Almark – Northern Sword, Southern Wand

Oh, again.

I also have the same dream.

The boy realizes this in his dreams.

Far from the boy's gaze.

The man stands there.

A woman calling her name with a gentle voice.

If kindness is going to be a phenomenon, it's going to be like this.

The voice of a woman full of love for him that the boy believes so.

The voice can be heard clearly.

And yet I can't see it.

As if wrapped in fog, your face and body are blurry and invisible to the boy's eyes.

Are you tall or low?

Are you thin or fat?

Is the hair long or short?

Are the eyes big or thin?

Hair colour, skin colour.

I don't know anything.

Only that gentle voice clearly reaches the boy's ear.

And every time you hear that voice, it's as painful as it's going to tear your chest apart.

Loss.

The boy still didn't understand such a difficult word, but the pain he felt was something he could only say in words.

In reality, the pity resembles despair that this person will never call his name again with such a voice.

The reason why they will never be called again is not clear to the boy.

But I knew for certain that they would never call me anymore.

Kindness you'll never get.

It used to be with the boy, but it's gone.

No, they took it away.

That's why you feel lost.

The boy doesn't know what to call him.

Mom.

Mother.

Mother.

None of them come well.

I wonder what I used to call him.

I followed my memories when I couldn't think of anything, and I didn't get any answers.

The boy runs desperately towards him in his dreams.

I want that person to hug me.

I want to be wrapped in the sweet smell of that person.

I want that person to listen to a story that he doesn't love.

If that doesn't come true, at least you want to burn that person's face into your eyes.

But no matter how much the boy moves his feet, he never gets close to him.

In a dream, the boy never stops.

Always, always, boys don't give up until the end.

Yet his voice keeps moving away.

Whether we run or scream, the voice never approaches.

And when that person's voice is cut off, the boy wakes up with an itchy feeling of loss.

After a long journey, when the boy landed in the port of Nork, alone, his face was already equipped with ferocity far removed from the child.

Originally a brilliant boy, the journey further strengthened all of him.

He's not old enough yet.

No matter how peaceful a country is, it was impossible for such a small child to travel alone.

The boy did not like being exposed to curiosity.

That's why the boy didn't stay at the inn either.

I didn't even ride a carriage.

I stepped on the earth step by step with my own feet and walked.

I didn't mind.

The closer you walk, the closer you get to your destination. If it's a journey, isn't it so happy?

Running or running, you can't reach it, compared to that hell.

What is this endless journey?

The boy begs for guidance when he tells his name to the guards at the main gate.

The young guard was astonished that the boy had traveled alone.

Guided by the guards, the boy is guided to the dean's office in the large school building of the college.

I wonder how many years it's been since I've seen an old man like the spirits of wisdom. I had only just met him when he was barely conscious.

When the boy told him his name, the old man looked up.

I told you to change your name.

The old man's words were compelling.

There's a reason.

The noble blood flowing through the boy's body.

The name of the boy, once a noble man, was too similar to the name of his brother, now a noble man.

It was only natural that the old man, who rescued the boy carrying a deserving death, ordered him to change his name for his own safety.

"I won't change my name."

The noble blood of the boy was not afraid of the old man's sense of intimidation, which was said to yield even to the nobles.

You can change your last name to whatever you want.

The boy said nothing to the dean.

"I don't care if it's Mossville or whatever."

Unwanted flow. I accept that.

"You don't have to have a last name."

But accepting is not the same as giving in.

Who am I?

My name is Wallis.

Remember that man's voice.

Wallis.

That's what she called me.

Whatever your last name is.

The last name that binds this country.

Even this last name, which is now crafted behind my name.

Such things don't represent anything important in me. [M]

But what's his name?

I can't just change my name.

Proof that you are who you are.

Wallis.

That voice you'll never get again.

The name he called.

That's my name, that's all.

If this name ever changes, what should I live on as a sign? [M]

Change your name to live.

That is not acceptable.

It's about giving in.

It's about throwing everything away.

What does it mean to be alive?

I won't give in.

My name is Wallis.

The boy said again.

The eyes staring at the old man were bright red and congested.

"Nobody else. I'm Wallis."

The old man looked at his face for a while before saying it was dull.

"I see. Is that your form?"

Then, he soothed his expression a little and nodded to the boy.

"Okay. Keep your name."

Then I made a serious declaration.

"Wallis Mosville. Welcome to school."

Wallis, 9 years old, spring.

It was around the time Al Mark played his first game on the northern battlefield.