“Stop it! Don't make me listen to you anymore!”
The girl's voice cracked in the solitude of her room.
She couldn't remember exactly when she first started hearing it. At the beginning, the voice had been gentle.
Born with legs that refused to move, she had never known the simple joy of playing outside. Even when she tried to join the other children, she felt like a burden—either a nuisance to be tolerated or an object of pity that made everyone walk on eggshells. She felt miserable, her own existence a source of quiet sorrow.
That was when it had happened. That was when she first heard the voice.
“Your legs are a trial bestowed by God. You, who must endure more hardship than others, are destined for greatness. It may be difficult now, but if you live your life with all your heart, something wonderful will surely happen.”
She didn’t necessarily believe something as grandiose as it being a divine trial, but the voice became her encouragement nonetheless. It became her support.
I will become stronger because of this pain. I will become a person who can empathize with the suffering of others. Those thoughts became the engine that drove her to survive.
But gradually, the voice began to warp. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that its hidden true nature was finally coming to light.
“Is it not unfair that you alone must endure such a trial?”
“Let us grant trials to others as well. You have earned that right.”
“Bring trials to the world. It is a necessary step for humanity to reach its true potential.”
The voice of encouragement had soured into a voice of instigation. It still spoke of "trials," but the suggestions were nothing short of malicious.
Gouge their hearts with words like knives. Inflict injuries and make them look like accidents. The voice whispered these things under the guise of trials. The girl refused, but the voice didn't care; it never stopped. At every opportunity, it tried to coax her into hurting people, insisting it was a trial—insisting it was the righteous path.
For now, she could still resist. But how much longer could she withstand that constant whispering? She could feel the voice slowly, steadily eroding her mind.
She feared that one day, she would lose the strength to fight back and actually hurt someone. Consumed by dread, she began to push people away, eventually shuttering herself inside her room.
Her family seemed to believe her withdrawal was due to the despair of her condition. She never corrected them. She didn't want them to think she was a "broken" child who heard strange voices.
After she had locked herself away, her grandfather quit his old job and became a dollmaker. He claimed he was simply turning a long-time hobby into a profession, but she knew he had done it for her. Even as she felt the weight of her own guilt, being surrounded by his dolls made her happy. At the very least, the voice never told her to hurt the dolls. She could feel safe among them.
Thus, her days were spent surrounded by puppets, enduring the ever-mounting pressure of the voice. But that cycle came to an abrupt end. The catalyst was a new doll her grandfather brought home.
It was a girl with long hair tied into pigtails, bearing a vague resemblance to her. On the surface, it looked like the same wooden dolls her grandfather always carved. However, there was one staggering difference. To her shock, the doll began to move on its own, trotting over to her side with a pitter-patter of wooden feet before giving a polite bow.
Her grandfather looked at her and smiled.
"This child is Reire. She’s not just a doll, Ril. She’s a golem."
The girl didn't know much about golems. She didn't realize that ordinary golems were mere puppets that only moved according to their master's commands. She simply assumed that "golem" meant a doll with a soul, like Reire.
The way the little thing busied itself, moving about with such energy, was adorable. Ril took an immediate liking to her. She told herself that even if it was a golem, it was still a doll. Surely the voice wouldn't try to make her hurt Reire.
But the voice’s reaction was beyond anything she could have imagined.
“Stop! Keep that thing away from me! I feel it! I can feel it... that wretched presence!”
The voice erupted with a level of rejection she had never felt before. Unlike its usual composed whispers, its tone was frantic, desperate. With every echo that rattled her skull, a pounding shock struck her like a physical blow.
“Destroy it! Break it now!”
Usually, the voice only whispered and coaxed, but this time was different. As if her mind had been hijacked, her body began to move against her will. To destroy Reire, she began to approach, taking step after agonizing step with the legs that weren't supposed to move.
“Stop it!”
“Ril? What’s wrong, Ril?!”
Her grandfather, realizing something was terribly wrong, rushed toward her. Her body violently shook him off, intent on reaching Reire. But the muscles in her legs, unused for years, had completely atrophied. Merely trying to shove her grandfather back was enough to send her tumbling.
“Ugh...!”
“Ril!”
She hit the ground hard, her head slamming against something. Blood began to flow from her forehead, staining her clothes. Noticing this, Reire trotted over and pulled a tiny object resembling a staff from a small pocket, pressing it against the girl’s body. Then, something miraculous happened. In an instant, the wound on her forehead vanished.
“Oh, was that First Aid? Thank you, Reire. Could you give her a Clean while you’re at it?”
At her grandfather's request, Reire gave a firm nod. She pulled out a different staff and pointed it at the girl. In that moment, a brilliant, dazzling light enveloped Ril. It was a reaction entirely different from a standard Clean spell. Her grandfather’s eyes widened in surprise, but when the light subsided, the girl’s clothes were pristine and she seemed otherwise unharmed, so he didn't give it much further thought.
However, deep within her consciousness—hazy from the impact of the fall—the girl heard a final, piercing scream.
“Stop! Don’t... don’t purify meeeee!”
Was it a death rattle? She didn't know. All she knew was that from that day forward, she never heard the voice again.