The Outcast Writer of a Martial Arts Visual Novel

It couldn’t be.

Cheon Sohee stared at the man who shamelessly claimed to be her brother right in front of her.

In the diary she had just read, the man knew about her past and her name.

At first, Cheon Sohee was startled after reading the man’s diary, but as she calmed down, another possibility came to mind.

Could it be that someone among the Joseon people remembered a child with black hair and red eyes?

In a certain village, a child with red eyes was born.

Her name was Cheon Sohee. Similar to how a rare white animal is remembered, her red eyes were notable. However, unlike white animals, which were seen as good omens, her red eyes were considered a bad omen.

Everyone in the village where the child with red eyes lived had died. Red eyes were indeed a bad omen. Perhaps the man just happened to remember that.

Could this man have forged the diary to ensure he wasn’t killed?

Cheon Sohee kept this possibility in mind as she woke him up.

‘You knew my real face.’

When she woke the man up, she discovered something even more astonishing.

It had been over 10 years since she left Joseon. It was possible for someone to know about the annihilation of the village with the red-eyed child from 10 years ago. But to remember the face of a child from back then? Could someone who only heard rumors remember that?

It was possible. She shouldn’t dismiss her doubts.

She might have to scour her memory, in case she was at risk of death, to recall if someone had described her appearance.

‘You know my real face, and you claim to be my brother.’

She had nearly fallen for a scam. Cheon Sohee steadied her slightly shaken heart.

By continuing to listen to the man’s words, she might find a flaw.

Then she could strike.

Let’s listen a bit more.

That was Cheon Sohee’s mistake.

‘I’m Kang Yun-ho, the brother you played with in the past. Not Cheon Yun-ho.’

“I couldn’t have had a brother to play with…”

She hesitated for a moment. Did she have a brother with whom she played in her childhood? Could she definitively say she didn’t?

Cheon Sohee was unsure. Her memories from over a decade ago were fragmented, mostly revolving around her family.

‘Even though I was older, Sohee always won at air games.’

The man looked at Cheon Sohee with nostalgia. Don’t look at her with those eyes. She was not part of his memories.

“I don’t remember that.”

Cheon Sohee’s voice came out gruff, and she surprised herself with its tone.

“It’s been too long, over ten years. That’s natural.”

The man nodded, apparently satisfied, and smiled. What exactly convinced him?

He claimed to have played air games with her in the past. There was a gap in her memory. A foggy recollection that remained indistinct. Cheon Sohee pictured herself playing air games within that fog.

She could not remember. Yet, she could not firmly deny it either. The memories had faded, leaving her unable to determine their truth.

Cheon Sohee tentatively placed the man’s childhood image alongside her own within the fog of her memory.

It was okay to introduce a hint into a forgotten memory. If what the man said was true, it might resurface unexpectedly one day.

But she suspected the man’s words were not true. There was a glaring inconsistency in his story. There had been no survivors from that village.

‘I used to play with you while waiting for my father in the fishing village.’

The man’s statement seemed logical. It was possible such a person had existed. Cheon Sohee visualized a boy in fine clothes, gazing out to sea in the quiet fishing village.

Had there been such a boy, would her younger self have been drawn to him? If they had become friends, would they not have played square ball, air games, and house together?

‘Why were you in the Central Plains when I thought you died that day?’

Pirates wielding swords. A village ablaze. Villagers’ corpses. Blood and death all around. Mom. Dad.

Horrific memories flashed through Cheon Sohee’s mind, memories she didn’t want to recall. Her heart felt constricted, and a hot fire burned within it.

“I don’t want to… talk about it.”

She barely managed to speak. Had she not spoken, she might have vomited something else.

‘I’m sorry. That memory must have been too horrifying for you. I was too insensitive.’

The man expressed sympathy, as if understanding Cheon Sohee’s distress.

‘What do you know? You weren’t there that day.’

‘How dare you pretend to understand.’

Cheon Sohee’s dislike for the man’s appearance grew even more. The anger that arose from recalling that day was now directed at Kang Yun-ho. She discarded the slight trust she had placed in him.

“No. I get that you stayed in our village. But if we were that close, I would have remembered you.”

‘I can’t remember anything about the village, except for my parents. But I couldn’t have forgotten someone I was that close to.’

‘Though I lost most of my memories, the precious ones remained. That man is not in those precious memories.’

Cheon Sohee’s distrust of the man stemmed from her anger towards him, the wounds of that day, and her confidence in her memories.

‘This man is a liar.’

An unexpected bombshell of words fell upon the confident Cheon Sohee.

Cheon Sohee’s logic was based on her memories.

No matter what I said, it was deflected.

If breaking the foundation of her logic was what it took to make her believe in me, then I’ll break it.

I’ll use a plot twist from the original work as a bomb.

“Sohee, do you remember when your mother made you a flower wreath as a child?”

“How do you know that?”

Cheon Sohee’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened. Her expressionless facade shattered in an instant.

It wasn’t a face made to hide her feelings like before. This was the most emotionally revealing expression I had seen on her that day. A good sign.

How did I knew?

Of course, I knew.

[Mom… Can’t I go where you are?]

In Cheon Sohee’s death scene, an unnecessary long flashback occurred. Cheon Sohee remembered her mother as she was dying. In that scene, a young Cheon Sohee smiled at her mother while wearing a flower wreath on her head.

Even though she had lost her past memories, that one happy memory supported her from within.

“That day we played together. Your mother made you that flower wreath in the flower field. If I remember correctly, it was made of white flowers. Do you remember?”

“White flowers. I remember.”

“I made you a ring of yellow dandelions next to you. Don’t you remember that?”

“That was also made by my mother, wasn’t it?”

Cheon Sohee asked me back, her eyes wavering.

A distant memory. Our childhood memories were not always complete. Even a precious moment was often remembered incompletely.

Especially for her, who had lost her past memories, I injected a setting into the scene she remembered.

Cheon Sohee had lost most of her memories and only retained fragmented parts.

Because they were lost, they were precious. I was a new stranger in her memories. If I recklessly disrupted those memories, she could continue to doubt me. That’s why I prepared the bomb.

A memory she believed she remembered perfectly.

A memory she turned to in hard times.

If I made her doubt even that memory,

Could she really keep suspecting me as a fake brother?

“Yes. Didn’t your mother, you, and I climb a mountain together? You remember your mother and the flower wreath, and even the flower ring, but why can’t you remember the brother you played with? I feel a bit hurt.”

I let out a slight sigh of hurt and turned my head away. I wanted to check her expression, but acting required immersion to avoid being detected.

It was convincing, wasn’t it? Quickly acknowledge me as your childhood friend.

With my words, the room fell into silence again.

A short time, yet it felt like an eternity.

I was getting impatient. Please just admit defeat.

“Alright. I understand.”

“Sohee! Finally!”

It had been tough. Time to really shake hands and end this.

I turned my head happily to look at Cheon Sohee, but her atmosphere was somewhat off. Her body trembled slightly.

“I understand that you were in our village. I get that you knew my mom. That we were close. I get all of that… but I don’t know you.”

Cheon Sohee bit the right end of her lip.

Her face struggled to remain expressionless. Yet, it subtly trembled continuously, as if trying to hold something back.

But ultimately, she couldn’t stop it.

A single tear rolled down from Cheon Sohee’s left eye.

“Sohee.”

This was not a good sign.

“Who are you? Why don’t I know you? Why do you act like you know me?”

Her words were tinged with moisture. There was a sense of frustration in her voice. It seemed like anger not directed at me but at herself.

“Sohee, maybe you don’t remember because it happened when we were young…”

Hey. Don’t cry. Why was she like this?

“Shut up!”

It was the first time Cheon Sohee’s voice had risen that day.

“……”

Yes. I’ll be quiet.

“Your words might be true. My doubts might be true. But I don’t know. I can’t know. So, I’ll watch.”

There was a certain resolve in her words and face. Cheon Sohee, wiping her tears, looked at me.

“What do you mean?”

“You. Until I recall my memories. Or until I find out you’re lying. I’ll stay by your side.”

Cheon Sohee put away her blade and pointed at me. Her face no longer attempted to stay expressionless. It was already set in firm determination.

Of course, that determination was directed at me.

Ah… This was going to be a total mess.

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