Chapter 3: The Almark's Cold Gaze

"Mother, where are we going?" Ichika asked, his voice filled with childlike curiosity. Their walk, however, was far from the pleasant stroll his sister had described. The reality was a stark contrast to her idyllic tales. There was no fountain bubbling merrily, no children dressed in fine clothes playing in the streets. His sister had painted a picture of bustling streets filled with children and vibrant flowers, a tapestry of life and color. The reality was a muted palette of grays and browns, a village scarred by time and neglect.

"We are going to the Almark," she answered, her voice tinged with a weariness that belied her words. She had wanted to leave Ichika at home, but he had clung to her, a small, desperate anchor, refusing to let her go. When she had tried to slip out the door, he had wrapped his arms around her legs, his grip surprisingly strong. "Do you remember the old lady when you first tried to walk?" she asked, hoping to jog his memory, to remind him of the purpose of their journey.

"Old lady? Hmmm…" Ichika furrowed his brow, concentrating, trying to conjure the image from the depths of his memory. But the past was a hazy landscape, shrouded in mist. His sister, seeing his struggle, couldn't help but chuckle softly. "No funny! Only you get to remember her," Ichika protested, his voice a pout. She stopped laughing, her expression becoming serious.

"It's okay, we might meet her today," she said, deftly avoiding his comment. "Just make sure to be polite, okay?" She knew, though she rarely spoke of it, that each year the road to the Almark grew worse, the signs of decay more prominent. There was nothing she could do to stop it, to reverse the slow erosion of their village.

Humph! Ichika looked away, feigning indifference, and quickened his pace.

Thankfully, the road wasn't muddy, or he would surely slip. Ichika's "old" mentality, the weight of his past life, seemed to have receded somewhat after his nightmare, replaced by a more childlike demeanor.

"Slow down, Ichika," she warned, a note of concern in her voice. She didn't want to have to turn back, to wash him again. Water was a precious commodity, and even though she didn't have to pay for it directly, the task of carrying it back home was arduous.

"It oka—" His words were cut short. His foot caught on a loose stone, his balance faltering. He was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him. He landed heavily on his back, the back of his head striking the hard-packed earth. "Ouch," he whimpered, a sharp pain radiating through his skull.

"And what did I say?" his sister asked, her voice a mixture of exasperation and concern as she helped him up. He was holding his head, wincing. "Let me take a look." She examined his back, brushing away the dirt. "There's a bit of dirt. It should be okay. Stand still, and I'll wipe it off." She carefully cleaned the wound, trying not to spread the dirt further.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, shamefaced. He hadn't meant to fall. He was simply excited, his childlike persona more dominant than his usual, more reserved "old" mentality. The shift in his demeanor, the change in his routines, was something his body hadn't yet adjusted to.

"…It's okay. Come on, let's go. We're going to be late," she said, her voice softening. She didn't really mind his exuberance. Sometimes, he was so quiet, so withdrawn. She appreciated these moments when his childlike spirit shone through. She took his hand, holding it firmly to prevent him from running off again.

Ichika didn't say anything. He was still embarrassed by his clumsiness. He didn't pull his hand away. He held her hand back, a silent acknowledgment of her care.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. They reached the Almark's building in about twenty minutes, just as noon was approaching. Ichika disliked noon; the heat of the midday sun made him uncomfortable. That was why they usually walked to the Almark in the cool of the morning. The sun could raise the temperature to a sweltering 30 degrees Celsius.

Upon their arrival, Ichika and his mother stood outside the Almark's building. Ichika was fascinated by the building's appearance. It was clearly old, its paint peeling and its stonework crumbling, yet vibrant green vines, studded with white flowers, climbed over its surface, partially obscuring its decay. From a distance, the building seemed almost swallowed by the verdant growth. The vines, he noticed, had delicate, eight-petaled white flowers clinging to them.

"Mother, why are there so many white flowers, and what are they called?" Ichika asked, his curiosity piqued. He had never seen these flowers before. The books at home, few as they were, usually depicted red flowers, which they called "Relial."

"Oh, these are called Trailson," she explained. "They only bloom during spring, and they're about to be harvested." She paused, then added, "Trailson might be related to potions, but I don't know for sure. Only the Almark knows how to use them."

"Mommy, you know a lot," he complimented her, hoping to soften her up before he asked his next question. "Can I take some of them home?" He thought the flowers were beautiful, and he wondered if he could grow them himself.

"N—" Before his mother could answer, a voice, sharp and imperious, cut through the air. Ichika looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound. His mother knelt down to his level. "Be polite, and don't cause trouble, okay, honey?" she whispered, her eyes filled with a mixture of warning and supplication, before standing up straight.

"Okay," he replied, his gaze fixed on the woman who now stood before them. She wore a white cloak, pure white, with no other color marring its surface. Her hair was also white, cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall of snow. Maybe she's the Almark, he thought, remembering what his mother had said.

"Why are you here?" the old woman asked, her tone brusque, bordering on rude. She looked to be in her fifties, and her height was around 160 cm, shorter than Ichika's mother.

"Madam, I came here to check my son's blessing," his mother explained, her voice slightly shaky but composed. "He had a nightmare." God, I don't really like her. Why does it have to be her, of all the Almark? she thought, a flicker of resentment in her heart.

"Nightmare? What did he say? Did he say anything about it being cold?" the old woman asked, her tone shifting from annoyance to something akin to curiosity. Perhaps she had been expecting this.

"Cold, and loneliness," his mother replied, her gaze meeting the Almark's. Ichika had no memory of the nightmare, only a vague sense of unease. She took his hand, but instead of the usual warmth she felt, his hand was cold, disturbingly so.

"Hmmm," the Almark murmured, her brow furrowed in thought. She crossed her arms, trying to piece together the puzzle of the cold and loneliness his mother had described. Unable to find an immediate answer, she dismissed them with a curt, "Come back tomorrow," and turned away, closing the door firmly behind her. There was no room for argument, no opportunity for negotiation.

Ichika's mother looked at him, her face etched with worry, before letting out a sigh. "Ichika, are you okay?" she asked, her concern evident in her voice. Ichika nodded, though he felt far from okay. His hand was still cold, a chilling reminder of the nightmare. They turned and walked away from the Almark's building. "How about we walk around the village first?" his mother suggested, hoping to warm him up, to distract him from the lingering chill of his dream.

"Okay…" he replied, his voice listless. He was not as withdrawn as he had been earlier, but he was clearly tired, his energy depleted. His mother noticed his weariness and decided to limit their exploration of the village. They would walk for a short while, then return home.

Ichika and his mother left the village behind some time ago. They were now walking back to their house, Ichika's body still cold, a chilling echo of his nightmare. "Ichika, are you okay?" his mother asked, her voice laced with worry. He was shivering uncontrollably.

Ichika didn't answer. He simply couldn't. He was trembling, his teeth chattering. She pulled him closer, holding him tightly against her, the way a mother holds a frightened toddler. His mother, hearing no response, gently pushed him back a little to see his face. His face was pale, even more so than it had been that morning.

"Oh no!" she gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She hugged him tightly, a desperate embrace, before breaking into a run. Her movements were swift and urgent, driven by a primal fear, a mother's instinct to protect her child. Ichika, held securely in her arms, barely seemed to register her movements, as if he were floating, weightless. She ran faster than she ever thought possible, her strength magnified by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

When she reached the house, she laid Ichika gently on his bed. "Ichika, don't leave yet!" she pleaded, her voice trembling. His breathing had become shallow, almost imperceptible. His heartbeat, faint and irregular, flickered like a dying ember. "No, no, no," panic clawed at her throat. She laid him flat on the bed and began CPR, her movements frantic but precise. Even though he was small, she knew the procedure, the rhythm of compressions and breaths.

While his sister desperately tried to revive him, Ichika found himself adrift, his senses dulled, the world around him slowing to a crawl. The tension between molecules seemed to thicken, the air itself becoming heavy and viscous. The light dimmed, shadows deepening, encroaching on the edges of his vision. The sun stared down, a malevolent eye in the darkening sky. The moon stared back, a cold, silent observer. The abyss stared, a yawning maw of nothingness. The world stared, a vast, indifferent witness to his fading life.

Huff Huff The blue, watery expanse of the world blurred, the gray of the ground stretching out before him, an endless, desolate landscape. "Mother! Where are you, Mother!" His voice echoed in the cold air, a cry of loneliness and fear. "Mother!" he called again, tears streaming down his face, freezing on his cheeks. There was only the echo of his voice and the relentless gust of wind, biting and unforgiving. "Where are you? It's too col—" His voice froze, the words trapped in his throat. He could no longer speak. The cold had claimed his voice, his warmth, his very essence.

His movements were stiff, jerky, devoid of true motion. He stood, or rather, he remained upright, a macabre parody of life, his arms wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to conserve what little warmth remained. But his makeshift armor was not enough. His hands and feet were now black, the color of death, encased in ice. Slowly, inexorably, the blackness spread, creeping up his limbs, consuming him. He could no longer support himself. He felt, he looked, like a person already dead, a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing onto the icy ground.

With the death of his self in this presumably dream again, on the same day he woke, the day he turned five years old, he didn't get to live past his first week of turning five years old. His future was bright, he was a transmigrator, he was the mentality of the "old," and he was the smarter one.

In the real world, where his sister knelt beside him, her efforts at CPR having failed, Ichika lay still and lifeless. His heartbeat had ceased. The vibrant spark of life had been extinguished, leaving behind only the cold shell of his body, the absence of his soul.

"Ichika, I am sorry! Sister can't protect you! Yomi can't protect you!" His sister's voice, raw with grief and despair, echoed through the small room. She could do nothing but gaze at him, her heart shattered, her spirit broken. His death was irreversible, a finality that crushed her. The sunrise, a cruel mockery of hope, crept into the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the still air.