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Traveler – Part 01

Dear Ruri,

It feels a bit odd, writing to you from a far-off place again. We lived under the same roof for a few months after I returned home, trying to make up for the days we lost when I was in the Kingdom of Sauville. I was very happy to have reconnected with you.

Thank you so much for seeing me off with a smile on that last day. If you were tearing up, I would probably have turned into a sobbing mess, and Father would have hit me. Whenever I remember his proud face as he waved me off, it eases my worries for the time being.

By the time this letter reaches you, it will probably be 1926. I’m writing this in December 1925. The long year is finally coming to an end.

I am currently stationed in a certain location. I’ve been kept away from the front lines—likely because I’m a young soldier, fluent in English, French, and somewhat in German, and probably the son of an Imperial soldier. My duties mainly revolve around translating for foreign prisoners of war, deciphering codes, and translating communications. Even though I’m constantly busy, with hardly any time for rest, I never leave the headquarters building. I haven’t faced any danger or witnessed anything tragic so far.

So please don’t worry about me too much.

Your recent letter conveyed concerns from both you and Mother, prompting me to respond immediately.

On a lighter note, I have met some interesting soldiers here. I have made friends with kids who have all sorts of jobs that I had never come across before. We have lively chats late at night. For instance, there’s this boy from a family that sells fish at Tsukiji, and he enlightens us about the fish market auctions. The most popular stories, though, come from a boy born into a traveling troupe. I also chip in by sharing my experiences from my time in Sauville and Europe.

Everyone is faring well, both mentally and physically.

Tonight marks the birthday of the special girl I left behind in that distant land.

I wonder about her whereabouts, her company, her thoughts. Is she safe? If she were, is she crying alone, her eyes red, trembling? Is she all curled up, scared?

If she’s still with us, she turns sixteen tonight.

My thoughts revolve around her. I want to see her again, and this time, tell her what I couldn’t during our last night together. It’s all I think about every night.

Every day feels like navigating an endless, mist-shrouded road toward an uncertain destination. Sometimes I stop in my tracks, feeling lost. Will the only way to reunite with her be by traversing this path—essentially the future? Or is it confined to the past, within the distant memories of the time we spent happily together?

I think about it every day. My mind is filled with thoughts of her. My daily routine.

Considering the potential reproach for such sentiments, I entrust you to keep this a secret from Father and our brothers.

I maintain that cherishing someone is not indicative of weakness. It’s not a bad thing. At the end of the day, it’s tied to the kind of strength that grownups like our father are looking for. I wanted to grow, to become stronger, all for her.

Ruri, I shall write again soon.

Please, do not worry about me too much. I’m in a very safe place, both mentally and physically.

December 25, 1925

Kazuya Kujou

(Imperial Army / Inspected)

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“Hey, Kujou. You wrote a letter last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah…”

Rain mixed with snow was pouring. A squad trudged along an unpaved forest road, grappling with the muddy terrain. The cold rain relentlessly pelted the foreheads, cheeks, and necks of the young soldiers, infiltrating their military uniforms, chilling them to their bones. Their breath came out in gray puffs.

“You were crying after you finished writing the letter, weren’t you?” the boy walking beside him teased. “I heard you sniffling.”

“I-I wasn’t crying! How rude.”

“Just admit it. It’s not embarrassing at all. We all want to cry.”

“Get off my case. I’m telling you, I wasn’t crying. It’s just…”

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Kujou suddenly smiled. “My chest just tightened a bit,” he said with a dry laugh.

“What do you call that in French?” asked a slim boy walking in front, looking over his shoulder.

Kujou frowned. “Why do you care?”

“I need a little distraction,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Right. Listening to Kujou’s stories about his life at school and that guy’s adventurers with his troupe, not to mention stories about the distant worlds, helps lighten up the mood.”

The young soldiers staggered forward. It had been about two weeks since the march began. Every face was filled with impatience, and the tension was so high that it was hard to believe they had once attended school, worked in town, or lived easy lives.

A fighter plane zoomed overhead, and a command was given to get down. Everyone split to the left and right of the path, hiding in the mud.

Cold rain continued to pour down on them. They got up and resumed their advance.

The boy who had just asked Kujou about French collapsed on the spot, as if he had no strength left. Like a wet rag, he immediately flattened out.

Kujou hurried over and helped him up. A superior officer reprimanded them. In the fear of getting in trouble, everyone kept their distance from the boy. Kujou held his baggage for him, lent him a shoulder, and started walking again. Kujou’s face, pale and worn, clearly reflected his drained mental and physical stamina. Once the officer took his eyes off them, other boys approached and shared their luggage, helping each other.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. Let’s just stop saying sorry altogether.”

“But… Slowing you guys down is so embarrassing.”

“All right, then. When you really want to apologize, let’s do it in French. Sorry is Pardonnez. In German it’s… Oh, I stepped on your foot. Pardonnez-moi.”

“Hahaha.”

“How about a song to keep you distracted? There’s a French song everyone used to sing in this village back in Sauville.”

While Kujou stumbled forward, supporting the boy, he began to sing, surprisingly loudly but trying to keep it quiet enough not to be heard by the superior officer.

“Africans say, march, march I say!”

“What a weird song.”

“Du da du da doo…”

“Ahahaha.”

“Were you always this good at singing? Come on, sing some more.”

“If I keep singing, I’ll tire myself out. Just one song.”

Ashen-faced and tottering, the young soldiers shared light-hearted laughter, teasing one another.

The squad marched forward tirelessly.

After hours of walking, a signal from the superior officer prompted them to stop. They raised their faces and noticed the rain had transformed into snow.

Before them stretched a seemingly flat area in the forest, but a closer inspection revealed the horrifying truth. A village had stood there, now reduced to ashes by some marauding army. Blackened houses, the leaning spire of a church, and skeletal trees stood frozen ominously in time.

Someone had attempted a makeshift memorial. In front of the half-burned church ruins lay the deceased villagers, young and old alike. The young soldiers stood still, taking in the haunting scene of destruction and death—a familiar sight since joining the war.

One of the boys found a discarded, broken rifle at his feet and weakly kicked it aside. “The New World’s army has made it here.”

Its futuristic silver design differed from the weaponry of the soldiers from the Old World or the Asian region.

“Kujou!” a superior roared.

Kazuya raised his face and saluted. “Sir!”

“Translate immediately!”

An old man with a shovel was dragged from the church ruins. He appeared to be a survivor, injured and limping. He stared back at the soldiers with a calm and gentle gaze, showing no resistance.

He had been digging graves for the deceased villagers with the shovel, carefully arranging their bodies. He observed the fatigued young soldiers, resembling the deceased, with a look of disbelief. When Kazuya addressed him gently, the old man’s eyes softened, as though looking at his grandchild.

“Where on earth did you all come from? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“We’ve come from the Far East. Rest assured, sir. We’re from an allied nation.”

“Oh my. How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen years old.”

“Goodness! Sixteen years old? You’re still a child.”

In a quiet voice, the old man recounted the invasion of the army from the New World, the burning of the village, and their use of cutting-edge weapons. He described the swift destruction of buildings and the massacre of women, children, and the elderly. He also revealed the invaders’ next destination.

Kazuya translated and conveyed the information to the superior officer. Leaving the old man behind, they turned their backs to the village and resumed their march.

“May God protect you, sir,” Kazuya said to the only remaining elder in the village, bowing deeply. Then, he forged on ahead with the gray army along the snowy path, his feet heavy as lead and his bones freezing.

“I am always watching over you. For the peace of your souls.”

A calm, gentle response, seemingly concerned for Kazuya, came from behind. Gasping, he turned around, but the old man who had been standing there moments ago had disappeared along with the voice. Snow fell onto the cold corpses of the villagers.

Kazuya stood still in shock for a while. Then, he closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross in front of his chest. The purple ring pendant hidden in his military uniform quivered, as if freezing in the cold.

The ancient gods now manifested their presence throughout the historical Old World, tirelessly digging graves for their people as invaders from the new world desecrated sacred lands with their weapons of war.