ALL NOVEL Ch. 53
Deltain dashed through the night streets once more.
He cut through the fog of his breath clouding his vision with every exhale.
He shook off the unpleasant feeling lingering at his fingertips.
He sprinted down the snow-covered alleyways.
‘Next…’
Even as he moved, his thoughts did not stop.
He sifted through her memories, recalling the events of that day in order.
Just two more incidents, and this night would finally be over.
‘Next is… the gang.’
Deltain gradually slowed his pace.
Then, he lifted his head.
Before him stood a shabby tavern.
It was a stark contrast to the surrounding concrete buildings.
The single-story wooden structure bore a crooked sign above the door, [Rucid].
It was the gang’s hideout.
– H-help me.
Deltain had once entered this tavern.
He was fleeing from the drug addict and seeking help.
And then.
‘… I was thrown out.’
They had tossed him aside, deeming the young Deltain unworthy of their time.
‘It doesn’t matter’
Deltain truly believed so.
After all, it was in the past.
This nightmare now held no significance.
Creak.
Deltain opened the tavern door.
“What the—? A kid?”
Eyes turned toward him.
They belonged to men covered in crude tattoos, with intimidating, hulking figures.
‘Here…’
Had he cried then?
Deltain scrunched his face.
His breath hitching as he let out uneven gasps, his body trembling.
“P-please… save me!”
He feigned pitifulness.
Actually, he didn’t have to try very hard.
His battered body already looked wretched.
His clothes were filthy, his bruised face grotesque, and the snot running down his nose from the cold only added to his dishevel appearance.
Everyone would have felt pity.
But not these men.
“From Koreatown, huh?”
“Filthy brat.”
“Judy!”
At someone’s call, a giraffe-like man rose and approached Deltain.
Without warning, he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
A cloying scent of cologne hit his nose, overwhelming his senses.
“Annoying.”
Judy clicked his tongue and flung him aside.
As Deltain’s body lifted off the ground, he let himself fall into the act of reliving the past.
-Ack!
“Ack!”
A scream filled with pain escaped his lips.
-Get lost, kid.
“Get lost, kid.”
He heard the same words repeat.
Then, he looked up at
Click.
The door closed.
The warmth he had felt inside was gone, replaced by the biting cold that enveloped him once more.
His ankle throbbed as he tried to stand—it seemed the throw had been strong enough to injure him.
Before him was the cozy-looking tavern, glowing with a warm, yellow light he couldn’t enter.
It was just like before.
Deltain gritted his teeth.
He staggered to her feet, using the wall for support as he moved forward.
‘Next…’
Mechanically, he thought of what came next.
He repeated the same mantra to himself.
This is nothing.
It’s just the thing of the past.
‘… the last one.’
He would face Verdi.
The man who had made his childhood miserable.
Crunch.
The snow crunched under his bare feet.
His shoes had been lost when he was thrown out.
But it didn’t matter.
The end of this night was near.
Crunch.
He no longer felt his feet.
His nose was numb, and his cheeks stung as if being slapped.
His jaw trembled uncontrollably.
It caused his breath to scatter.
It didn’t matter.
Crunch.
As he came out of the alley.
A brighter street came into view.
‘Snow…’
His vision blurred.
He must have been hit wrongly during the earlier scuffle with the street kids.
Everything seemed hazy.
As if smeared into a crude oil painting.
A blackened canvas sprayed with white.
Adorned with gray columns, their tops dabbed with yellow paint.
It was a strange thought even to him.
For a moment, he gazed at it, then resumed walking.
Just two more alleys.
Then he would reach the edge of West Harlem.
With that in mind, he moved, until—
“What’s this?”
A voice called out.
Deltain creaked his head to the side.
‘Found you.’
Verdi.
A short, stocky white man with the demeanor of a bulldog—a homeless man.
This was the man who would drag him to the beggar’s den.
He would teach him to pickpocket and exploit him for years.
‘For the next four years.’
That was the life that awaited him.
But it didn’t matter.
This marked the end of all the night’s tragedies.
Finally, morning would come.
And he would return.
“Kid, where are your parents?”
“… I don’t have any.”
Looking up at Verdi, Deltain answered.
Behind him, the faint light of dawn was rising over the buildings of Harlem.
A man, wreathed in a dim, yellowish glow, smirked.
“Well, have you eaten?”
If he shook his head in response, the man would take him away.
Back then, he had collapsed, believing that man to be his savior.
This time, it would be no different.
“… no.”
Verdi clicked his tongue.
Then, he lifted Deltain into his arms.
Though the stench was foul, the warmth melted away his tension.
“Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
Deltain nodded and closed his eyes.
‘The end.’
Christmas night was over.
The proof would end here.
As his thoughts grew hazy.
An alarm echoed.
*
In the tribe’s hut.
Agnes looked at Deltain, who lay motionless on the bed.
After speaking with the Spirit King, he had suddenly collapsed and hadn’t woken since.
The peculiar part was that, despite the hut being warm, Deltain’s body was as cold as ice.
Not only that. Even while lying still, his body would occasionally shudder, and at times he grimaced, letting out faint groans.
It looked like he was trapped in a nightmare.
“… Hornlake.”
[Yes!]
Hornlake appeared in midair.
Agnes asked.
“What’s wrong with Deltain?”
[Oh, he’s undergoing the trial of winter!]
“The trial of winter?”
[Yes! It’s a process necessary for making a pact with a spirit!]
Agnes narrowed her eyes.
“Explain properly.”
[Eep… uh…]
Hornlake shrank under her icy gaze and stammered.
[… well, you see, it’s something I usually oversee when a new chieftain is chosen. It’s meant to determine if he’s qualified to make a pact with me. But it seems my father used it for something else.]
“Why?”
[Um, that, I don’t know…]
Hornlake rolled its eyes toward Deltain.
[… maybe he needs to prove something through the trial?]
It was a cryptic answer.
Hornlake, ever clueless, left her more frustrated with every question.
Agnes felt a twinge of irritation.
“What does the trial involve?”
[Well, usually it shows the person his greatest fear.]
“And then?”
[Nothing much. The challenger just has to overcome it. The same scene repeats until they do.]
“What happens if he fails?”
[Huh?]
“What happens if he can’t overcome it?”
Hornlake was visibly startled.
This was the first time anyone had even considered such a possibility.
‘It’s not like the trial is that difficult….’
The trial usually involved escaping from a terrifying creature or confronting a personal fear.
It didn’t require perfection.
Simply ceasing to be afraid, facing it head-on, was enough to end the trial.
Still, the thought lingered.
If he couldn’t overcome it, the outcome was obvious.
[He… wouldn’t be able to leave? Once the trial starts, it can’t be stopped—eek?!]
Hornlake flinched and shrank back mid-sentence.
Agnes’s icy glare was so intense it sent chills down its spine.
‘Hiii…’
What was she thinking?
Hornlake felt a growing fear.
The stupid winter spirit, Hornlake.
It didn’t know.
That the Spirit King’s trials were far from humane.
*
The alarm rang as the scene unfolded before Deltain’s eyes. He let out a hollow laugh.
‘What the hell is this?’
Regaining his senses, he found himself back at the very beginning.
Standing in the center of East Harlem, staring at a darkened clothing shop window.
What kind of causality was this?
After a brief moment of contemplation, Deltain understood.
‘The goal isn’t just to endure the night.’
Recalling the last alarm before his vision faded, it seemed clear he needed a different approach.
Still, not all was lost.
‘I can retry, even after failing. And the proof must be completed by dawn.’
Two new clues emerged.
That left one thing to consider.
What exactly did proof mean?
‘The quest inherently involves confronting trauma. Winter must be interpreted metaphorically.’
Winter.
Poetically, it often symbolized dark or trial times.
Connecting this to the clues, one answer surfaced.
‘… end your trauma?’
Overcome it.
That interpretation seemed fitting.
Deltain stroked his chin thoughtfully, checking his condition.
‘No accumulated wounds.’
Assuming the previous events… as the first round, any injuries or exhaustion from that attempt had reset.
His mental fatigue lingered slightly but was manageable.
Following the logic of his answer, his next course of action was clear.
‘I just need to take them all down.’
He needed to confront and defeat the four elements of his trauma head-on.
‘It’s worth a shot.’
Deltain turned his gaze toward the alleyway.
Despite being in the body of a seven-year-old, he felt no hesitation.
The confidence stemmed from knowing he could retry as many times as needed.
Crunch.
Deltain stepped into the snow-covered alley.
*
First, the gang of street kids.
Deltain formulated a plan to deal with them.
Though they were children, aged in their early teens and hardened by street life, they numbered four.
In his seven-year-old body, a direct fight was out of the question.
‘Still, it’s not that hard.’
He toppled a trash can, scattering its contents across the alley, and lay down in the snow.
It wasn’t long before the street kids appeared — less than five minutes.
Deltain kept his eyes half-open, tracking their movements.
‘No caution at all.’
Normally, overturned trash would raise suspicions of a trap.
Perhaps their youth or their reliance on brute force made them careless.
They were about to pay for it.
“Ah, whoa!”
One of the punks slipped on a crushed can hidden under the snow and fell.
The boy beside him tried to grab him, only to tumble down as well.
Though the snow cushioned their fall, it created an opening.
As the leader and another boy turned toward the commotion, Deltain sprang up.
Gripping the lid of a trash can like a shield, he charged.
His target was the leader’s head.
“Hah!”
Clang!
It was a satisfying sound.
The leader clutched his head, tears welling in his eyes.
“Ugh!”
As expected of a leader, though, he recovered quickly.
Turning to face Deltain, he raised a clenched fist.
Deltain smirked, swinging the lid again.
“Take this.”
Clang!
It was another clean hit.
The leader fell to the ground.