“That concludes the verdict.”
Bang, bang, bang!
The judge’s gavel echoed through the courtroom.
The spectators, expressionless, stretched or chattered about what to have for dinner, then filed out without a second thought.
The judges did the same. With faces sickened by routine, they seemed only to wonder, “Is the morning session finally over?” No one in that room felt an ounce of pity for the defendant, Patrick Lucen. Not even Patrick himself.
Guilty? Me? Damn it! What on earth is happening here?
As the guards hustled him away, Patrick’s head buzzed with confusion more than anger or injustice.
“You knew you’d be found guilty, didn’t you? It’s a pity circumstance, but what can you do? Still, at least they sent you into exile without corporal punishment. If you’d been higher up at the Magic Tower or had some remarkable talent, you wouldn’t be walking out of here unscathed.”
The guard, mistaking Patrick’s shock for sorrow over the verdict, tried to offer comfort. It didn’t help at all.
“Don’t skip meals just because you’ve got a long journey ahead.”
They left the courtroom, trekked a long corridor, then descended into the chilly underground cells. Behind rusted iron bars, one prisoner after another sat in their cells. A half-span-wide window near the ceiling let in a sliver of light, but it did little to dispel the gloom.
“Hey, Wizard dude! So it’s confirmed—you’re exiled?”
…Silence.
“Why so quiet? Not backbreaking labor in the mines, is it?”
When the guard left, the man in the cell opposite called out.
“E-exile, they said…”
Patrick forced the words out.
“Well, isn’t that lucky? Why the long face? It’s not like you got forced labor or a whipping. Exile isn’t the worst fate—shouldn’t you be grateful?”
“Is that so…?”
“Of course! I heard you were implicated in black magic, right?”
…Patrick shut his mouth.
“No, I mean they weren’t saying you’re a black magician, but that the bigwigs at your Magic Tower were. Don’t look at it like that!”
Indeed, Patrick Lucen’s charge was “black magic assistance.” In this empire, black magic was an abomination that had to be rooted out and destroyed.
Somehow, the very officials at the Magic Tower were caught red-handed practicing black magic. Whether they fell to it first or discovered it later, no one knew. In any case, once they’d fully turned to black magic, everyone connected to them—from high-ranking archmages down to lowly lab assistants—was brought to trial barely a month ago.
Patrick had been arrested while cleaning reagent equipment, clueless as to why.
“Well, you’ll never leave your exile, but I hear you weren’t exactly a hot prospect as a wizard anyway. Just think of it as a change of address—settle down in your new hometown.”
“…Excuse me?”
“You’ll find it annoying never leaving the exile village, but live within your means and you’ll be fine. Who knows? Maybe His Majesty the Emperor will issue a pardon someday. Keep your hopes up.”
“Could you pipe down? You sure talk like a con artist.”
“Heh—Guard, is it time for meals already?”
At the chatter of his cellmate—who prided himself on knowing the law—Patrick’s expression shifted.
Exile isn’t just house arrest behind a fence with poison on standby?
The choice of words made Patrick think of the Joseon era.
I thought I’d be trapped in a falling-apart shack surrounded by briar, waiting every day for the poison cup. But all I can’t do is leave the village?
Hope flickered in Patrick’s lifeless eyes for the first time.
“Sir!”
“Me?”
“Since I’ve lived in the Magic Tower since I was twelve, I don’t really know what exile means.”
“Oh, you’re curious?”
“Yes!”
“Want some bread?”
“Oh, I don’t like bread. You can have it.”
“If you toss it over, I’ll eat it. Heh!”
He handed over a fist-sized white loaf issued to convicted exiles, and at last the cellmate spoke.
“Exile isn’t so terrible. You’re not maimed or anything; they just thought they had to punish someone but couldn’t find your wrongdoing.”
“Exactly! I don’t even know the first thing about black magic.”
Patrick felt only injustice. Black magic? That’s nothing…
I died of overwork—how did I wake up in prison?
The soul of the original Patrick had fled at death, and the 21st-century Korean office worker’s spirit—‘NEW’ Patrick—had taken over. ‘OLD’ Patrick was frail and collapsed of a heart attack on his first day in the cell.
Let’s not mention that the original soul may have also moved on elsewhere.
‘NEW’ Patrick had been utterly stunned upon awakening. Worse, he couldn’t show panic—warnings on the intake wall said if you lost your mind, you’d be locked away forever.
If you’re not noble and have no special abilities, they could stick you in any commoner’s body—but why choose a prisoner awaiting trial?
Still, the optimistic ‘NEW’ Patrick accepted his fate quickly.
“The difficulty of exile depends on which village you’re sent to.”
“The village assignment?”
“Yes. Exiles can’t leave their assigned village. Which kind of village would you want?”
“A big one?”
“Exactly! You’re a wizard after all. Big villages mean more freedom. But since it’s a punishment, they won’t assign a city.”
“So a countryside village?”
“Right. Exiles go to villages without a permanent market.”
“No permanent market just means it’s some backwater, right?”
Patrick asked, puzzled. If all villages were small, what difference did it make?
“Don’t say that. Even if our village has no market, a nearby village might be a big town.”
“Oh! I see now.”
“You need some luck. You can’t be sent to a city, but if there’s a city nearby, you lack nothing. They provide a house, but you have to feed and clothe yourself. So landlubbers like you should hope for a village with regular merchant traffic.”
Patrick nodded, entranced. Then he realized:
Living in a small village surrounded by nature—how is that not exactly what I wanted?
‘NEW’ Patrick’s cause of death in 21st-century Korea was overwork. To think his final outcome after a life of sacrifice was this—it was bitter.
At his last moment, a TV show popped into his head: people leaving the world behind, living in harmony with nature, grateful for each day.
Born and raised in a city, he’d never left the concrete jungle. Was it coincidence that at death’s door he dreamed of a life in nature?
Maybe it was fate.
In the stillness of the prison, Patrick felt a spark of hope.
He’d work odd jobs to save money, lease a small garden plot, grow his own vegetables. If he needed supplies, he’d ask passing merchants. Minimalism! A life of decluttering! He’d always wanted to try it.
Exile with a bit of freedom wasn’t so different from retirement homesteading—everything depends on one’s perspective.
I’ll plant plenty of potatoes…
Patrick drifted to sleep, buoyed by anticipation of his new life.
And life betrayed Patrick.
“Tashu.”
“Yes?”
“Tashu, I said.”
“A boat?”
“Are you planning to swim? It’s far.”
“…It’s that far?”
“You’ll be rowing for at least half a day, so let’s move quickly.”
After days in the prisoner’s carriage, a boat came into view.
No need to lose hope! Jeju Island is an island, Geoje is an island—there’s everything on a big island!
But as he steeled himself,
“Why this island? There’s no proper harbor; you have to row here!”
“With so many exiles from the black magic case, they couldn’t group them all in one village. We have to use even remote islands.”
Patrick felt a chill and asked,
“Excuse me, soldier. If there’s no real port, how do merchants arrive?”
“Merchants?”
“Yes, soldier.”
“Do merchants regularly come to this island?” The soldiers shrugged and asked the fisherman who seemed to own the boat.
“Would merchants come here to sell anything?”
“That’s right.”
…
The sound of his dream homestead shattering rang in Patrick’s ears from the very start.