Inside a small hut in the midst of the desolate alleys of Babylon, a middle-aged woman lay on a worn-out bed, covered with smallpox scars that drew pits on her skin resembling the eyes of demons.
Beside her was a teenager holding the woman's hand, his face etched with expressions of fear and sorrow.
"My son, Shiros... you must learn how to obtain your food yourself, weave your clothes with your own hands, and sleep under your own roof. My son, I won't be able to stay in your life for much longer."
"No, Mother, no, don't say that. I can't live without you."
"Fate, my little one, cannot be changed. We humble humans have no power, so we cannot confront the heavens. Our only path is to worship our gods, who bestow upon us our sustenance."
"Then, Mother, why don't the gods help you and cure you of this disease? I want you to live."
"Haha, my son Shiros, what's wrong? You've started shedding tears... Don't worry, I can glimpse a bit of the future... Here on my deathbed, life reveals itself to me in its most precise forms."
"It doesn't matter. I want you to live with me until we die together, Mother."
"My dear Shiros, you will be a great man. I will watch you from the heavens as you climb the ladder of the kingdom."
"The ladder of what? What are you talking about?"
Shiros, who was thirteen years old, did not receive answers to his final questions, for his mother had already closed her eyes, and it seemed she would not open them again.
On the evening of the following day, Shiros was in the cemetery, standing beside the freshly dug grave of his deceased mother.
He was alone, for they had no acquaintances or close relatives.
But Shiros's thoughts were not centered on his mother's death. He was thinking.
Why didn't the gods help my mother?
She needed help, and she was not one of the wicked, as everyone knows.
Did the gods decide the time of my mother's death?
I'm not a sorcerer, but my despicable father, who abandoned us and fled to the western kingdoms, was a warlock—not just a sorcerer.
After speaking to himself for a while, he looked around, then raised his head to the sky and took a deep breath.
Shiros had a clear understanding of his new life. He was now without parents, without a profession, and without even a home, for the house his mother had rented had been taken from him because the landlord claimed that the contract holder had died and could no longer pay.
Based on all this, the path for the thirteen-year-old boy was clear: sorcery.
I will become a sorcerer and find answers to these questions swirling in my head.
A pure and kind person like my mother does not deserve the gods' favor, while scoundrels continue to live... This is not just.
This world is not just at all.