MDL | Prologue

Prologue. Here, at the ruins of an old amphitheater, you and I…

Welcome! Welcome, dear ladies and gentlemen. Ah, and to those who are neither ladies nor gentlemen! My earlier words were merely a common courtesy. A commonplace phrase used to welcome the multitude of people who pass by just once. So, please don’t be disappointed and turn away because you feel unwelcome. I welcome everyone equally—gentlemen, ladies, the elderly, children, beggars, scoundrels, drunkards, madmen, and even those who have committed unspeakable atrocities.

In truth, I have no interest in who you are or what kind of life you lead outside these walls. From the moment you step inside, you are simply an audience, a spectator, and a witness to my tale. Whether you are a wise chancellor, a noble king, a great hero, one of the five dragons that uphold this world, or even the slumbering god beneath the World Tree who shows boundless indifference to all things… as long as you are seated here, in this place, at this moment, you are all the same to me. Yes, I am only interested in you, the listeners, the audience, the witnesses. So, dear friends, whoever or whatever you are, rest assured. This place is safe. I am a completely harmless person.

Oh dear, oh dear…

Please don’t look at me with such suspicion. What could I possibly do to you? As you can see, I am but a frail man who has likely never lifted anything heavier than a book in his life…

What’s that? You say I should be ashamed of myself for saying such things? Haha, you don’t understand. But of course, you don’t know me yet. I am a person who has never known shame. I have no sense of disgrace! If you were to ask me to get down on all fours right now and bark like a dog, promising to bring five listeners here for each person who does so… I would do it without hesitation. Don’t underestimate me.

Ah, yes, yes… I understand. There’s no creature harder to trust than one who loudly proclaims their own harmlessness. But deep down, you know it too, don’t you? What I know, you also know. Hmm, how shall I put it… a great secret of this world. Between you and me, there is a thin, almost invisible boundary that can never be crossed. You will forever remain on your side, and I on mine, merely watching each other’s lives and deaths in silence. So, let me say it again: you are safe. Even if I get so excited while telling my story that I start spitting, my saliva will never stain your cheeks or the backs of your hands. Please, rest assured.

Now, shall we take a moment to look around?

…Yes, you’ve seen it correctly. This is a ruin. Crumbling, cracked walls, pillars with only their bases remaining, weeds densely growing through the gaps in the stone floor, and a ceiling so open that you might even get hit by bird droppings… The place where you are seated is the tiered audience seating. In its heyday, handsome slaves with silver necklaces would have laid cushions for you and brought sweet pomegranate juice. Ah, did I mention it? Just a few decades ago, in this kingdom, even slaves were adorned with silver jewelry and dressed in soft silk robes. That’s how wealthy it was. Well, that’s all in the past now. Anyway, you are now seated there, watching me standing on the circular stone stage. Those of you who can only see the back of my head, please come forward. There are plenty of seats here. I am not a trained actor or orator who can survey all directions. I would be grateful if you could position yourselves so that I can make eye contact with you.

…Hmm, good. Thank you. Now I can see all your faces!

Where were we?

Ah! Yes! I remember now! We were talking about this ruin.

Yes, once upon a time, countless people passed through here. From monarchs adorned head to toe in gold and pearls to vagabonds chewing on moldy bread crusts. They sat right where you are now, enjoying entertainment that made them forget the worries of the world. On some days, beasts more human than humans leaped through flaming hoops and teetered precariously on ropes strung between two poles. On other days, poets and actors with booming voices sang of the glories of bygone eras. On yet other days, singers with beautiful voices played harps and guitars, praising heroes. And on other days, orators worried about the future of this kingdom would shout, spitting as they argued, “I am right, and you are wrong!”

But as you can see, all of that is in the past.

The brilliant prosperity and glory, as well as the corruption and decline, have all passed. And in their place, here we are, you and I.

……

……

……

……

Ah, I’m sorry. Getting lost in memories and falling silent is not the virtue of a storyteller. But you must understand me a little. I am not a professional storyteller, you see. In fact, this is my first time playing the role of a storyteller in front of so many people. Look at this—my hands are trembling from nervousness.

I’ve heard that in some country, a tousle-haired girl sat quietly in a ruined theater, listening to people’s stories, and that alone solved problems and brought peace. Since I lack the remarkable talent of conveying truth through silence, I have no choice but to chatter away. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Unable to remain silent, I shall become the chattering Prince Girolamo to the tousle-haired girl. And like Girolamo did for his beloved tousle-haired girl, I will tell you old tales. Tales filled with princesses, princes, dragons, wizards, witches, and fairies¹.

The first story I will tell is a very short, tragic one, whose ending is still unknown to anyone in this world. It is a story from the time when this ruin still held the prosperity and glory of the past.

Once upon a time…

Haha. Isn’t this how everyone usually starts? I’ve always wanted to try it.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, in the kingdom of Arcadia, there lived a slave prince.

How can a “slave” also be a “prince,” you ask? Well, it was due to the prince’s unique birth. To explain that, I must briefly tell you about the beautiful and cruel Marguerite and the fortunate Delos.

The kind-hearted Delos was originally the third son of the king of Arcadia. But the king’s half-brother, the usurper Lucius, smashed his brother’s head with an axe and devoured the flesh of his two nephews. Delos survived purely by luck—he had been sent as an envoy to a neighboring kingdom at the time.

Upon hearing the horrific deaths of his father and two brothers, Delos, despite the pleas of his loyal attendants, donned the clothes of a beggar and embarked on the long journey home. The adventures Delos experienced on his return could fill a hundred days and nights, but they are not the most crucial part of our story today. Let us save that tale for another day.

The important part of our story begins when Delos met Marguerite, a slave girl fleeing the harsh fences of her master.

Marguerite was a truly beautiful girl. Her golden hair shimmered as if woven from strands of moonlight, and her eyes were as transparent and icy as the Arctic Sea. Her smile held all the joy of the world, while her eyes carried all its sorrow. It was no wonder that Delos fell in love with her at first sight.

“Kind traveler, please help me. If I am caught now, my master will beat me to death. Please, show me mercy. I am not an ungrateful wretch. If you save me now, I will surely repay your kindness.”

Marguerite clung to Delos’s clothes and pleaded.

Ah, dear ladies and gentlemen, what else could Delos do? How could he resist when Marguerite, with all the world’s joy and sorrow etched on her face, clutched his clothes and begged? Had you heard Marguerite’s plea, you too would have fallen in love instantly. Yes, indeed. Delos did what any young man in love would do.

“Do not worry. I will save you from that wicked man, no matter what it takes. I need no repayment. My greatest joy is to see you wipe away your tears and smile.”

With those words, Delos stood boldly in front of Marguerite and addressed her master, who had come to capture her.

“I will buy this woman. Name your price, and I will pay it.”

Marguerite’s master sneered.

“Do you even know what she is? A ragged traveler like you could never afford her.”

Delos then threw down a pouch filled with gold that he had hidden beneath his beggar’s clothes.

“Is this not enough?”

The master was startled by the gold. But he was a greedy man. He realized that the young man before him was far wealthier than he appeared—and that he was so smitten with Marguerite that he would pay any price.

“It’s not enough. You must pay twice this amount!”

Delos proceeded to remove a golden necklace, a diamond bracelet, a belt woven from precious thread, and ten rings tucked inside an old glove, one by one. The master picked up each piece of gold and jewelry, continuing to shout:

“Not enough! This is still far from enough!”

In the end, Delos even had to surrender the treasured sword he had inherited from his father. He was left utterly penniless. Only after the master had thoroughly searched even the boots Delos was wearing did he nod in satisfaction. He then removed the shackles from Marguerite’s slender wrists. Fearing that Delos might change his mind and refuse to buy the beautiful slave girl, the master quickly gathered his belongings and left.

Having lost even his sword and no longer a prince or a knight, Delos was suddenly overcome with fear. What am I doing here? But at that moment, Marguerite took his cold hands and said:

“Kind and pitiful prince, I am not an ungrateful person. I always repay what I owe.”

It was a secretive, damp whisper.

A voice that seemed to echo from the depths of a dark swamp in the heart of a forest untouched by human feet for centuries. A whisper so small, yet it thundered through the air like a lightning strike.

Delos stared at Marguerite in wide-eyed shock.

The beautiful, pitiful girl who had begged for help was gone. In her place stood a witch, her hair woven from moonlight and her eyes filled with the ice of the northern seas.

“Prince? You called me a prince? Did I ever tell you who I am? How do you know me?”

Delos stammered in terror. He tried to break free and run, but the more he struggled, the tighter her fingers gripped his hands.

“Kind prince! I see and hear everything.”

Marguerite’s golden hair glowed like a halo. Though she was much smaller than Delos, she somehow seemed enormous. Like a giant… no, like the mountains or the sea.

Ah, kind Delos. Pitiful Delos. Compassionate Delos. Sympathetic Delos. And Delos in love.

But at the same time, Delos was a timid and fearful man. Well, it might be harsh to say this, but… personally, I believe it was precisely because he was so timid and fearful that he survived the usurper Lucius. As you can see from this short anecdote, if you examine the legends closely, Delos was a man of simple and careless character. Lucius could have easily killed him, but he saw no need to do so. It’s a paradoxical statement, but that was Delos’s luck. His kindness itself was, in a way, also his fortune. His careless and indiscriminate kindness happened to lead him to great opportunities and powerful allies. Like the moment he met the beautiful and cruel Marguerite.

“Oh, my God!”

Delos fell to his knees.

“Are you a spirit? A messenger of the gods? Or… or are you a god?”

Marguerite smiled.

“No, prince. I am merely human. Like you, I am a mortal with red blood flowing through my veins, destined to grow old and die.”

As she spoke, the glow surrounding her hair faded.

“However, I hear the voices of dragons.”

“Dragons? You mean the five children of the World Tree?”

“Yes, I am a priestess of the forgotten dragons. A priestess of the dead gods whom no one in this world worships anymore.”

“But how did you…?”

Instead of answering, Marguerite let out a deep sigh.

The story of how Marguerite, daughter of the five dragons, came to live as a slave to a greedy and lowly man is another tale altogether. Like Delos’s adventures on his journey home, it is a story for another time.

“Prince, no matter my circumstances, you are still my savior,” Marguerite said.

“Please, allow me to repay your kindness.”

And Marguerite smiled as brightly as the stars shining in the night sky. It was a mesmerizing smile, so enchanting that even Delos, who had been utterly terrified by her, found his lips curling into a foolish grin.

“You’ve already been repaid,” he said.

“Your smile is my reward.”

Marguerite laughed again. And she bestowed upon the kind and fortunate Delos the greatest luck imaginable.
“Do not worry, my prince. The usurper’s sword will never strike your neck, and the usurper’s arrow will never pierce your heart.”

At the time, Delos had no idea what those words meant.

He only understood their meaning much later… when Marguerite, the daughter of the five dragons, beautiful and cruel, utterly destroyed the castle of a lord who had betrayed the late king and sided with the usurper. The lord and his family were buried under the rubble of the collapsed castle, their bodies never to be found.

Even the greatest singers in the world, the painters who would gladly depict hellscapes to create masterpieces, the poets, the actors, the orators…

All fell silent before the horror of that day.

On that day, Delos had only fifty knights armed with rusty weapons and sickly horses. Loyal and brave knights who upheld the late king’s will, but were as toothless as old tigers… Had it not been for the beautiful and cruel Marguerite, Delos and his fifty knights would have been crushed by that lord.

But even knowing this, Delos hesitated in fear before the terrifying power of the witch.

A dreadful sandstorm.
Screams.
Tears.
Curses.
Drops of blood.
Corpses.
And again, the sandstorm.

When it was all over, the high spire had collapsed, swallowed by the desert’s sandstorm.

And Marguerite, smiling like a star, said to the trembling, horrified Delos:

“I told you not to worry, my Delos.”

Delos could only bite his pale lips, unable to speak. The fear he had forgotten, entranced by Marguerite’s beautiful smile, now gripped him clearly.

“Do you even know what she is?”

The greedy and lowly man’s scoffing words swirled in Delos’s ears.

“Kind and pitiful prince.”

Marguerite’s voice, like a whisper from a deep, damp swamp in a forgotten forest, echoed as well.

Delos finally awoke from the spell of infatuation. And he realized what kind of luck he had grasped. But it was already too late.

As Delos hesitated and took a step back, Marguerite grabbed his hand and placed it on her swollen belly. The life kicking vigorously inside her—the witch’s son, and his own son. Ah, pitiful Delos. Kind Delos. Fearful Delos. Lucky Delos.

Even if he had realized, what else could he have done?

By now, dear ladies and gentlemen, you must have guessed the fate of the kind and fortunate Delos and the beautiful and cruel Marguerite.

Yes, Delos reclaimed his father’s crown from the usurper Lucius. As if by Marguerite’s blessing—or curse—the sword Lucius swung in rage could not strike Delos’s neck, and the arrow Lucius shot in his final struggle could not pierce Delos’s heart. Lucius’s attacks rebounded onto himself. The wounds Delos should have suffered were carved into Lucius’s body instead. Unaware, Lucius slashed and stabbed, slashed and stabbed… until his red blood dripped and pooled in the center of the white hall lined with statues of great dead kings, forming a small lake.

Some storytellers say that Marguerite gave birth to her child on that blood-red lake.

Her white dress was stained entirely red, and as the usurper Lucius’s crown tumbled onto the marble floor, the baby’s loud cry split the world.

It was a very handsome boy.

The child bore an equal resemblance to Delos and Marguerite.

His thick, lush black hair and sorrowful green eyes showed he was unmistakably Delos’s son.

But his cool, delicate features, as if sculpted from frost on a winter window, and his snow-pale skin were undoubtedly inherited from Marguerite.

And that was not all. The child was both the son of a king and the son of a witch. He possessed Delos’s kindness and Marguerite’s cruelty.

“My king, here is your son,” Marguerite said, placing the baby in Delos’s arms. Delos felt both affection and fear for the child.

As he gazed at the baby’s cold, mysterious features, which surpassed even the beauty of the world, he felt a crawling disgust, as if insects were creeping over his skin.

But when the baby’s black hair, so like his own, brushed against his fingers, and when the child blinked his green eyes, identical to Delos’s, and cooed, Delos felt an indescribable fullness, his heart swelling with emotion.

……

Dear ladies and gentlemen, do you know what happens to a witch who bears a child? Do you know why witches and wizards in this world stubbornly grow old and die without having children? Of course, magic is a mystery that cannot be explained or understood in the language of this world. But even so, we can cautiously infer one fact.

Yes, that’s right, dear friends.

For reasons unknown, a witch or wizard who bears a child ceases to be a witch or wizard. Their immense power loses its potency.

The beautiful Marguerite was no exception. After giving birth to the handsome little prince, she was no longer a witch. She became just an ordinary woman. The daughter of the five dragons, the priestess of forgotten gods, the powerful witch—all of that was now a glory of the past. She was now simply the beautiful Marguerite. Her moonlight-like hair and Arctic ice-like eyes still shone, but that was all.

And Delos noticed it too. That she was no longer the witch she once was. The woman who had seduced his kind and innocent self, spilled the blood and screams of countless people across the world, and ultimately made him king—she was no longer that woman.

Yes.

He was no longer afraid of her.

……

Have you begun to notice, dear friends?

Yes, this is the story of the witch’s son. It is also the story of the king’s son. But above all, it is the story of a pitiful child born between a betraying man and a betrayed woman.

It is terribly cliché.

There are no grand twists or hidden secrets, so if you were hoping for such things, I urge you to let go of those expectations.

Everything will unfold exactly as you already know it will.

……

Delos eventually framed Marguerite for treason. It happened when their young son, the prince, turned five. By then, Delos had a new lover—pure and innocent, with not a trace of magical power. To marry this new lover, he vilified his former love as an evil and cruel woman, handing her over to the executioner. He even began to doubt the lineage of the young prince, who so closely resembled his own green eyes. He claimed the child was born of the witch’s deceitful magic, conceived without a father. His most loyal and faithful servants tried to quell his suspicions and protect the young prince, but it was no use. Just as Marguerite was no longer a witch, Delos was no longer the kind king of those days.

The king’s suspicion and madness grew worse by the day.

And so, the king branded his five-year-old son’s back with a red-hot slave mark and fastened a cold silver collar around his neck. He then dragged the pitiful young prince before his subjects like a dog and declared:

“From this day forward, this child is a slave of this kingdom. He is the seed of a deceitful witch, and thus, he is more lowly and wretched than anyone in this kingdom. Let this be known to all.”

But perhaps due to a lingering shred of conscience, or because the young prince’s black hair and green eyes so closely resembled his own, the king did not strip the prince of his title. Was this a blessing or a curse? What do you think, dear friends?

Whatever the king’s reasons, and whatever you or I may think of his decision, it mattered little to the prince.

And in this story as well.

What matters is that Marguerite’s young son grew up with the strange title of “Slave Prince.”

Year after year, as he grew older, the prince became more courageous and more beautiful. Before his bravery, even the most seasoned and skilled knights of the kingdom bowed their heads. Before his beauty, even the songs praising the mystique of the fairy king paled in comparison. As the Slave Prince’s bravery and beauty became renowned throughout the kingdom, the king grew harsher toward him. By the time the prince turned fifteen, the king began sending him into dangerous battlefields as if wishing for his death. But it was no use. No matter how dire the situation, the prince always returned victorious, without losing a single soldier. Isn’t that astonishing? And the people praised and admired him, scattering colorful paper and flower petals wherever he walked.

But the more they did so… the more the king became consumed by fear and jealousy of his own son.

And not just the king—the prince’s half-brother, the crown prince, felt the same.

Then, one day…

Yes, one day…

……

Dear ladies and gentlemen.

I will continue this story later. There’s no need to be so curious—you already know how it goes. It’s a terribly cliché story. There are no twists or secrets, and it will unfold exactly as you imagine. So, there’s no need to rush to the ending.

Ah, don’t worry.

I have many more stories to tell you.

Now, now, shall we begin in earnest?

Haha, don’t worry. From here on, I won’t interrupt the story until the very end.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago…