In truth, when Duwei Rowling first came into this world, no one dared call him an idiot. For a fleeting moment, he was even hailed as a potential genius of the Rowling family.
Three years ago, when Duwei emerged from the Countess's womb, he gave the attending maids quite a shock. He didn't cry or wail—nor did he ever need an adult to soothe him. His routine was more disciplined than a grown man's: waking on schedule, eating when it was time, sleeping when the hour demanded. Beyond opening his mouth for food, however, the boy's lips rarely parted. His days were spent in silence, staring blankly with those wide, unblinking eyes.
Even his accidents were rare. He'd learned to gently shake the bell by his cradle, and soon enough, the maids understood: when young Master Duwei rang, someone had better fetch the chamber pot. This quirk earned him unanimous praise across the household—such cleverness from infancy! Surely, he'd grow into a prodigy of the Rowling line.
Alas, the luster of "genius" faded from his crown in less than six months. The reason? He wouldn't speak.
Children his age were already babbling, stumbling over simple sounds—"Papa," "Mama," "Pee-pee." But Duwei's mouth might as well have been sealed by a master sorcerer's curse. No matter how the Countess hoarse herself teaching him, not a single note escaped his lips. A mute might at least grunt or hum, but this boy was as silent as stone. Cold? Hot? Hungry? Needing to relieve himself? He'd only ring that damn bell.
By his third birthday, with his golden tongue still unopened, the Countess summoned every skilled physician she could find. She even called in a few renowned mages to check for curses or hexes. Nothing. In the end, even her stubborn optimism crumbled. Sighing through tears, she admitted the truth: her son was an idiot.
Thankfully, little Duwei had mastered walking by three. His steps were unsteady, but no worse than any child his age. Yet a toddler who wouldn't cry, laugh, or speak—who only stared into nothingness—left little room for explanations beyond "idiot."
Then, a month ago, a tempest struck. A ferocious storm battered the capital—thunder roaring, lightning slashing the sky, rain pouring like a deluge. Word spread that even the Grand Canal beyond the city nearly burst its banks. Amid the chaos, something extraordinary happened at the earl's estate.
Young Master Duwei, unnoticed by the maid tasked with watching him, slipped out of his room. He crawled into the courtyard and stood there, a tiny figure in the downpour, gazing up at the heavens. Lightning tore through the dark, thunder boomed like a war drum, yet the boy showed no trace of fear. Perhaps an idiot didn't know what fear was.
Instead, he clenched his small fists and—against all odds—screamed into the storm. For three years, his voice had been locked away, but now he howled at the sky, wild and unhinged, as rain lashed his fragile frame. By the time the servants found him, he was soaked through, trembling from the cold, his face deathly pale, his lips bitten purple.
The Countess, rushing to the scene, fainted on the spot. Servants scrambled to carry both mother and son indoors. She awoke quickly, clutching her unconscious child and weeping bitterly. Physicians bustled in a panic, pouring potions down his throat, while two mages were summoned to cast holy healing spells over him for hours.
Still, his little body grew colder by the minute. Driven to desperation, the Countess raced to the Temple of the Goddess of Light in the capital. She begged a black-robed cleric to perform a divine blessing on her son, then knelt before the goddess's statue for an entire night, praying ceaselessly for his life.
By dawn, warmth finally crept back into the boy's limbs. His life was spared, though he lingered in a coma for another day and night. The Countess, sleepless and unfed, held him close, her once-radiant beauty wasting away with worry. Then, two days later, as he slept, Duwei spoke. Eyes shut, lost in a dream, he mumbled a few garbled syllables. No one could decipher them—surely just the meaningless babble of an idiot who'd never learned words.
But the Countess, tears streaming down her face, pressed her ear to his lips. After straining to listen, she caught something. Turning to the hushed servants, she whispered, "Is there a 'Mard' among those who tend to the young master?"
The staff exchanged bewildered glances. At last, a bold one stepped forward, bowing low. "My lady, there's no 'Mard' among the young master's caretakers…"
A frantic search of the estate followed. Eventually, they found him—a stablehand named Mard, a lowly horse-feeder. He was dragged before the Countess at once.
"My son called your name in his sleep… 'Mard'… I don't know why, but it must be a sign from the Goddess of Light," she said, voice trembling with conviction. "Her blessing has spoken. From today, you'll no longer tend horses. You'll serve at my son's side."
Mard's heart leaped. From the muck of the stables to the young master's retinue—an unimaginable stroke of fortune! His future glittered before him.
Unbeknownst to him—or anyone—Duwei's "divine" outburst had a simpler origin. Caught in a fit of childish rage, he'd stormed outside, roared at the heavens, and caught a deadly chill in the rain. His fevered mutterings of "Mard"—a garbled curse, "damn it" in his native tongue—had unwittingly changed a man's fate.
The illness ravaged him for a full month. His already frail body weakened further, and only after those thirty days did a faint flush of color return to his wan cheeks. Yet, true to form, he fell silent again. Since waking, not a single sound had passed his lips—not even for Mard, his "chosen" servant. He resumed his endless staring, day after day.
The only shift came when a maid, recounting his ordeal, mentioned how the Countess had held him for two sleepless days and nights and knelt a full night before the goddess. From then on, when the Countess visited, Duwei's vacant gaze softened. When it settled on her, a flicker of warmth stirred in those empty eyes.