Fortune.
It is said that the ‘fortune’ (幸) implies happiness.
When you break down the character for ‘fortune,’ it consists of ‘辛’ which means hardship and ‘一’ which means one or singular, and when ‘辛’ is dissected further, it means standing above (立) many difficulties (十).
Thus, it speaks of the happiness that comes after enduring numerous hardships.
In this sense, what is bestowed upon the Ronin is close to the essence of fortune.
Overcoming the sudden misfortune that has befallen him, and finally escaping from it to feel relief and take a breath—how could this not be called fortune?
Amid countless difficulties, it is like a single beam of light approaching.
That is what fortune is.
However, there is something to be reconsidered.
If fortune is the happiness that comes after bearing and enduring hardships without complaint,
then the question arises: could escaping a massive misfortune, from which one cannot help but feel discontent and cannot endure, truly be a mere coincidence?
When one is trapped in a pit from which one cannot escape by oneself, isn’t it natural to need the help of others?
Then, the question remains—if this person managed to escape unnoticed from a warrior of incomparably lofty skill—
did he truly achieve it through his efforts alone?
Rustle.
If it wasn’t through his efforts alone,
if it wasn’t him directly grasping fortune but rather someone else handing him something that appears to be fortune,
then what exactly is in his hand?
If it isn’t fortune, then what exactly is in his possession?
What is pretending to be a clover in his hand, only to reveal its true nature?
And who exactly gave it to him?
Where are they now?
Rustle.
Rustle.
A sound is heard.
The sound of crushing leaves and snapping branches echoes.
A chilling wind moves between the branches, dives into the leaves, and swirls below, then retreats.
In this wind, a damp moisture spreads.
It carries the moisture of an exhaled breath, holding both the heat and coldness peculiar to it, sweeping past the man with a chilling touch.
In the exhalation lies the warmth that represents life,
but it is as faint as the last breath of a half-rotten skull, combining with the eerie chill of the dead.
The wind brushes against the man like the caress of a ghost’s fingertips, delicate and soft, yet evoking shivers and making the body tremble.
Rustle.
Leaves are crushed, branches snap, and insects stir.
Crack.
The sound of brushing against trees is heard, along with bark falling to the ground.
In the darkness of the night, the insects concealed under the leaves and bark tumble down to the ground. There is the sound of them desperately struggling to turn their flipped bodies back over, scattering in all directions using their numerous legs.
Sound.
Sound.
Ah, that sound.
Rustle.
Footsteps approach, though they aren’t those of a wild beast.
There is no taint of urine, only a repulsive stench wafting stronger.
Something is getting closer.
Not sniffing cautiously,
nor driven by curiosity,
but moving with intent,
approaching step by step.
Breaking branches, dropping leaves, and scraping bark, it approaches.
Like the encroaching winter.
Like the barren branches shedding all their leaves to the ground before winter.
Similar to a desolate season that strips the bark, like armor, and turns it into an obstruction!
Rustle.
Finally, it reveals its form.
To reclaim something given to the man.
To fulfill the intention given to the man.
It.
The person.
Appearing from the darkness, it is a bizarre-looking human.
A man?
Yes. He appears to be a man.
With a scarecrow-like, emaciated frame, shiny jeans, and a black hoodie, the man gives off an odd gleam. The black hoodie has a modern art-like print, and the worn-out piece of clothing is riddled with holes.
Under the deep shadow of his hood, menacing blue eyes shine eerily in the darkness, and a bird sits on the man’s left shoulder, scanning its surroundings.
The bird is plump and its feathers are sparse, making it difficult to identify precisely what type it is. However, with its mix of white and black feathers, it resembles a magpie.
“Hmm… what is it…?”
The Ronin observed the man quietly, holding his breath.
Despite not being particularly unusual in appearance, the man exuded an eerie atmosphere that signaled misfortune.
He quieted his movements and began breathing very slowly and shallowly.
Though his mastery of the low-tier Turtle Breathing Technique wasn’t advanced, it was sufficient to deceive a regular person completely.
Silencing his presence, the man watched the strange person, hoping he would leave soon.
“Ahhhh… aaaahh….”
However, the strange man stayed in place and began emitting an odd sound.
A raspy voice, as if deliberately scratching his throat or squeezing his vocal cords, emerged, occasionally interrupted by sounds akin to hiccups. He also intermittently poked his chest with his fingers while emitting a disrupted sound with each interrupted breath, producing an unpleasant sensation in the listener.
Eerie.
The strange man who had suddenly appeared emanated eeriness.
“Blockl-la, Blockla. Let the tongue coated with a single drop of the devil’s blood flicker, the wings beat, and cleave the night. Concealed in the darkness, flutter and cut through the night of Phalfrugis. Desecrate the Sign of the Cross drawn at High Peak, overturn the Sign of the Cross drawn at West Riding with your wingbeats. Hide your black and blue wings in the darkness and intertwine the white wings to create an inverted cross, blaspheming against God. Open your beak, extend your tongue, exhale the devil’s breath, bewitch humans with a laughing cry laced with poison, and corrupt their souls….”
The man mumbled something, his voice grating like a nail scratching on a chalkboard.
It was English strongly tinged with a British accent.
The British-accented English transformed into a grotesque incantation that echoed through the silent forest. Meanwhile, a translation device hanging from his neck translated the strange sounds into emotionless mechanical Korean and amplified them throughout the woods.
“O bird that shows no mourning for those nailed to the cross. O demon’s bird that lives in black and white indifference. Devour insects with your red tongue, like droplets of the devil’s blood, and consume human souls as you fly…. Fly and soar, until you land on someone worthy of visitation upon a darkened day, shunned by saints and saintesses alike….”
Finally, when the man’s bizarre voice ceased,
Flap.
The magpie on the man’s shoulder began flapping its wings.
Lifting its disheveled wings, it took to the air, circled once around, twisted its head and flew off in one direction.
Flap.
Landing on the ground, the magpie folded its wings and stared intently at a spot.
Right in front of the Ronin.
The magpie stared intently at the Ronin.
Caw.
It emitted an ominous cry.
“Oh, magpie, magpie… I make the Sign of the Cross. From head to chest, shoulder to shoulder. Chest to head, shoulder to shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder. Chest to head. Shoulder to shoulder. Head to chest. I make the Sign of the Cross… Protect me, allow me to take a step in this foreboding night. I make the Sign of the Cross…”
And as the foreboding cries echoed, the man began to move.
Drawing crosses in various motions with his right hand, he began to walk step by step.
Thud.
Each time the man took a step, the ground sank deeply.
Deep impressions were left in the soil, and the scattered leaves were swept away as if sucked into the ground.
Branches were broken, and wherever he passed, deep impressions remained.
The shape was circular and hollow,
with a hole in the center resembling a perfect circle.
It was unmistakably the hoofprint of a horse.
Thud.
Each time the man took a step, his hoof-shaped feet struck the ground.
When he stopped drawing the cross and let his arms hang loose, something appeared in his hands.
A sudden rustle filled the air with the unpleasant smell of rusted metal.
Clang.
The cold metallic sound when metals collide.
An unpleasant red hue that clings to the ground as rust falls.
Thud.
The man.
It reached the location where the magpie was.
