptional calligraphic skill, and the books he transcribed were aesthetically pleasing. Instead of working for the church, he took on commissions independently, earning himself a minor reputation in Vero.

Saranya stood at the entrance to Mor’s scriptorium, hearing the rustling of many pens at work inside. Her gaze swept across the display cabinet before her, where a vellum book titled ‘Olavi Legends – IV’ caught her eye, stirring a flicker of recognition.

She took out the book, gently opened it, and turned to the page she remembered.

‘……’

The capitalized name ‘Saranya Kerfen’ appeared prominently at the top of the page, with the Kerfen family’s wolf-head escutcheon to its right. Below it was an exquisitely detailed half-body illustration of a young woman, her eyes especially striking, colored with a faint blue ink. The text itself was arranged with meticulous precision, clearly demonstrating the scribe’s profound dedication.

This book was, of course, not the original, but a copy transcribed by Mor, displayed for exhibition.

[Saranya led the Twelfth Legion in repelling the demonic tide and suppressing rebels, achieving numerous military merits. On the 13th day of the third month of Imperial Year 482, she was personally bestowed the title of Lord Mihael by Emperor Olavi VI, Wade. The name ‘Mihael’ was taken from her homeland in the Northern Reaches.]

[On that clear, cloudless day, Saranya led representatives of her legion into the capital, Feca, for the conferment. Her subordinates, including Hold, Deputy Commander of the Twelfth Legion, Aileen, the accompanying physician, and Hugo, the infantry instructor, were all present…]

‘Hold, Aileen, Hugo…’

Each name following Saranya’s on that page felt like a cold, sharp blade plunging directly into her heart.

‘Bang!’

Saranya slammed the book shut, then leaned heavily against the display cabinet, gasping for breath.

Save for her, every name inscribed on that parchment belonged to the deceased, most of whom had perished just months ago during their final witch hunt.

Kaelan Novfloss, the ‘Black Witch,’ was the murderer who had stolen the lives of her dearest comrades.

And she, Saranya, had actually forgotten all of this…?

In that very moment, Saranya’s thoughts seemed to cross an unseen threshold, as if an long-sealed box had sprung open, and she found herself engulfed in a torrent of pain and guilt.

No, she hadn’t forgotten any of it; she had never forgotten. She remembered everything with crystal clarity: how Kaelan had, before her very eyes, torn apart her comrades one by one, their internal organs meticulously smeared across the stone floor beneath her, leaving her utterly despairing, her heart torn to shreds.

Kaelan had personally cast her into the abyss of despair, then stood on her face, demanding her submission, demanding that she remain forever a s*ave, a perpetual companion to her master.

Could such an act truly be forgiven by her?!

A jest… it was impossible.

This… why had she felt nothing before, only realizing it now? What excuse could possibly allow her to accept this with a clear conscience?!

A tempest raged within her heart, two distinct voices intertwining, each uttering words that starkly contradicted the other:

‘Saranya, how could you be so numb?!

‘No… that’s not right… My master, my master has been so good to me…’

‘She took everything from you!’

‘But… I want her… I truly want her so badly…’

‘Wake up! She treats you like a toy! She keeps you as a pet!!’

‘I know… but I… I just want… it hurts so much… I can’t control this… I… what can I do…?’

‘Useless! Of course, you must have revenge!’

‘I… I want to kill her…?’

‘Hahahaha… Kill her? No! That’s not right!! You must make her experience your pain, make her wish she were dead, make her pay ten, a hundred, a thousand times the price you paid!!!’

‘……’

‘You hate her! Saranya, you hate her! Never forget this; act upon it, you must have your revenge!!!’

‘I hate you… Kaelan, I want you… to suffer… You must compensate me… compensate me in every conceivable way…’

Her resentment swelled to unprecedented proportions. Her expression contorted into a grimace, and her hands clawed at her cheeks, her nails leaving angry red streaks upon her skin:

‘Yes, this is who I am. I am Legion Commander Saranya Kerfen. I will no longer be swayed by your deception, Kaelan. I will have my revenge…’

****

‘Mom?’

Vireta’s voice suddenly broke through, startling Saranya awake from her harrowing delusion. She staggered back a few steps, her body swaying precariously, but Vireta was there in an instant, steadying her.

‘What’s wrong? Why are your eyes gr—’

‘I’m fine.’

Saranya pushed Vireta away, raising a hand to rub her eyes.

‘Perhaps I didn’t rest well. I just… I had some very strange thoughts, but I’m fine now…’

Upon opening her eyes again, everything was as it had been. The savagery within her mind was neatly compartmentalized once more, and the sea of her thoughts calmed into placid waters. Kaelan remained the master she needed to serve with all her might.

After all, she had made up her mind long ago; she did not want to be separated from Kaelan. Her master’s ideal was her ideal, was it not…?

‘Strange thoughts? Are you really alright…?’

Vireta remained somewhat concerned.

‘Hm… just some laughable delusions, haha…’

Saranya chuckled faintly, straightening her back and dismissing the ephemeral, unsettling thoughts completely from her mind.

Her gaze suddenly fell upon old Mor in the inner room, realizing he was looking back at her.

‘Do the two of you need something? Forgive this old man for his poor hospitality. My students are inside; please don’t disturb them. Let’s just have a quick chat out here.’

Supported by a cane, Mor hobbled out of the room with a distinctive bounce in his step. Noticing ‘Olavi Legends – IV’ placed outside the display cabinet by Saranya, his expression soured.

‘Young people… they truly don’t know how to cherish books.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry…’

Mor carefully flipped through the book, then meticulously placed it back into the display cabinet. His next words made Saranya’s expression shift:

‘Even if the protagonist of this book were here, this old man wouldn’t let them carelessly damage a book.’

‘Wh-what?’

‘Nothing… it’s nothing… just assume I’m babbling nonsense. I’m just a muddle-headed old man.’

Mor was indeed very old; his face was withered, his beard sparse, yet his eyebrows were thick and dark, gleaming with a slick sheen. His small, brown eyes were narrowed, glinting with a shrewd intelligence. By no measure could such an astute countenance be reconciled with his self-proclaimed ‘muddle-headedness.’

‘Uh… so what can I do for you, ‘Ranger Haia’?’

‘Since you know me, that makes things easier… We wish to discuss the public restroom cleaning project you recently contracted from the city government—’

‘I’ll give it to you.’

‘Ah… ah?!’

So easily?!

Saranya could barely believe it; Mor was willing to simply hand over such a lucrative assignment with a single sentence.

‘I said I’d give it to you. Didn’t you hear me? Girl, your hearing is worse than this old man’s…’

‘I understand, it’s just a bit unbelievable. You’re truly generous…’

‘Generous, am I? Hmph hmph…’

Mor turned, retrieved a papyrus scroll from inside, and then pulled a pristine white goose quill from his ink-stained sleeve.

‘You can write, can’t you? ‘Haia,’ how do you spell that name?’

Saranya took the paper and quill, and swiftly scribbled her assumed name, feeling a pang of guilt in her heart.

‘Write your address below it too. This old man will send you a letter later, detailing the specifics of the night-soil collection.’

‘Oh, alright…’

Saranya had barely finished the last stroke when Mor snatched the quill from her hand and took back the paper, his movements so nimble, they defied his advanced age:

‘Not bad, your handwriting is quite beautiful, much better than my clumsy students’. Your father must have diligently overseen your studies, I presume?’

‘Uh, yes, he did, haha…’

Mor cradled Saranya’s writing, clicking his tongue in admiration, his effusive praise bringing a blush to her cheeks, leaving her feeling quite abashed.

‘Your script… it’s the Northern style. Are you from the North?’

‘Yes, I’m from the North… Well! If there’s nothing else, we’ll be going now…’

‘Go on, go on…’

Seeing Saranya’s reluctance to continue the conversation, Mor waved his hand at her like shooing away a child, then turned and slammed the door shut with a resounding thud, leaving her and Vireta standing outside.

‘What a strange old man.’

‘Agreed, Mother…’