A Place Far Away

Someone asked, "Poison or the System?"

“I'd rather drink the poison."

A lone, bitter soul—said when? Who knows.

The first month of spring arrived like a long-awaited breath, warming the earth with its golden touch.

The thick blankets of snow had begun to shrink under the gentle yet insistent rays of the sun. Beneath the retreating frost, the earth stirred awake. Blades of grass, timid yet determined, pierced through the damp soil, their emerald tips catching the light as if stretching toward the warmth. Flowers, once buried in winter’s grasp, slowly unfurled delicate petals. Hints of green spread across the landscape like ink spilling over a blank canvas. The air, crisp with the fading memory of winter, carried the sweet scent of damp earth and budding life. In the trees, branches no longer weighed down by ice trembled with motion as birds flitted from limb to limb, their songs exuberant.

In the Old Wood village, it was a day of celebration.

Every house and hut stood empty, abandoned in favor of the gathering. Even the tavern at the far end of the village, where the useless drunkards bathed in ale from morning till night, had shut its doors—a rarity that spoke to the importance of the occasion.

Among the throng of villagers heading toward the clan’s manor, a small boy, no older than six, skipped hopped along the muddy road.

His tiny hands, still round with childhood, clutched tightly around his mother’s rough, calloused fingers. The cool dampness of the earth squelched beneath his boots, but he paid it no mind, his excitement lifting his feet as if they barely touched the ground.

Despite the importance of the day, his father was not among them. His work was too crucial to leave, though he had promised—solemnly, sincerely—that he would be there. North did not blame him. He understood.

He had always been told he was a smart child—not just by his mother, who loved him too much to say otherwise, but by the teachers at school, and they would have no reason to lie to a small kid. So, he believed it. Understanding things beyond his years had never been difficult for him, and neither was accepting the absence of his father. Promises were like that, he supposed—spoken with the best intentions but not always kept.

“North, walk properly.” His mother’s firm yet gentle voice pulled him to a sudden stop.

She tightened her grip on his small hand, her other hand resting on her hip as she surveyed the damage. “You’ll ruin your clothes before the Hope ceremony even begins.” A sigh escaped her lips as she crouched down, carefully dusting off the fresh mud clinging to his new pants before adjusting the cuffs.

“You know the entire village will be there,” she murmured, half to herself, half to him. “What would people say? That I couldn’t even dress my boy properly?” She clicked her tongue in mild frustration, but her fingers were tender as they smoothed out the fabric.

North, unfazed, whined dramatically, “Mum! Why don’t you tell this mud to stop sticking to my shoes? It’s all its fault!” He threw his arms up as if pleading his case to the sky, his small brows furrowing in frustration.

His mother snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, is that so? The mud is to blame now?” She patted his knee one last time before standing.

“Yes! And the road too!” North stomped a foot, only for another squelch of mud to attach itself to his boots. “See? It’s following me!”

His mother shook her head, laughing under her breath. “The road is just doing its job. You, on the other hand, are doing your best to bring the entire field along with you.”

He pouted, crossing his arms. “Not fair. If Dad were here, he’d tell you I’m right.”

His mother’s smile softened at the mention of his father. “Oh? And what would he say?”

“That you can’t fight the mud, only walk over it bravely,” North declared, straightening his posture as if he had just recited the most profound wisdom.

Fern, his mother, could only shake her head at his theatrics. What was she supposed to say to that? She had long learned that reasoning with North’s strange logic was like trying to convince the wind not to blow. But she wasn’t without tricks of her own.

A sly smile tugged at her lips as she leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard Hope Bugs likes clean and well-behaved boys.”

Gasp!

North gasped so loudly it could have startled the birds from the trees.

His wide eyes darted down to his mud-streaked pants and dirt-speckled shoes, horror dawning across his face. Without hesitation, he started furiously dusting them off, his tiny hands moving in frantic desperation.

“Why didn’t you tell me first?!” he wailed, the panic in his voice real enough to make Fern stifle a chuckle.

His lower lip trembled, and then, as if the weight of his predicament was too much to bear, fat tears welled in his eyes before rolling down his cheeks.

“UuuWu, UUuuWuu,” he sobbed, his little body shaking with exaggerated despair.

Though sharp-witted beyond his years, North was also hopelessly gullible.

Fern simply smiled, smoothing back his unruly hair. “What’s done is done,” she said lightly. “I’ll clean them when we reach the clan’s manor.”

With that, she took his small hand in hers once more and tugged him along, his cries still bubbling up between sniffles.

He followed, still sniffling, still fussing over his clothes, but with each step, his distress softened.

By the time they were halfway through the road, what had started as a simple duo had grown into a bustling parade. Groups formed naturally—women chattered away, so engrossed in their gossip that they momentarily forgot about their children.

A few men trailed behind, their expressions distant, lost in quiet conversations of their own.

Among the two dozen children, North walked alongside Fatty Heo, his schoolmate and self-proclaimed best friend.

The boy, round-cheeked and always eager to share news, puffed out his chest with excitement.

“My father said that when the traveling caravan passes through the village next month, he’ll buy me a silver tiger doll.” Fatty Heo’s voice rang with pride, his grin wide enough to split his face.

North, unimpressed, wrinkled his nose. “Fattyyyy,” he drawled, stretching the word out as if saying it pained him. “How could you still play with toys? You’re Six years old! When are you gonna start acting like an adult?”

Fatty Heo blinked, then tilted his head, as if genuinely perplexed by the idea. “Why would I wanna be an adult?” He shook his head, his round face serious. “Adults are bad.”

North frowned at the unusual remark, but before he could ask, Fatty Heo leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Two weeks ago, I woke up ‘cause it was cold,” he confessed, eyes darting around as if making sure no one else could hear. “I heard something strange. I think… I think it was the old granny who used to live at the back of the mountain and died this winter freezing alone. It must be her ghost.”

North’s brows furrowed, his interest piqued, but Fatty Heo barely paused before continuing. “I got scared and ran to Papa’s room.” He hesitated, glancing at North before whispering even softer. “He was beating my mum on the bed.”

“I got scared and ran back to my bed, but in the morning, my mum acted like nothing happened. She even gave him an extra egg.”

North’s frown deepened. “An extra egg?”

Fatty Heo nodded solemnly and followed with great distress. “You know our two hens died from the cold, right? And two were stolen. The fourth one ran away with the neighbor’s rooster. My papa even fought with him to get it back, but he couldn’t, instead he came home beaten,” He sighed. “Then a wolf ate three more. Now, we only have three hens left, and they only give eggs thrice a week.”

He paused expression pained, “Still, we only get one egg in the morning, but my mother gave Papa two.”

"Does it make sense to you?" Fatty Heo asked, his round face scrunched up in confusion.

North shook his head, his small fingers scratching at his scalp as if he could dig up the answer from the tangle of thoughts swirling in his mind. But no matter how he turned the question around, he couldn't understand it. Why would Fatty Heo’s mother give his father two eggs after being beaten the night before?

"Did he beat her again?" North finally asked, his voice quieter now.

Fatty Heo shrugged, then—without hesitation—stuck a finger up his nose, fished out a thick booger, and popped it into his mouth, chewing with a satisfaction that made North instinctively take two steps back.

This was one of Fatty Heo’s stranger habits, one that had earned him countless scoldings and smacks from their schoolteacher. Yet, despite the near-daily beatings at school, he remained stubbornly committed to his nasty little indulgence. At least, North noted, he wasn’t doing it as much as before.

"Every two days," Fatty Heo finally answered, swallowing down the booger like it was a piece of dried fruit.

North pursed his lips, unsure of how to respond. His friend didn't seem too bothered by it, but something about it made North feel uneasy. He couldn’t understand the way adults worked, why they did the things they did, why promises were often broken, or why someone who was hurt would still give away something precious.

"My papa said he'll ask for more books from the chief. When I read them, I’ll let you know the problem," North declared, puffing out his chest in determination. It was the only promise he could make for now.

Fatty Heo grinned, showing off his missing front tooth. "Okay," he said simply.

By then, the road had led them to the grand square in front of the clan’s main manor. At least a hundred parents stood gathered, their children in tow, their voices merging into a dull, expectant murmur. And, outside the gate, everyone in the small village was watching expectantly.

"Silence."

A guard’s metal hammer struck a heavy iron plate, and the sharp clang rang through the square like a sudden storm. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, laughter died on lips, and even the restless shuffling of children ceased. A hush settled over the crowd, thick and expectant.

Following, The manor doors swung open, and the village chief stepped out, his pristine white robes flowing as he walked. The elders of the great families followed closely behind, their faces solemn. Among them, North’s father walked with a slight hunch, his thick glasses slipping down his nose. Unlike the others, he held no authority, only numbers. The chief had made him the village’s accountant for that reason alone.

North wouldn’t be lying if he said he didn’t miss his father’s presence all that much.

Once, long ago—or perhaps not so long—he had gone to play at Fatty Heo’s house. It had rained that morning, turning the ground soft, perfect for playing in the mud. He and Fatty Heo, along with his five younger siblings, had spent the afternoon laughing, rolling in the dirt, building forts. His mother would have scolded him, but Fatty Heo’s mother had said nothing.

But then his father had come home for lunch.

North could still remember the way the door had slammed open, the sound so sharp it had sliced through their joy. In an instant, Fatty Heo was yanked up by his ear, feet kicking helplessly in the air. Then, one by one, all six of them had been beaten—no questions, no scoldings, just the heavy-handed lesson of discipline.

North had never been so scared in his life.

He ran like a startled deer, straight home, swearing never to set foot in that house again.

Even now, sometimes in his sleep, he would dream of Fatty Heo’s father’s angry face, sprinting behind him.

Too scary!

Thus, North figured his papa was actually very good. He never beat him or his mother at night—though, to be fair, he was rarely home. Maybe he did it when North was at school. Not that it mattered to him anyway.

Recently, his papa had given him an old, dusty poetry book written by a famous scholar from the world beyond the mountains. Ever since then, North had taken a deep interest in poems. And, kid you not, he had even written one himself—one so impressive that it had turned him into the apple of his mother’s eye and the pride of his father.

The cold wind sighs as snow drifts high,

Plum blossoms scent the moonlit sky.

This was also why his father had agreed to get him more books from the clan’s manor, where they hoarded all the precious texts brought in from the outside world.

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The murmurs in the square faded as the village chief stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd.

“Today, let’s begin our 234th generation Hope Ceremony.” His voice was steady and deep, carried across the square. Though he spoke plainly, his presence alone commanded attention.

Despite being well into his sixties, the chief stood with the strength of a man in his prime. His face bore no wrinkles, and his knees never ached, even when he climbed the muddy, uneven paths of the mountains. But why would they? He was a Rank 4 Dungeon Master.

Dungeon Master—just one of the many names for those who had awakened their systems. Some called them warriors, others Masters of Mountains and Thunder, and some had even grander titles for them. But in truth, there was no single, absolute term. The power that coursed through him, the abilities he wielded, were beyond mere labels.

“Follow me,” the chief commanded, turning without hesitation.

The crowd stirred, and one by one, they moved to follow him toward the sacred grounds, where the ceremony would begin.

Beside the chief, the manor guards moved swiftly, splitting the gathered crowd into two orderly lines. The villagers followed in quiet anticipation, their procession trailing alongside the manor before veering toward the mountain path.

The melted snow had turned the winding trail into thick, clinging mud. With so many feet pressing down on the same spots, the ground became treacherous, and it wasn’t long before a few unlucky souls lost their footing. Children stumbled, their clothes stained with wet earth, their faces scrunched in frustration or embarrassment. North’s eyes naturally drifted to them, feeling a small pang of pity. Their brand-new ceremonial outfits, meant for such an important day, were now ruined.

He glanced down at himself. His mother had warned him to be careful, and so far, he was still in the good zone—as she had called it. His clothes were only a little dirty, nothing too bad. Hope wouldn’t discriminate, she had told him. All he had to do was focus on what he loved the most, his happiest moment.

The higher they climbed, the deeper they moved into the forest. The bright, open sky faded behind a canopy of towering trees, their dense branches casting shifting patterns of light and shadow along the ground. Grass thickened along the edges of the trail, brushing against their legs as the path narrowed.

Time slipped by, the journey stretching into what felt like half an hour. Then, at last, the world of mud, snow, and dense forest fell away.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Before them, the valley opened like a painting come to life, an endless field of pretty red flowers stretching as far as the eye could see.

The sight was so breathtaking that even the adults, who had seen this place before, couldn’t help but let their eyes sparkle with awe. The children, still caught in their wonder, whispered to one another in excitement. Even North found himself staring, his usual thoughts quieted by the sheer beauty before him.

The flower was simply called Heart Flower. It was also the only place where Hope Bugs lived. They couldn’t survive anywhere else—not even a step outside. The moment they left this valley, they would simply die.

“Now, now, stop staring and talking.”

A hush fell instantly over the children, their fidgeting ceasing as all eyes turned toward the old man standing in the center of the sacred valley. He was ancient—far older than even the chief. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, his hunched back curved. His hands trembled ever so slightly where they rested on the wooden staff that kept him upright.

And yet, when he spoke, his voice was neither frail nor weak. It carried through the clearing like the steady chime of a temple bell.

Yet, when he spoke, his voice was clear, steady.

“Let me explain the rules once again this year.”

He shifted his weight forward slightly, scanning the young faces before him.

“Every child who has turned six is given a chance to be accepted by the Hope to form their Dungeon Boundary.”

His cloudy yet sharp eyes swept over the small group of children, each standing stiff with anticipation. Some clenched their tiny fists, others shuffled nervously in the dirt. One boy even gulped audibly, earning a quiet chuckle from a nearby villager.

The elder’s lips twitched in amusement before he gestured toward them with a slow, deliberate movement. “Now, come forward.”

Silence. Then, the hesitant shuffling of small feet.

North's chest tightened. His little hands clenched at his sides. His feet wouldn’t move. A strange fear gripped him, an invisible weight holding him back. Almost without thinking, he inched behind his mother’s legs, suddenly too scared to take a step forward.

Fern sighed softly. “Oh, North,” she murmured, bending slightly so her warm breath tickled his curls.

Her little sweetheart always acted brave, but inside, he was still terrified of the smallest things. Just last night, a frog had croaked too close to the house, and he had refused to close his eyes until she chased it away.

She crouched down, gently prying his small fingers from her skirt. "No need to be scared. Didn’t I tell you? Hope doesn’t bite."

Fern pinched his small, flushed cheeks, her warm eyes meeting his. Her face, beautiful and calm, held no trace of worry.

"Remember what I told you? You have to think of your happiest moment and what you want to do when you grow up."

North swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to be a scholar and write poems."

Fern’s smile deepened. "Good… my little poet."

She squeezed his tiny hands, her grip firm, reassuring. "I’ll be right here watching you. And look—your papa is smiling at you."

North hesitated before glancing past the chief. His father stood there, watching, and sure enough, there was a small smile on his face. A warmth spread in his chest. Maybe this ceremony wasn’t that scary after all.

Fern gave his hands a small squeeze before straightening. “Go now,” she urged, her voice gentle but firm.

North swallowed hard. He took a breath.

And this time, when his mother gave him a small push forward, he let his feet move.

Soon, a hundred or so children stood before the old elder, a sea of tiny, fidgeting bodies gathered in a rough line. North stood beside Fatty Heo, their small hands gripping each other tightly, as if they needed to ward off some imaginary monster lurking nearby. Most of the children here were their age, all filled with the same jittery energy, their wide eyes flickering between the elder and the sacred valley beyond.

The old elder's smile stretched wide, revealing a mouth with no teeth, making his already wrinkled face bloom like a dried fruit.

North swallowed a giggle and squeezed Fatty Heo’s hand a little tighter.

Heo, ever the troublemaker, had no such restraint. His chubby cheeks wobbled as he stifled a laugh, and his mouth opened so wide it looked like he might actually swallow a fly.

North suddenly remembered a phrase from his poetry book:

"A mouth like an old barn—wide open, nothing inside!"

The comparison was too perfect. The image of Heo’s gaping mouth next to the toothless elder was almost too much. North clapped his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Luckily, the elder’s eyesight had dulled with age, and he didn't notice their mischief. Nor did he hear North’s whispered poem—otherwise, he would have smacked them both on the head right then and there, no doubt calling them shameful brats.

Instead, the old elder, appearing quite pleased, let his sleeves billow gently in the breeze before raising a hand for silence.

"There are three important rules you must remember before going in."

He paused, scanning the young faces before him. Once every child had nodded, he continued:

"One: Do not step on or break the Heart Flowers when walking inside.

Two: Do not chase after a Hope Bug if you see one—let it come to you."

"Three: If a Hope Bug chooses you, do not try to capture it."

His gaze swept over the children, his voice steady.

"And lastly, think of what you want to do when you grow up. Only if you already have hope in your heart will it grow. So dream big, let your aspirations be grand."

He let the words settle, his wrinkled hands resting on his staff.

"Understood?"

"Yes, Grand Elder!"

A chorus of small yet serious voices rang out, filled with both excitement and nervous energy.

"Let’s move forward then."

The old elder led the children to the edge of the blossoming valley and instructed them to form a single horizontal line. They obeyed without hesitation.

Now standing alone, North felt a strange mix of apprehension and excitement swelling in his chest. His heart pounded, but there was also a small flicker of happiness. Taking a deep breath, he turned back for one last glance at his mother and father. His mother’s eyes held warmth, her hands clasped in silent encouragement. His father, still standing behind the chief, gave him a small nod.

North steeled his gaze.

Then, following the elder’s motion, he carefully stepped forward.

The moment his foot touched the soft earth between the Heart Flowers, their sweet, honey-like fragrance overwhelmed him. The scent curled through the air, wrapping around him like an invisible embrace. He wasn’t the only one affected—some children let out quiet sighs, their eyes half-lidded as if they were about to drift into a dream.

North felt his surroundings stretch, the world swaying slightly. His legs weakened, his vision blurred, and for a second, he almost lost his footing. His eyelids grew heavy, an urge to simply fall and let the flowers cradle him creeping over his mind.

But he fought it.

His feet pressed firmly into the ground, his hands clenched into small fists. He wouldn’t fall asleep here—not when the ceremony had only just begun.

He suddenly understood why Heart Flower Wine was so treasured. He had overheard his father and other villagers praising its sweetness, its ability to make a man feel light and happy. Now, he finally knew why.

He moved carefully, appreciating the beauty of the flowers as he walked. Their soft petals brushed against his ankles, their deep red hues almost glowing under the sunlight.

Yet, even as he admired them, he held onto the thought of his dream—his dream of becoming a poet and a scholar.

Of course… if he could also become a Dungeon Master like the village chief, that wouldn’t just be good—it would be great.

Then, no one would stop him.

Not his mother, who scolded him for reading too late into the night.

Not his father, who always hesitated before buying him more books.

If he became a Dungeon Master, he could do whatever he wanted.

However, why wasn’t a Hope Bug flying toward him?

North glanced around, searching the air, the flowers, anywhere, but none of the glowing little creatures seemed interested in him.

His eyes landed on a small girl nearby. She had barely taken ten steps into the valley, and already, a Hope Bug hovered curiously around her. Further ahead, a boy stretched out his hand, and a Hope Bug jumped out from a flower and landed right on his palm.

Then came the third child. Then the fourth.

As more children walked deeper into the valley, Hope Bugs began to emerge like fluttering butterflies. Tiny, glowing furballs danced through the air, flickering with warm light. Some hovered gently over children’s heads, while others nestled into open hands like they had found something precious.

North’s chest tightened.

He turned to Fatty Heo, who—of course—was completely ignoring the elder’s warning and stupidly trying to catch a Hope Bug.

North wanted to smack his head, but then he noticed something that made his jaw drop.

Fatty Heo wasn’t struggling to get one Hope Bug—he had six of them floating around him, bouncing playfully in the air like they couldn’t get enough of him.

Maybe he didn’t need to worry about angering them after all.

North swallowed and looked down at himself.

Nothing.

No Hope Bugs.

The anxious lump in his throat grew, his hands clenched, and suddenly, he wanted to cry.

Then, it hit him.

His clothes.

His shoes.

His dirty cuffs.

His mother had cleaned them earlier, but what if the smell of mud still lingered? What if that was why no Hope Bug wanted to come near him? Regret slammed into him like a rock to the chest. Why, why, why did he have to jump in the mud while walking?! His mind raced for a solution. His eyes darted to the ground—broken Heart Flowers littered the field where other children had stepped carelessly.

His mind latched onto an idea.

If Hope Bugs liked Heart Flowers so much, then maybe—just maybe—if he rubbed the flowers on himself, the smell would attract them!

Without hesitation, he ducked down, scooping up the fallen petals.

He rubbed them on his clothes.

He smeared them on his shoes.

He scrubbed them on his hands.

And, for good measure, he even smeared them all over his face. By the time he was done, he looked less like a six-year-old boy and more like a little red-faced monkey, completely covered in crushed petals.

However, just as North was busy rubbing crushed Heart Flower petals all over himself, something—or rather, someone’s leg—collided hard with his head.

Before he could even react, the other child toppled onto him.

"Aaaa! Ouch!"

They crashed into the flowers, the soft petals flattening beneath them. The scent of crushed blooms thickened in the air, but North barely noticed—he couldn’t breathe with the weight pressing down on him. The other person groaned, slowly pushing themselves up, and North finally sucked in a breath, wincing as he managed to sit up. Then, his eyes fell on the ground around them.

His already red face drained of all color.

They had crushed so many flowers.

Panic gripped his chest. His brilliant idea—completely ruined by this stupid person.

He clenched his fists, his emotions twisting between frustration and despair. But as his mind slowly pieced together the disaster, he turned to glare at the culprit.

A girl.

She stood over him, glaring down with an expression of pure annoyance, her nose scrunched up so high he could barely see her eyes. She was taller than him. North immediately realized he was in a difficult situation. He wanted to scold her—really, really wanted to—but if he did… what if she beat him up? A strange, inexplicable feeling tugged at his chest. Then, his gaze landed on her closed hands, pressed tightly against her chest. Something clicked in his head.

The Hope Bug.

Realization struck like lightning, connecting the dots in an instant. Before he could say anything, the girl huffed, still looking at him with a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“Are you stupid or what?Who crouches in the middle of the valley during the ceremony? Do you want to get stepped on?”

"I was—"

Her words stabbed straight into his little pride, and heat rushed to his face. Shame burned inside him. It really was his mistake. He had crouched down without thinking, hidden from sight. He should have realized someone might trip over him. His lips parted, but for once, North had no excuse.

“What if my Hope Bug died?” she continued, her voice trembling.

Yet, as she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes out of nowhere. And so did North’s.

Neither of them knew why, but their faces were suddenly wet, tears falling faster than they could wipe them away. She wiped her face. He wiped his. But no matter how much they rubbed at their eyes, the tears wouldn’t stop.

The girl huffed one last time, sniffled hard, but her nose was already running. A strange feeling gripped her—fear, frustration, confusion. Something about this red-faced boy unsettled her.

He must be a ghost.

That was the only explanation. She was terrified of ghosts—all the children in the village were. And North, covered in crushed flowers, red-faced and crying, looked exactly like one. A ghost child. The lost child of the old granny behind the mountains. Her breath hitched, her fear took over, and without sparing North another glance, she turned and ran. But as she did, something happened.

A small or perhaps her Hope Bug suddenly flew out of her hands. She froze. Her fists, clenched so tightly, loosened just a little. Did she lose it? She peeked through her fingers, heart pounding. No.Her Hope Bug was still there, glowing softly inside her palm. She must have imagined it. Shaking off the strange feeling, she picked up speed, running as fast as her feet could carry her.

And then, as if drawn by something unseen, that Hope Bug finally appeared before North. It floated before his face, soft and glowing, like a tiny star. It circled him once, twice, three times—as if inspecting him. Then, without hesitation, it quietly disappeared into his heart. North blinked. His tears kept flowing for no reason, but his lips curled into a wide, happy smile.

He had found Hope.

Now, he could be everything.

A scholar.

A poet.

And, more importantly—

A Dungeon Master.