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Luck.

It is said that the character “幸” in “luck” signifies happiness.

If you break down the word for luck, it transforms into “辛” which means suffering and “一” meaning one, and if you further deconstruct “辛,” it conveys the idea of standing atop countless struggles.

In other words, it speaks of happiness that arrives after enduring countless difficulties.

In that sense, what befalls a ronin is akin to the essence of luck.

Overcoming sudden misfortune, finally escaping that misfortune, and feeling relieved—how can this not be termed luck?

Amidst numerous hardships, it approaches like a beam of light.

That is luck.

However, there is something to reflect upon.

If happiness that comes from enduring and persevering without harboring discontent is luck, then can one truly escape from a colossal misfortune that cannot be faced with patience or without complaint by mere coincidence?

To emerge from a bog that one cannot escape by their own strength, does one not need the help of others?

Then, if it is indeed an enormous disparity, how could one go unnoticed by a warrior at such a level?

Could it truly have been accomplished solely through his own efforts?

Rustle.

If it wasn’t achieved through his own efforts.

If he didn’t seize luck directly, but rather, someone provided him with something that resembled luck—what then lies in his hands?

If it’s not luck, then what truly is it?

What might pretend to be a clover in his hands before revealing its true nature?

And where is the one who handed it to him?

Rustle.

Rustle.

Sounds are heard.

The sound of stepping on leaves, breaking branches.

The chilly wind moves between the frail branches and creeps through the leaves, making a sound as if it’s licking beneath the leaves and retreating.

And within that wind, damp humidity spreads.

Like someone exhaling their breath, it carries the moisture, blending the warmth and coldness of breath, chillingly sweeping over the man’s body.

Exhaling breath carries the warmth that signifies life.

But it also brings a chilling breath, as weak as the final breath escaping a half-decayed skeleton, cruelly sweeping past the man.

A breeze gentle yet eerie, like a ghost’s fingertips brushing against the skin, sending chills down the spine with every touch.

Rustle.

Leaves are crunched beneath, branches are broken, insects scurry.

Crunch.

A sound of bark scraping against wood falls to the ground.

In the darkness of night, hidden away, insects that were clinging to the bark pour down to the floor. As the bugs desperately struggle to right their overturned bodies, their numerous legs scatter in every direction, making a sound.

Sound.

Sound.

Ah, that sound.

Rustle.

Footsteps are heard, but they are not of wild beasts.

Approaching, there is no stench of wild animals.

Something with a different, foul odor draws near.

It isn’t approaching due to curiosity, either.

Something approaches with intent, stepping closer with each deliberate footfall.

Breaking branches, dropping leaves, crushing the bark as it draws near.

Like winter arriving.

Like shedding all leaves to create bare branches before winter sets in.

Like that dreadful season that corrupts the armoring bark into a burdensome object!

Rustle.

At last, it reveals itself.

To reclaim what was given to the man.

To fulfill that intent birthed for the man.

It is.

That figure emerging from the darkness has an eerie human-like appearance.

A man?

Indeed. He appears to be a man.

With a thin frame reminiscent of a scarecrow, he wears jeans that sport a strange sheen, and a black hoodie. The hoodie, decorated with artwork akin to modern art, is tattered and full of holes.

Moreover, his deeply pulled-down hood showcases ominous blue eyes glimmering ominously in the darkness, while a bird sits on his left shoulder, surveying the surroundings.

The bird, looking grotesque due to its excess weight and missing feathers, barely resembles any specific species. However, judging by its white and black plumage, one might assume it resembles a magpie.

“What… is he?”

The ronin held his breath and gazed at the man who revealed himself.

His appearance wasn’t particularly unusual, yet the strange atmosphere surrounding him felt ominous.

He concealed his presence and began to breathe very slowly and lightly.

Though he practiced the lowly art of silent breathing, it was deceptive enough to fool someone of ordinary sense.

Thus, hidden, the man silently watched, hoping that strange figure would venture elsewhere.

“Ah. Ah—ahhh—”

However, instead of departing, the man remained awkwardly rooted in place, emitting a strange sound.

The noise seemed to come from him straining his vocal cords, producing a harsh sound, interspersed with burps that were unpleasant. Moreover, for reasons unknown, he occasionally stabbed his chest with a finger, interrupting his own tone; with every stab, his breathing faltered, creating a disturbing rhythm to the sound that was discomforting to those who listened.

A bizarre sensation loomed.

There was something eerie about that abruptly appearing man.

“Blokla, blokla. With a tongue that drips with the blood of demons, flutter your wings and slice through the night. Hidden in shadows, flap and cut through the Walpurgis Night. Trample upon the sign of the cross at High Peak, flip over the sign of the cross at West Riding and flap your wings. Hide your black and blue wings in the darkness, cross your white wings and create an overturned cross to blaspheme the divine. Open your beak, extend your tongue, exhale the breath of demons, sow poison through playful cries and corrupt the souls of men….”

The man muttered something with nails scraping against a chalkboard, a sound that’s hard to bear.

The English words dripped with a strong British accent as his eerie incantation reverberated through the silence of the forest, while the translator hanging beneath his throat echoed his cursed words in a mechanical, emotionless tone, transforming them into Korean.

“Oh, magpie, magpie…. I draw the sign of the cross. From head to chest, shoulder to shoulder. From chest to head, shoulder to shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder. From chest to head. Shoulder to shoulder. Head to chest. I draw the sign of the cross…. Grant me your favor. So that I can take a step through impending doom….”

And at last, as the dreadful sounds rang out, the man began to move.

With his right hand moving about, he began forming the shape of a cross, taking one step after another.

Thud.

With each of his steps, the ground sunk deeply.

Marks were deeply carved in the earth, as the fallen leaves seemed to be sucked in alongside it.

Branches broke, and where the man passed, deep indents were left behind.

The forms were round and hollowed, and at the ends, they bore the shape of circles with holes—definitely horse hoofprints.

Thud.

With each step, the hoofprints embedded into the ground.

As the man ceased making the sign of the cross and let his arms fall, something materialized in his hand.

It emitted the rusted scent of metal.

Srring.

The sound of cold metals clanging together.

A disturbing red hue emerged from the rust being ground into the earth.

Thud.

The man.

He reached the spot where the magpie was.

 

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