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Glass Coffin

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            I have a dream about an unfortunate country.

            Maybe it was the land where the tower of Babel was built.
            The old fairy tale says that in punishment for humanity’s hubris in building a tower that challenged the very sky, god struck down the tower and broke language into pieces.
            It can be interpreted as god scattering the tongues of men apart to impede understanding, or that god simply took our ability to understand other tongues away.
            The human brain is only supposed to be able to hold a certain amount of languages at once.

            But there was a special punishment for the builders of the tower.
            Humanity as a whole was punished for allowing the tower.
            It’s just that when the tower was struck down with lightning, the ashes rained down on the grieving builders.
            From that day on, it was decided that they would forever wear the ashes on their skins and in their hearts.

            What was the purpose of the tower of Babel?
            Was it like the fairytales recorded, or were the people who built it trying to get a message to the heavens?
            Either way, the message went undelivered, and the people of the destroyed tower resigned to live on in the ashes.
            If you think about it that way—everyone of that race is like Cinderella.

            …I have a dream about that unfortunate country.
            After the fall of the tower, ages of war passed.
            There were many legends, and many heroes.
            There were people who trampled others, and people who were trampled.
            There was an island castle, and there were many, many races of people who gathered about it as if they had a right to decide who could live there and who couldn’t.
            The people of the ash were always at the very lowest run of the food chain, as if to embody their ancient curse.

            There was a little girl who loved fairy tales.
            There was a day with an endless blue sky.
            Soldiers came and killed her parents, and she was left alone sitting in their blood with all her picture books stained red.

            The town of the people of the ash was poor.
            But the girl was saved by the elder because her family was a family of magi.
            The Magic Crest recovered from the corpse of her mother was passed down to her at a young age, and she was raised by the kind elder.
            But—as if in compensation, the girl had lost “language” just like the people.

            One day.
            As if to herald a pardoning.
            The girl was gifted with a holy sign.

            Maybe it was supposed to be compensation.
            Anyway, the elder and the people of the town did their best for her.
            Even though their village was poor, there was still contact and support from other magi.
            The girl who had received the holy sign like a blessing received the best the village had to offer, resources from many people, and was finally sent to a faraway land to fight in a “war of magi”.
            If she was able to win.
            Then she would receive the cup of god and finally be able to lift the curse with her own two hands—