Ten years ago, I still kept the habit of journaling.

  Later, I stopped recording events and merely kept a diary.

  And after even more twists and turns, I couldn't even write a decent essay anymore—

  Now, I have nothing left to say.

  It's not that I have unspeakable pain,

  nor that I suffer from having nowhere to vent my words.

  It's simply laughable:

  I truly have... nothing to say.

  I feel like a decaying leaf,

  mediocre, rotting,

  disintegrating into the soil unnoticed.

  I have died once before.

  I still remember the taste of killing.

  Though forced by circumstances,

  I seemed to understand even then:

  the path I tread would be drenched in blood and the wailing of the fallen.

  Wearing ill-fitting leather boots,

  I sprinted across the snowy wilderness.

  The frostbite on my feet scraped against the cracked leather,

  the pain sharp as an iron spike stabbing into raw flesh.

  I didn't even bother to wipe away my footprints,

  I just kept running and running.

  How could mere flesh and bone withstand such torment?

  I had to cross the perilous mountains that severed Almeria.

  A near-death task even for the strongest.

  Moreover, I carried deep knife wounds.

  But when the body is broken,

  the will drives you through.

  It reminds you who the true master of this body is.

  There might have been wolves ahead, tigers behind.

  Or maybe no pursuers at all.

  But I dared not gamble.

  I buried my head and ran for my life.

  Drinking snow when thirsty,

  gnawing on felt scraps when hungry.

  Wild animals were too clever;

  I barely caught sight of them.

  I ate wild herbs, roots.

  In the end, there was only snow to consume.

  But the more you eat, the hungrier you grow.

  Your limbs stiffen;

  your organs freeze.

  Every step became a spasm of agony.

  Yet—

  I survived.

  Perhaps it was because, as Azuramaru once said,

  I am not quite the same as normal people.

  The great cold came.

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  My fingers could no longer bend.

  The blizzard erased all sense of direction.

  I knew I couldn't afford to stumble blindly.

  Mistakes meant death.

  Finally, I stumbled into a cave.

  There was no more moving forward.

  I prepared to die.

  I adjusted my posture carefully,

  hoping my corpse would look somewhat dignified when found.

  I fell asleep, smiling faintly,

  feeling satisfied to "die with my pride intact."

  Then came a voice.

  "Hey there, young man, still smiling in a storm like this?

  What are you doing here?"

  I have never believed in miracles.

  But perhaps...

  miracles believed in me.

  Maybe life doesn't always deal cruel hands forever.

  Maybe once, just once, fate would throw me a lifeline.

  An old woodsman found me and brought me home.

  He had a wife and a daughter.

  Because they lived under the protection of the Church,

  they didn't care much about eye color hierarchy.

  One week later, I was helping out around their home.

  They were astonished at how fast my wounds healed.

  Gratitude for a life saved—

  It should last a lifetime.

  Yet the world is cruel.

  I know well that I am shameless.

  I do not defend myself.

  Nor do I preach lofty truths.

  Let it be.

  Let it all be.

  During the spring planting season,

  I became the main laborer in their household.

  Gradually,

  my relationship with Nana—the woodsman's daughter—became... ambiguous.

  Who moved first?

  I no longer remember.

  Life seemed finally to drift towards something good.

  Marriage?

  I never dared hope for it.

  All I sought was a bite to eat, a place to stay.

  After what happened at the Charlotte estate,

  I had grown resistant to the idea that any woman could ever truly like me.

  For a long, long time,

  I truly believed:

  no woman could ever love someone like me from the bottom of her heart.

  Day by day, year after year,

  I was shocked to realize—

  I had grown weary of this life.

  The family, too, gradually accepted me as one of their own.

  My relationship with Nana flourished.

  We had food, clothing, warmth—

  everything I once longed for.

  And yet, once obtained,

  those dreams turned light and empty.

  Eating from my bowl while eyeing the pot—

  that was me.

  It's no wonder others called me "trash."

  Later on came the story of meeting Azuramaru—

  or perhaps by then, simply "Red."

  As for that family who saved me...

  I fear I will never truly repay them.

  If one said I returned their kindness with betrayal,

  it wouldn't be wrong.

  Ah.

  Another Christmas.

  And here I am, spilling old wounds again.

  Forget it.

  I'm tired.

  Perhaps I'll add to this someday...

  But likely—there will be no continuation.

  Written on the eve of Christmas,

  the Tenth Month, Fourth Year of Lance's Era.

  — Xia

  P.S.:

  Today while reading The History of Apollo's Faith,

  I discovered something curious:

  In the language of the vampires,

  "having nothing to say" actually means "peaceful" or "serene."

  How ironic.

  I truly have nothing left to say.

  And I truly... have nothing to say.

  Merry "Christmas."

  — Xia