Sunday, 3rd of December, 1543

The festive season had arrived, and with it came the pure flakes—significant to this point in time—that dyed the world white.

Every street in Ur—every road, every tree—had snow about them, and of course it made daily living a lot harder than how it usually was.

The horses trodded slower due to the heaps of snow which always filled up the roads whenever morning came, and that caused those who usually took the carriages to head to their various destinations to show up later than they’d planned.

Steam cars were the only alternatives to make up for the time lost while working peasants, who would take on any job for a few measly pence, shoveled away the unwanted snow. But the inflation of their prices, because of the heightened demand, made it impossible for their use to be reoccurring for anyone who wasn’t of the upper part of the middle class or the higher class.

Transportation was not the only issue of winter time, there was also the increase of the death rate in the city; and that was an area mostly dominated by peasants.

Most of them could not afford to buy logs of wood, and in return they always ended up freezing to death from the abnormal cold. And even if they could afford logs of wood for a makeshift hearth in their cribs, that meant they had to sacrifice ninety percent of their meals, which led to some dying from hunger.

So, for peasants, when the festive season came, they just had to choose their route to death, if they wanted it to be by starvation or cold.

The crime rate during this period also skyrocketed, despite the Emperor’s curfew not reducing in intensity at all.

It seemed the criminals thought of it as some sort of celebration since December was the month the empire of Fitzroy had been founded—precisely on the twentieth—and the first of January was the day the war against Lemur had been won.

To them a festive season required festivities, and the only way they knew how to do that was by committing heinous acts, causing the police stations to be ever swarming with them even through the night.

It was also believed that more people lost their jobs during this time of the year as the rate of beggars, as well as homeless miscreants, who lodged in alleyways and under bridges, increased significantly.

In hindsight, the festive seasons were what they had been termed as—a time for celebration. But in actuality only a few were subject to this celebration.

For some it was a time of pain and suffering, while for a young man—at this moment—it was a time for him to mark a fresh start—a new beginning brought forth from his end.

…

Despite how much shoveling had been done earlier during the break of morning—long after the cold fog customary to the current season had subsided—the walkway of Spearhead cemetery still had the trademark of snow all about it.

In truth, the flakes had not ceased their falls from the sky so that outcome was only natural. But what wasn’t was the presence of a person in this secluded area of Sailport, which had been designated only to the existence of cemeteries and overgrown trees and bushes, on a Sunday morning.

Elmer Hills was leaning against the right half of the brick fence that went around Spearhead cemetery, making use of the right leaf of the opened ornate gate as some sort of shade so that his presence was almost completely silent, causing him to seem nearly invisible.

He was dressed in a white turtleneck and cotton-knit sweater which was completed by a long heavy overcoat and leather gloves of the same color as his black trousers; while on his head sat a woolen cap, one that failed in trying to keep every strand of his brown hair in.

Clutched in the delicate grasp of his right palm was a bouquet of flowers, each of their petals—as pristine white as the snow falling from the sky—of an elegant trumpet-shaped bloom and seated upon a slender stem. They were pure, and they blended in with the warm but somber atmosphere that was common with the ambience of a cemetery.

It was a bouquet of lilies.

Suddenly struck by the feeling that an hour had passed, Elmer dipped his left hand into his overcoat’s flap pocket, brought out a silver pocket watch, and clicked it open.

“Ten O'clock,” he mumbled, his voice without any hint of enthusiasm, as the minute hand of his watch fell on the number ‘twelve’.

He then took his narrow brown eyes toward the entrance of the gate he hid beside, assuming a countenance which gave off the impression that he was awaiting the appearance of something or someone.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

And that proved true after something of a minute or two as a young lady holding a small flowery purse emerged from the cemetery.

She had a slender shape and was garbed in a long black coat dress devoid of any form of embellishment, along with opera gloves of the same color, and a cocktail hat with a fishnet veil obscuring her face.

Her shoulders were visibly drooped, and each step she took was leaden and dragged, almost snail-like, making it seem as though her journey toward the thoroughfare would take more time than it was meant to.

Elmer heaved out an exhale at the sight, one so heavy that for a second it took visibility in the cold air before disappearing.

He shut his pocket watch after the lady had vanished into the distance and put it back into his pocket, then he tightened his grip upon the bouquet he was holding before walking into the empty cemetery.

Just like the underbrushes and the statues of weeping angels making up part of the scenery, almost all the headstones sprouted from the ground had specks of white over them.

But even with the snow enhancing their resemblance, Elmer was not slowed down even for a bit from approaching the sole grave he sought out. After all, he had been staking out Spearhead cemetery for two weeks just so as to pinpoint the exact location of that grave in the countless sea of headstones.

…

“Been a while,” Elmer immediately said as he stopped before a headstone with the least amount of congested white flakes crowning it compared to the rest in the cemetery. It gave the impression that the snow it was supposed to have carried over from the previous night had already been brushed off of it.

Elmer sighed at that as he leaned over and added his bouquet of lilies to the one of the fresh chrysanthemums placed before the headstone reading:

‘Edna Smyth, 1508 - 1543, A beautiful lady and the best mother the world could have ever given.’

He remained bent over in silence for a few seconds until he finally decided to let loose the words that had propped up in his mind.

“A good teacher,” he whispered before straightening himself up as soon as he’d swiped off what snow had been on the headstone.

“I know it would be impossible for you to be happy with my presence here, so I’ll not take too much time.” Elmer dipped his hands into his pockets. “You said the Church would tag me as a corrupted one and hunt me down. I don’t know how that has come along, but regardless I’ve been cautious with my daily life because of those words. Hmph… It’s even to the point that I’ve had no choice but to take up a fake name.”

He looked around the cemetery in an attempt to confirm if it was truly empty, and only turned back to Ms. Edna’s headstone after he was satisfied.

“I go by Floyd now, Floyd Edgar.” Elmer pinched his lips. “And luckily, you and Eddie are the only Ascenders who have ever seen me.”

He halted for a moment then took a glance toward the gate.

“I saw her leave. She looked lovely still, but tired.” He sighed next. “Kate’s a strong lady, Ms. Edna, almost as strong as you. Despite your death she pushed on with what she was meant to do.”

His gaze returned back to the gravestone he was standing before.

“I attended her matriculation ceremony and saw her receive the award for the best piano performance done during the entrance exam. Well, she must have told you about that obviously. And even if she hadn’t, I don’t think I’m in the position to be doing that for her. Pardon my impudence.”

Elmer took in a deep breath and shook his head.

“I think I’ve spent enough time here. I was unable to find out where Eddie is buried, but I’ll keep trying and hope I do one day so I can pay him a visit as well.”

He placed his eyes onto the flowers he had brought for Ms. Edna.

“Oh, one last thing. I picked those lilies for a reason. They represent the restored innocence of a soul at death, which is what I want for you. Even though we didn’t know each other for long you were still a wonderful person to me. I know what I did was selfish, but I have no regrets. If I was told to do it all over again for that same selfish reason, I would. And that is why I’ll keep hating myself for the man I have become… forever.”

He then scoffed as he recalled something.

“Do you want to know the irony of it all? The ability I got from ascending into the Lower Echelon. Blimey, was it laughable when I was imbued with the knowledge. Somehow I’ve been granted the power I had sought out the most, but at the same time I’m unable to use it to do what I want to do the most. Not in a million years would I have expected such an outcome. But, in truth, I was told countless times… about the characteristics, so I should have at least recognized the possibility, right?”

No reply came, and he knew that no amount of waiting in silence would change that.

Elmer closed his eyes with a sigh, then took off his hat, placed it firmly on his chest, and bowed, exposing the almost indiscernible streaks of white that had taken over the center of his brown hair.

“Rest in peace, Ms. Edna Smyth. You were a good person.”

He straightened himself up and returned his hat onto his head, and in that instant allowed his eyes a glimpse of the blue sky throwing down pecks of snow.

Instinctively, Elmer pulled his left hand free from his pocket and stretched it forward, catching a falling snow.

“You know, Ms. Edna. For a world where things as white and pure as snow exist, there’s a lot of emptiness and darkness.”

With a puff of cold air, he squeezed the snow between his palm before turning around to face the cemetery’s gate. But just as he took the first step aimed at leaving the vicinity, a stream of tears rolled down his eyes without his consent, causing him to both halt his movements, and, for the first time in weeks, smile.

“Seems the tears have finally broken free.”

—END OF VOLUME 1: FAKE PRODIGY—