Long ago, this world was created by four pillar gods.

The Azure Dragon who rules the East. The White Tiger who rules the West. The Vermilion Bird who rules the South. The Black Tortoise who rules the North.

People called them the "Four Gods" and worshipped them as guardian deities who presided over the seasons, weather, and the cycle of life.

The gods rarely appear before humans. However, it is believed that bountiful harvests, rain, and protection from disaster are all due to the blessings of the Four Gods, and shrines dedicated to them have been built in various regions.

On the other hand, an ominous prophecy has been passed down among the people since ancient times.

"When a special child with silver hair and different skin is born, the world will change its form greatly."

Over the long years, this prophecy was gradually distorted. "The world will change its form" became "The world will be destroyed." "Special child" became "The cursed outcast who brings disaster." Eventually, people came to loathe any child born with silver hair or an unusual appearance, simply for that reason.

Without anyone knowing the true meaning of the prophecy.

Twelve years ago, in a small village deep in the mountains, a boy was born.

Brown skin.

Silver hair like moonlight.

The moment he was born, the midwife gasped.

"...It's an outcast."

With those words, the boy's fate was sealed.

His mother died shortly after childbirth, and his father was blamed for "bringing disaster" and driven away to a shack on the outskirts of the village.

The boy came to live alone in that crumbling shack.

A twelve-year-old child, at an age when he should have been protected by his family.

No villager calls him by his name.

"Outcast."

"Monster."

"Disaster."

Those were his names.

If he draws water from the well, they say the water is defiled.

If he goes to the market, the shopkeepers hide their goods.

Children throw stones, and adults, far from stopping them, tell them, "Don't go near that thing."

On festival days, he was forbidden from leaving his house.

"The gods will be angry."

Because he was told that repeatedly.

He himself eventually came to believe it.

That day was just like any other morning.

Cold wind seeped through the gaps in the thin walls, and the inside of the shack was white as if covered in frost. Ibrahim sat up from his bed of laid straw, stepped on the creaking floorboards, and went outside.

The journey to the well takes about half an hour one way. Since he wasn't allowed to use the village's communal well, it was his daily routine to walk to a spring located a bit further down the mountain slope.

The soles of his straw sandals are worn out. He hasn't replaced them for days. The coldness of the withered branches pierces mercilessly into his feet, which are barely different from being barefoot.

Suddenly, he looked up at the sky. It was a winter day, clear to an insulting degree without a single cloud. On a day like this, the village people would put all their effort into field work. And at night, they would probably gather around the hearth to share drinks.

It has nothing to do with Ibrahim. Eating a warm meal with someone, or laughing over silly stories.

When he reached the spring, a thin layer of ice had formed in the hollow of the rock. He broke the ice with his hand and scooped up water in both palms. His fingertips instantly turned red, and sensation began to fade.

Looking at his own face reflected in the water's surface, Ibrahim looked away.

Bicolor eyes of blue and yellow-green. Even those are called "creepy."

On the way back, the ground beneath his feet was muddy. Likely a remnant of last night's rain. His sandal slipped, and his body tilted.