Hailstorm Story

Episode 1:Passengers at the End of the World

The part about the boy being born in Westodell:

"A part of the boy was born in Westodell from that day on. A young figure, draped in a white robe, detached from my consciousness, and from then on, he sought answers on his own.

'I never thought of doing anything. It's just that I don't want to forget the miracles and emotions I've encountered.'

Soon, a wilderness emerged, much like the boy's inner self, quiet and silent, without a trace of wavering or regret.

I guess my journey begins like this.

Westodell is a vast grassland, consisting of grassy fields in shades of gray-green and deep yellow. White clouds drift across the sky, clustering under the azure canopy. The young figure emerged from a white light, clad in a deep white robe, carrying a diary made of parchment.

'Traditional recording might be my favorite way.'

'I don't know what era it is now, whether it's ancient or medieval, because there are no power lines or electric lights. I estimate that the time I'm in is not modern.'

Turning over his notebook, a quill made of crow feathers, a black-and-white penholder, and a pale pen lay quietly in the diary. The boy touched himself up and down, searching for anything else he might carry, but after a search, he found nothing except the diary and quill.

In the vast and desolate grassland, it's challenging to find direction without a vehicle. The sun is no longer visible, and I don't remember if I have the ability to identify the sun. At least, I need to find a horse. After looking into the distance, I see some horses.

'Are they domesticated horses, or wild ones? Anyway, let's go and see.' The boy puts on a hood, and the wind ruffles his robe. He feels the wind, trying to distinguish the seasons. Perhaps it's autumn because his clothes are thin. The wind blows, and the boy can't help but shiver.

In the distance, there are two brown horses. Using his memory of horse training from another world, the boy easily approaches one of them. The horse is tall, and it seems to have Turkoman or Arabian bloodlines. The boy gently strokes one of them, expecting it to neigh or run away. But for some reason, it seems willing to be close to him. The horse lowers its head, emitting a soft whinny. Its eyes are somewhat dull brown, its mane is short, and its muddy hooves show no visible scars, resembling a lonely wild horse. The boy looks around but sees no traces of reins. He gently leans his head against the horse's.

'Good friend, tell me, have you been wandering here for a long time?'

The horse emits a soft whinny, seeming to respond to the boy's expectation.

'I understand. Can you do me a favor? Help me get out of this grassland.'

The horse whinnies again, rhythmically responding to the boy's words.

'Thank you, my friend.'

Suddenly, the horse lets out a long howl, and the boy takes a few steps back and falls to the ground. He thought his actions scared the horse, but it suddenly ran towards a distance. The boy quickly catches up and reaches the spot where the horse stopped. The horse lowers its head, hesitating to leave.

'Is there something you want to tell me, my friend?'

The horse forcefully plunges its hooves into the soil, and the boy smells the scent of earth. The horse vigorously treads, then lets out a continuous howl.

'Do you want to give me something? I understand.'

Kneeling down, the boy starts digging into the soil. As his hands enter the soil, memories flash before him: his desk, his room, his home – his home in modern society. It's been a long time since he touched soil, lawns, and flowers.

Soon, sweat soaks his forehead, but he finds an old rein and fabric.

Is it his owner? But there are no clear signs of horse training. Is it his friend? The boy is not sure. Anyway, he puts on the rein.

'Sorry, buddy. Couldn't find a saddle and saddlebag.' He soothes the horse's head, then leaps up and rides on its back.

'Brown horse, let's call you Grape when you appear in the wilderness,' the boy suddenly recalls a book by a Polish author he once read.

The horse doesn't respond, just shakes its body. The boy comforts him.

'Well then, let's hit the road, Mr. Grape.'

The horse emits a simple whinny. The boy seems to be getting used to its monotonous responses, patting its back.

The long journey begins, and when the boy looks up again, a giant windmill tower appears on the horizon, tens of times larger than any windmill he's ever known. Riding Grape, he slowly walks towards it.

So, one of the legends about Westodell: the traveler in a white robe, riding a horse from the edge of the world, emerged in the white light."

As the robed traveler rode Grape through the ruins of Westodell, a profound loneliness engulfed his heart. The once prosperous cities on the vast land had now turned into desolate ruins, towering towers reduced to broken walls. The white grassland, swept by the winds of time, felt desolate and lonely, as if the land itself was narrating its somber tale.

The horse paced slowly, and the young man gazed at the surrounding ruins. His thoughts seemed to travel back to a bygone era, to the glorious days of the empire. In the waves of memory, the empire's palace reappeared, with luxurious halls and towering walls seemingly materializing before his eyes.

"This place was once the heart of the empire, synonymous with prosperity and grandeur," the young man muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the wilderness.

As he walked through the remnants, his hand gently caressed the broken stones of the city walls, as if he could feel the past grandeur. Before his eyes, the once-lit halls of the palace, where the noble members of the Westodell family strolled, filled with vitality and vigor. However, the relentless passage of time had distanced everything.

The loneliness in the young man's heart deepened, and his gaze shifted towards the distance, his thoughts drifting away.

"What was once called the Dream Kingdom has now become so pale and powerless," the young man whispered to himself.

The robed youth continued forward, exploring the desolate wilderness with only the sound of horse hooves. As the wind gently blew through the ruins, it seemed like the breath of the empire in days gone by, the echoes of farewell resonating across the vast land.

His eyes turned towards the distant windmill tower, now charred like coal, consumed by the wrath of the gods.

"The gods have departed, abandoning the present world."

Only these broken walls and ruins listened to the echoes of past glory, the whispers of the wind, and the silence of the land.