Selena’s room had all the charm of a forgotten sock under a bed — damp, dark, and stubbornly uncooperative. It was square, stone, and endlessly dull, like soone had taken the concept of "childhood wonder" and put it through a laundry press.
The whole place was luxuriously furnished with a single crib that slouched in the corner, with the whole cage taken apart and torn to bits, and a heap of books lay scattered near her makeshift bed. The covers had frayed edges and bite marks that suggested mice were trying to teach themselves to read, with mixed results.
She had created those books from scratch. Surprisingly, once she turned four, she found out she could use whatever mana was equivalent to in this world. Although the usage concepts were different, it was a smooth journey once the learning curve was over, and she had ti to kill. A lot, at that.
Selena sat cross-legged on the cold floor, her small hands folded neatly in her lap, studying the wall in front of her as if it were a particularly stubborn puzzle. Her dark eyes narrowed, catching the faint lines of energy stitched deep into the stone.
During her past life, at four years old, she had the serene intensity of a retired general planning her fifth war. Of course, being four again helped, she had plenty of ti to be patient.
Magical energy pulsed under her skin. After her fourth birthday, she had felt it inside her, like a container was finally built inside her body, and then it started to contain this energy.
At first, she had almost squealed with joy, tempted to tear down the walls of her prison with reckless abandon. But hunger never tornted her belly, her body never suffered beatings, and her captor, whoever or whatever they were, seed determined to keep her alive.
That caution whispered at her constantly, don’t break too much, don’t tip your hand. So instead of rage, she had chosen study. She mapped the rhythm of the walls, traced magical energy’s flows with her tiny fingertips, and catalogued the small quirks of her body’s power. Patient. Careful. Waiting.
The more she learned about herself, the more she was convinced that her real form was not her current form. Maybe she was wrong, maybe it was a miscalculation, but it was probably better to put it aside for now. Probably.
Her daily routine had been increased to things she would call exciting or interesting, but sothing so boring that monks would have sent her sympathy letters. Staring at walls. Cataloguing dust patterns. Counting the number of tis the chair she made from the crib’s cage squeaked if she wobbled it on purpose. (The record was seventeen.)
If there were an award for Most Patiently Bored Four-Year-Old, she would have hung the dal on the wall just to spite it.
And then, the wall did sothing it had never done before. It spoke.
"...Is this thing on? Hello? Testing, testing, don’t tell I’m talking to myself again..."
Selena’s head snapped up. She blinked, then blinked again, in case her imagination had developed a sense of humor. The walls had groaned before. They had dripped suspiciously. One had even cracked in a way that looked like a cow giving birth. But never, never a voice.
"...Who are you?" she asked carefully, fingers twitching with a spark of magic.
The voice paused. Then ca a sigh heavy with disbelief, almost sarcasticaly, she couldn’t tell. "Perfect. A kid. My life-threatening ordeals apparently co with babysitting side quests now."
Selena bristled. "I’m not a kid. I’m four."
A rough chuckle answered her. The sound was cracked, weary, like soone laughing through a chest wound. "Yeah, that’s exactly what a kid would say."
Sohow, the voice felt familiar, almost like her killer from her old world.
"I an it," she insisted, puffing her cheeks out. "I can do magic." She held up her palm, and a tiny spark fizzed to life, skittering like a mischievous firefly. It wasn’t much, but in her hands it was proof.
The voice on the other side went quiet for a mont. Then: "Magic, huh? Guess that ans you’re real. Wonderful. Just when I thought loneliness was going to be the highlight of my day, I get... you."
"You’re rude," Selena huffed.
"And you’re talkative. We’re even."
"Excuse , I’m talkative?" She squinted at the wall, weighing the irritation against the gnawing curiosity. "Forget it. Why can I hear you? Where are you?"
"Complicated." The voice exhaled, like it was leaking pieces of itself. "Let’s just say I’m calling long-distance. Wrong number. Bad reception. And sohow you picked up."
Selena tilted her head. "So you’re trapped too?"
That silence stretched too long. Then the voice said, dry and brittle, "You could say that."
"Then... do you want to help you?"
A harsh laugh burst from the walls, startling her. Not the warm kind of laugh, but the bitter bark of soone who found irony in pain. "Help ? Kid, if you can help , then the universe officially owes an apology."
Selena’s eyes narrowed further. "Stop calling kid. My na is Selena."
"Selena, huh? Fine. Then call ... Judge."
"Judge?" she repeated, rolling the word on her tongue. It tasted heavier than it should.
Pansa! Her mind reminded her of a word that she had forgotten just as quickly.1
"Yeah," he muttered. "Don’t laugh."
She didn’t. Sothing in the na made her chest tighten. Instead, she said, softly, "You sound tired."
"Tired?" His voice rasped. "That’s polite. Try almost dead."
Her brows pinched. She hugged her knees to her chest. Whoever he was, he felt close. Familiar. Like a story she should have rembered but couldn’t. "Then... if you want... co here. To ."
A long pause. Then an incredulous snort. "What, just walk through the wall? Easy as breathing, right?"
"You don’t know until you try." She was not being serious, but just a joke that kept the conversation going.
The silence this ti was longer, heavier, but different. Then a mutter: "...Fine. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m already half-dead anyway..."
The air in her cell shimred. Selena blinked once, twice—and suddenly the stone, the chair, the mildew all vanished. Cold air, sharp and tallic, replaced it.
Her tiny feet pressed against sleek black stone, lined with veins of gold that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The room was enormous, stretching higher than any room she had seen since birth, even her family castle’s throne paled in comparison, and the highlight of the place was taken by a throne that stood at the far end.
And in that throne sat a boy.
His face looked carved from a cracked statue, fissures running down skin held together by stubborn will. His body was swathed in bandages, his fra slouched in exhaustion, yet the air around him burned with a heavy, suffocating strength. His eyes, golden, fierce, locked on her.
Selena gasped, not believing what was happening. "You’re... Judge."
He stared back, disbelief flickering across his broken features. "You actually made it through."
Pansa an Judge in Korean
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