While the streets and alleys of the imperial capital buzzed with fervor, the earl's mansion stood in stark, somber contrast—a silent island amid the storm of celebration.
No grand banquet graced its halls, no festive rites were held, not even a modest reception with wine. Even the planned parade—a thousand soldiers drawn from the expeditionary fleet to march through the city for the citizens' admiration—was left to a deputy's command. Earl Raymond, hastening back from the docks, rebuffed all visitors. His excuse to the outside world: after years of war, the earl required private time to console his wife's lonely heart.
Though this lofty pretext disappointed many who'd painstakingly prepared to curry favor with the empire's newest hero, it won universal approval nonetheless. Who could argue with such noble sentiment?
Yet within the opulent walls of the earl's residence, the triumphant naval hero now faced his own flesh and blood. His gaze—deep, melancholic, tangled with complexity—locked onto his son.
Were it not for his unwavering trust in his wife's virtue, Raymond's first thought upon seeing the boy might have been: Is this truly my seed?
The child bore little resemblance to him. The men of the Rowling family were famed for their rugged, commanding presence—towering frames, broad chests, thick arms, square jaws, and straight noses, every inch the image of a stalwart hero. Raymond himself epitomized this ideal: a towering figure, his striking features renowned among the empire's nobility, a celebrated specimen of manhood in his youth.
But this little speck before him…
Granted, the boy was only three, yet for a lineage famed for producing brawny warriors, he was far too pale and frail. Perhaps that illness a month ago weakened him, Raymond mused, grasping for an explanation.
Across from him sat Duwei Rowling, the future heir to the earldom, staring back with an impassive expression. Unlike other children his age, he didn't wail with vigor—a fact that irked the earl. Tradition held that the louder a child cried, the hardier he'd grow. This one, perched on the bed with hands resting on his knees, was too quiet by half. He tilted his head, peering up at his father with what seemed curiosity—or perhaps scrutiny.
Raymond dismissed the notion at once. He must be imagining things. How could a three-year-old's gaze carry such depth?
While the earl wrestled with his gloom, Duwei's own emotions churned in far murkier depths. The tender, mature beauty of the Countess—her motherly devotion and those desperate acts a month prior—had already thawed his guarded heart.
But this so-called "father" who'd barged in out of nowhere?
Hmph. Where'd he even come from?
"Does he… truly still not speak?" Raymond's tone was grave as he glanced at his wife. Her teary eyes softened his heart. Three years at sea, leaving her alone—especially during her pregnancy, when she'd needed him most— weighed on him. That their only son had turned out like this wasn't her fault. His voice gentled. "There, there, my dear. If he won't speak, we'll hire the empire's most learned tutors. He'll talk eventually. But his body's too frail. The Rowling family has always stood on martial valor in this empire. My son must follow my path, become a general someday. This weakness won't do… He's three now. It's time we found him a mentor. With a few years of training, he'll toughen up. What do you think of Alpha? My most loyal captain of the guard—skilled in combat, steadfast to the family. Starting next month, he could teach Duwei some basic exercises."
Tears welled in the Countess's lovely eyes at the thought of her fragile son enduring such rigor so young. "But… he's still so small."
"That's precisely why we must start early—to strengthen him!" The battle-hardened earl, unyielding on this point, waved a hand to settle the matter.
The next day, after an audience with His Majesty in the palace, Raymond received his third First-Class Imperial Valor Medal, pinned on by the emperor himself during the victory ceremony. In a public proclamation, Augustine VI elevated the war-decorated earl to Deputy Commander of the Imperial General Staff—the second-highest martial post in the realm.
After a private word with the emperor in a secluded chamber, Raymond relinquished his title as First-Class General of the Navy, handing over his military authority. Emerging from the palace, he brushed off congratulations from peers, declined a flurry of banquet invitations—even polite overtures from senior clerics of the Temple of the Goddess of Light—and hurried home once more.
That Earl Raymond's son was an idiot was no secret in the capital. The trace of melancholy shadowing his face, even during the medal ceremony, stirred sympathy among allies of the Rowling family. Naturally, his political foes gloated in private.
Back at the mansion, the earl faced his son again. This time, the Countess wasn't present. At his side stood Alpha, his loyal captain of the guard for nearly two decades—a First-Class Imperial Swordsman whose "Flowing Flame Sword" technique ranked him among the capital's elite duelists.
For reasons he couldn't quite name, Raymond found himself disliking this boy. That look in his son's eyes wasn't just blankness—there was a faint edge of defiance lurking beneath. Surely I'm overthinking it, he chided himself. What could a three-year-old understand? I've been away since his birth, never once held him. Of course he's wary of me.
Alpha began with a formal gesture, kneeling on one knee before Duwei's bed in the manner of a family retainer. Then, with both hands, he lifted the boy, stripped off his clothes, and methodically examined him from head to toe, kneading his limbs with precision. Duwei squirmed—he clearly didn't relish being pawed at by a grown man—but an imperial swordsman's strength wasn't something he could resist.
"Hmm…" Alpha's face was stern as he exhaled, setting the earl's heir back down. He bowed to Raymond before rising, his voice low and measured. "My lord, I…"
"Alpha, you're my most trusted man. Speak freely—no need to hold back," Raymond sighed.
"Young Master Duwei's body is frail—more than that, he seems… congenitally deficient. His bones are delicate, his heartbeat uneven. His constitution is weaker than average. If he were to train in martial arts, I fear…" Alpha gritted his teeth. "I fear he'd achieve little."
"And your opinion?"
"I think martial training may not suit the young master. Perhaps we should explore whether he has talents elsewhere."
Alpha's words hung in the air. The earl's expression darkened.