The village square was unusually quiet as the black-haired woman approached the boy's modest hut. The sun cast long shadows over the thatched roofs, and the air was thick with the scent of earth and distant rain. Villagers peered from behind curtains and half-closed doors, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
"Why does she bother with that child?" whispered a woman clutching a basket of yams.
"She's a slave; she should know her place," muttered another, shaking his head.
The woman ignored the hushed comments, her dark eyes fixed ahead. Her raven-black hair was tied back, revealing a face marked by both hardship and resilience. She carried herself with a quiet dignity that seemed to unsettle the onlookers.
Reaching the boy's home—a small, weathered structure with walls of mud and a roof of dried palm leaves—she knocked gently before entering. Inside, the dim light revealed the boy lying on a straw mat, his breathing shallow and his face pale.
His grandmother, Yui, sat beside him, her wrinkled hands clasped tightly together. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at the woman.
"Thank you," Yui whispered, her voice trembling. "You've shown kindness to my grandson when no one else would."
The woman knelt beside the boy, placing a cool hand on his forehead. "He has a strong spirit," she said softly. "He'll recover."
Yui's gaze dropped to her lap. "The villagers call him a jinx," she murmured. "Ever since his parents passed and his friends... that bear attack... they say he's cursed."
The woman frowned. "And what do you believe?"
Yui's eyes met hers, filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. "He's my grandson. I see the kindness in his heart, the dreams he holds. But the weight of the village's scorn is heavy."
The woman nodded, understanding the burden of prejudice all too well. "Why not leave this place? Start anew elsewhere?"
Yui sighed deeply. "This is our home. Despite their fear, the villagers ensure we're fed, looked after in their distant way. They want to help but are shackled by their superstitions."
A low growl from the woman's stomach broke the somber mood. She flushed slightly.
Yui managed a small smile. "Let me prepare some soup for you as thanks."
At first, the woman hesitated, but the aroma of herbs and spices soon filled the room, and she found herself accepting the offer. Together, they moved around the small kitchen, Yui giving gentle instructions as they prepared the meal. As they worked, Yui continued to share stories of her grandson's resilience and the villagers' conflicted attempts at kindness.
Once the soup was ready, they sat together, sharing the simple yet hearty meal. Yui set aside a portion for her grandson, carefully covering it to keep it warm.
"Sometimes," Yui mused, "people try their best to show kindness, but the world doesn't always make it easy."
The woman nodded in agreement, the warmth of the soup spreading through her, offering a brief respite from the harshness of their realities.
Meanwhile, in another part of the village, Elise stormed into her family's home, her face flushed with anger. Her father, a stern man with graying hair, looked up from his work, sensing the storm brewing.
"Father," Elise began, her voice sharp, "that woman—the slave—she's interfering."
Her father sighed, setting aside his tools. "Elise, we've discussed this. You must keep your distance and hold your tongue. I know what you do, and I know you harm the boy. You're not to go near him."
Elise's eyes blazed. "But don't you see? I'm the chosen one! That boy is the devil incarnate, destined to bring destruction upon us all."
Her father rubbed his temples, weariness evident in his posture. "Elise, these delusions of yours... my patience has limits."
At that moment, Elise's mother entered the room, her expression gentle yet firm. "Elise, dear, you should try to be kinder to the woman. Remember, she was once a slave."
Elise's frustration boiled over. "Slaves should be sent back to the colosseum! If we harbor them, we'll all become slaves for hiding them."
Her parents exchanged a look of shared concern and sorrow.
"Elise," her father said softly, "sometimes, showing kindness is not about rules or consequences, but about doing what's right."
Her mother nodded. "An act of goodness, no matter how small, can change a life."
But Elise couldn't bear their words. Feeling isolated and misunderstood, she turned on her heel and fled the house, tears of frustration streaming down her face. No one listened. No one understood. Her parents might have forgotten, but she hadn't.
Later that night, as the village lay under a blanket of stars, the boy sat outside his home, a worn book on mana herbs open in his lap. The pages were familiar, the illustrations of plants and their properties etched into his memory. He dreamed of becoming an alchemist, of uncovering the universe's secrets. But for now, this book was his only window into that world.
As his eyelids grew heavy, a rustling from the nearby forest caught his attention. The cliffside where he lived bordered the swamp forest—a place he knew better than to enter without caution.
Golden lights flickered among the trees, dancing and twinkling like fireflies but more luminous, more enchanting. They beckoned him, their glow mesmerizing.
Curiosity overpowered caution. He rose, stepping carefully toward the forest's edge. The lights retreated deeper among the trees, leading him on. He hesitated, glancing back at his home, then forward into the illuminated shadows.
Taking a deep breath, he followed.
The forest was alive with nocturnal sounds—the chirping of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The golden lights weaved through the trees, guiding him to a clearing he didn't recognize.
In the center stood a massive tree, its roots sprawling and its branches reaching toward the heavens. It exuded an otherworldly beauty, its leaves shimmering under the moonlight.
Beneath the tree sat a woman, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, her white garments glowing softly. She sang a melody that seemed to harmonize with the forest itself, a tune both haunting and soothing.
The boy's breath caught in his throat. He recognized her—the woman his grandmother had described, the one who had shown him kindness.
A twig snapped under his foot.
The singing stopped.
He looked up to find her standing before him, her dark eyes gazing into his,