VANRAN: Stories Unwritten in Hell 01

The Human Who Became a Sword

First Record

The morning fog lay thick over the road, a pale haze so dense that one could barely see what stood ahead.

Every year around this time, the North was like this.

The chill rising from the cliffs mingled with the plains, forming a misty veil.

Until the sunlight reached it, one could barely see twenty paces ahead.

Caleb rode through the fog.

It was a road he could walk even without sight.

Five years had passed since he became head of the house. He had traveled this road many times at his father’s side.

A road his body remembered before he ever wished to.

Soon, a vast white cliff revealed itself.

A limestone wall rising straight into the sky.

Seen from the ground, it seemed to swallow half the heavens.

Beneath it, there was nothing.

Only darkness, with no visible end.

Edgar picked up a small stone from horseback.

As captain of the guard, he was a man of few words, yet every time he came here, he did the same thing.

He approached the edge of the cliff and threw the stone down.

No sound came back.

No sound of it striking the ground. No sound of it sinking into water.

It simply vanished into the dark.

“It unsettles me every time I see it.”

Edgar said.

Caleb looked down beyond the cliff’s edge.

“What truly unsettles me is what lies below.”

A hundred years ago, the Demon King invaded the surface.

The human kingdom was defeated, and from that day onward, humanity was forced to send five hundred people beneath the cliffs every year.

Four hundred from the capital.

One hundred from the North.

It was tribute paid to the Demon Realm.

No one knew whether they went alive or dead.

No one had ever returned.

The king chose the names, and the lord who governed the lands near the cliff carried out the order.

The executor’s name was never recorded.

The lord performed this duty as someone who did not exist.

Today was the eve of the tribute.

At dawn tomorrow, those whose names were on the list would walk this road.

The same number every year. The same way every year. Beneath the cliffs.

People had gathered on the Road of Wailing.

It was where those who were leaving and those being left behind spent their final day together.

Caleb did not know which side suffered more.

Those who left went without knowing what waited below.

Those who remained would never know what came after.

Caleb dismounted.

Edgar watched him for a moment.

Ordinarily, the head of a house did not step down and walk among the people in a place like this. The proper order was to observe from horseback, confirm what needed to be confirmed, and return.

Caleb walked among the people and handed out bread.

Rough, dry hands. A child’s small hands. An old man’s wrinkled hands. The pale hands of a noblewoman from the capital.

Every hand that received the bread was different, yet the sorrow they held was the same.

“My mother’s name is on the list.”

A middle-aged man spoke as he accepted the bread. His hands were hard and calloused, like those of a carpenter.

“She is seventy-three. Even at that age, she still has to go.”

Caleb looked at him.

“The king chooses the names.”

“I know. Still.”

Caleb could say nothing more.

The man said nothing more either.

A little later, a woman approached.

“My son leaves tomorrow. He is twenty-two.”

Twenty-two.

Nearly the same age Caleb had been when he first came to this cliff.

After a brief silence, he said,

“I pray he finds peace on the road.”

Caleb did not know what it meant to find peace on such a road.

Still, there were moments when such words had to be said, even if they were hollow.

That was when he noticed the girl.

She looked no older than ten. Her hair was tangled, and dust clung to her face.

She was alone. There were no adults near her.

Caleb handed her a piece of bread.

The girl took it with her small hands.

Their eyes met.

They were not the eyes of a child.

They were the eyes of someone who had already spent all the sorrow they had.

The girl spoke in a low voice.

“My father went last year.”

Caleb did not answer.

“My mother goes this year.”

It was not a voice without emotion.

It was a voice that had already spent all of it.

The girl looked toward the cliff. Caleb followed her gaze. The white cliff. The darkness below.

In that moment, Caleb felt something strange.

The girl was not looking at the cliff.

She was measuring the distance.

No.

She was confirming a decision that had already been made.

“Catch her.”

By the time Caleb spoke, Edgar was already moving. But the girl was faster.

Her small feet struck the ground. She slipped through the crowd. The distance to the cliff vanished in an instant.

“Stop!”

Caleb shouted, but the girl did not stop.

The grass ended. The gray bedrock began. Beyond it lay the darkness.

Edgar reached out his hand.

He did not reach her. The girl’s foot had already stepped into empty air.

No sound came from below the cliff.

The people screamed too late.

Someone called the girl’s name. Three times. The same name. Into the empty air.

Sei.

Only that name remained above the cliff.

Caleb looked down below. There was only darkness.

The child who had stood there moments ago was gone. No one living on the surface knew how deep that place truly was.

A single piece of bread lay on the ground. It was the one Sei had been holding.

Sei’s father had gone last year.

Her mother would go this year.

Sei went today.

It was the eve of the tribute.

Even after mounting his horse, Edgar kept looking toward the cliff for a while.

“Do you never wonder what it looks like down there?”

Caleb thought for a moment.

“I do not.”

After that, no one spoke.

On the road back to the castle, the fog began to lift.

The plains emerged. The land of Colmar. The land Caleb was meant to protect.

Yet he did not know what it meant to protect that land.

Tomorrow, one hundred people would walk this road.

A list chosen by the king.

A seal to be stamped by the lord.

From behind him, Bark spoke carefully.

“I will bring the list documents. The seal must be stamped before tonight is over.”

Caleb looked ahead in silence as he rode on.

Beyond the fog, the castle of Colmar came into view, built of gray stone.

It was not beautiful, but it was strong. Like the North itself. In this place, strength was needed more than beauty.

Tonight, he had to stamp the seal.

At dawn tomorrow, one hundred people would walk beneath the cliffs.

This year would be the same.

But for how much longer?