The cries of a newborn echoed through the mountains, shattering Vincent’s early morning slumber.
Even as he rubbed his sleep-tousled hair, the pitiful sound of life continued to reach his ears.
"Dear gods... what did I do to deserve this?"
Kicking off the blankets, he rose from bed, his hunter’s muscles tensing in the dark.
’Who the hell is out there at this hour?’
Vincent glanced at his sleeping wife.
He hoped she was dreaming peacefully.
If she heard this noise, she’d be plunged into misery all over again.
After seven years of marriage, Vincent and his wife still had no child.
They’d spent a fortune consulting physicians, only to be told there was no discernible reason.
—"Sometimes, it’s just fate. There’s nothing wrong with you or Olina, so just keep trying, eh? Heh heh!"
At first, Vincent had laughed it off.
But as time passed with no change, he’d been forced to accept the truth by their fifth year:
He could not father a child.
Olina never showed disappointment, but whenever a lonely shadow crossed her face, Vincent had never hated his own body more.
"What kind of bastard—who in their right mind leaves a baby out ?!"
Pushing aside his tangled emotions, Vincent grabbed his single-edged axe and stepped outside.
"Who’s there?! Who’s making such a racket in the dead of night?!"
His shout echoed through the mountains.
In the heavy silence, Vincent’s expression hardened.
Most hunters lived deep in the mountains.
They had to check traps at dawn, and tracking large game sometimes meant spending days in the wilderness.
Naturally, security was their own responsibility—and bandits often preyed on that vulnerability.
Of course, it could also be a merchant passing through, but no torchlight flickered in the darkness.
"You rotten bastard! I’ll chop you to pieces!"
If this was the worst-case scenario, blood would have to be spilled.
Moving cautiously, he reached the stable where the sound had come from and swiftly kicked the door open.
His hunter’s sharp eyes scanned the interior.
The snort of a horse reached his ears.
Animals didn’t lie, and the sound soothed Vincent’s agitation slightly.
There were no signs of an intruder, either.
His gaze landed on a bundled cloth resting neatly atop a pile of hay.
A baby—perhaps two months old—was scrunching its face and wailing.
Vincent hastily hid the axe behind his back.
By the time he knelt before the bundle, he’d discarded the weapon entirely and simply stared.
A child as lovely as the moon itself lay there.
A child who knew nothing yet, newly born into the world, waiting to carve its name into existence.
The moment the baby saw Vincent’s face, its cries stopped, and a gummy smile spread across its tiny features.
Vincent’s pupils trembled.
Then, as if struck by lightning, he bolted upright and stormed back outside.
"WHO’S OUT HERE?! WHO’S PLAYING THIS CRUEL JOKE?! ABANDONING A BABY—YOU SICK MONSTER! SHOW YOURSELF!"
The mountains rang with his fury.
"COME OUT! YOU WON’T?! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! YOU’RE A REAL PIECE OF WORK, YOU KNOW THAT?!"
Still, no reply came.
"YOU REALLY LEFT IT, HUH?! LAST CHANCE—SHOW YOUR FACE OR I’LL SMASH IT TO PASTE!"
Vincent screamed with every ounce of his strength.
If he ever looked back on this day, he refused to regret holding back.
After glaring into the darkness a while longer, Vincent steadied his breath and returned to the stable.
Exhausted from crying, the baby had fallen asleep.
Hands shaking, he cradled the child and pressed an ear gently to its tiny chest.
A heartbeat far quicker than an adult’s.
"Honey, what’s going on?"
His wife, roused by the shouting, rushed over.
Instead of answering, Vincent simply showed her the sleeping child in his arms.
"What... whose baby is that?"
Vincent hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain.
"Well... I think it’s ours."
The stream was cold, the breeze refreshing.
Vincent, a dead roe deer slung over his broad shoulders, hurried home.
More than the successful hunt, he was eager to see the family waiting for him.
"Shirone! Daddy’s home!"
A twelve-year-old boy came scampering to the porch, beaming.
Unlike Vincent, whose face was rough-hewn like stone, the boy’s features resembled a meticulously crafted jewel.
Hair like spun gold, shimmering even from afar, and striking blue eyes that gleamed.
Every time Vincent saw his beautiful son, his chest swelled with pride.
Dropping the deer, he buried his face in the boy’s embrace.
"Yeah, that’s my boy. My treasure. You been good?"
"Yes! I helped Mom cook and read lots of books."
The dissonance between the two words made Vincent pause, but he didn’t let it show.
"Heh, you like reading that much?"
"Well... there’s not much else to do."
Whenever Shirone flinched like he’d done something wrong, Vincent’s heart ached.
This heaven-sent miracle of a child was far more brilliant than his peers.
After learning letters from his mother, he’d progressed from stumbling through books to devouring complex texts alone.
’And that’s what makes it harder.’
A hunter could never afford proper schooling for his son.
The only thing Vincent could teach him was the craft he’d honed his whole life.
—An herbalist’s child becomes an herbalist. A hunter’s child becomes a hunter. That’s the safest path.
Even humble trades required knowledge and tricks passed down through generations.
But Vincent couldn’t bring himself to say it.
"No, you’re doing great, Shirone. Learning’s the key to success, no matter what. Next time I go to town, I’ll buy you more books."
"It’s okay. The ones you got me before weren’t that interesting anyway."
Vincent laughed at his son’s fib.
Popular books were too expensive, so he’d only managed to scavenge discarded noble texts from antique shops.
He knew they weren’t exactly children’s material.
Shirone’s consideration for his parents made Vincent’s nose sting.
"Alright! How about we go chop some wood, then? Learning’s important, but a man’s gotta be strong too. Today, I’ll teach you how to swing an axe."
"Wow! Do I get my own axe?!"
"Heh, of course! Let’s cut down every tree on this mountain today!"
Vincent handed Shirone a small axe—expensive for their means, but unlike books, this was an investment.
’In the end... he’ll become a woodsman.’
If reality couldn’t be changed, building his frail body and stamina was crucial.
’But... is that really it?’
A sudden doubt gnawed at him.
’His face has nobility in it, and his mind’s sharp. Could he be... a noble’s child?’
Vincent shook his head.
Whenever such thoughts arose, he felt both overwhelmed by fortune and crushed by guilt.
’Enough. Shirone is MY son. Not some child from a stable—my own flesh and blood.’
Steeling himself, Vincent led Shirone to a logging area a kilometer from their cabin.
"Watch closely. I’ll show you how it’s done."
Spitting into his palms, Vincent swung with practiced ease.
After a few strikes, the tree groaned and toppled.
Though not a lumberjack, ten clean strokes were impressive for an amateur.
"Aim for the same spot, then tilt the tree with its own weight. Got it?"
Vincent picked a tree for him, and Shirone mimicked his father’s motions perfectly—down to the spit and hand-rubbing.
Vincent watched proudly—until Shirone raised the axe.
His stance was... off.
’Brains alone won’t cut it.’
The axe was heavy, and swinging it required raw strength.
’We’ve got to build him up now. Otherwise, how will he marry? Have kids?’
No woman would wed a man who couldn’t provide.
Gritting his teeth, Shirone swung wildly, each strike landing haphazardly.
Vincent offered advice.
"Don’t exhaust yourself. Use less force, but aim true."
Shirone understood—but no matter how precisely he struck, the wood wouldn’t budge.
’Since when was he this weak?’
Vincent’s mood dimmed.
"It’s okay. No—I’m sorry. Truth is, I know this isn’t for you. But as a hunter’s son..."
Vincent’s voice cracked.
"You’re so bright. Smarter than Barun the herbalist’s boy, sharper than Stella the fruit seller’s girl. Don’t feel bad about your strength. My greed is just..."
Tears welled in his eyes.
But Shirone, lost in thought, didn’t notice and asked:
"Dad, how do you REALLY chop wood well?"
He hadn’t expected his bookish son to press the question.
"You... really want to learn?"
Heartened, Vincent guided Shirone’s gaze to the groove in the wood.
"See this? Strength comes with age. But the trick isn’t force—it’s technique. Earlier, I said to hit the same spot, but if you angle it slightly..."
Vincent finally examined the marks Shirone had made.
For a beginner, the strikes were impossibly precise—all landing in the exact same spot.
In fact, without brute force, this precision made it harder to fell the tree.