After Roxy Migurdia left, Rudeus stared at the door for a while. More precisely, he stared beyond it.
The old Rudeus had hated even standing near the door. On the surface, he looked like a frail child with no interest in the outside world, content with books and magic inside the house. That was what Paul Greyrat and Zenith Greyrat believed.
But I knew. Rudeus did not hate the outside. He feared it.
I did not know why. If he feared monsters, bandits, or the dangers of the forest, I could understand it. But what Rudeus feared was not any concrete danger. To him, the door was not merely an entrance. It was connected to some memory.
I did not know the contents of that memory. But I did know one thing. Roxy Migurdia had opened that door.
She had not used remarkable magic, killed a monster, or changed the world. She had simply taken Rudeus by the hand and gone outside with him. As a result, Rudeus could look at the door.
Humans were strange. A single word and a single hand could make them unable to pass down a path without a physical obstacle. Then another word and another hand could let them pass through it again.
Inefficient, but it produced results. Therefore, it was worth recording.
"Father, may I go outside and play?"
That was what Rudeus said that day. I was seated beside the dining table, reading a book. It was a botanical encyclopedia.
Some plants in this world resembled gathering items from YGGDRASIL, while others were entirely different. Leaves of the same shape could have different properties; plants bearing the color of poison could be edible. The standards of classification were still insufficient.
Rudeus held the same book. He seemed to intend to memorize the terrain and identify plants outside. It was not merely play, but an effort to accumulate information beyond the house. That was not a bad thing.
"Outside? To play? Not just the garden?"
Paul Greyrat’s eyes widened. It was a natural response. Until now, Rudeus had never voluntarily wanted to go outside. More precisely, he had only become capable of trying after Roxy Migurdia left.
"Yes."
"I-I see. Of course you may."
Permission was granted. Paul Greyrat looked both pleased and flustered. He was proud of Rudeus, but worried at the same time.
Rudeus was exceptional. His magic, speech, and judgment all exceeded his age. But an exceptional child was not necessarily a reassuring one. Paul Greyrat seemed anxious that Rudeus acted like an adult too soon.
I could understand that to some extent. People around an infant were reassured when the infant behaved like an infant. Rudeus and I fell outside that standard.
Paul Greyrat smiled. "Come to think of it, I haven’t given you much free time. We made you learn magic and swordsmanship at once, but playing is important for children too."
"I’m grateful that you found us such a good teacher," Rudeus replied.
His tone was polite, and his answer appropriate. Yet it was slightly strange for a child speaking to his parent. A faint bitter smile crossed Paul Greyrat’s face.
"Still, I never expected you to go outside. I thought you were a sickly child. Time certainly passes quickly."
"You thought I was sickly?"
"You never cried at all."
I did not look away from my book. Crying was a means of expression used by newborns and infants: hunger, discomfort, pain, sleepiness, unsuitable temperature, a request for protection. I almost never cried. Neither did Rudeus.
As a result, Paul Greyrat and Zenith Greyrat regarded us as easy children to raise. Lilia saw it differently. She did not merely consider a child who never cried convenient. She considered such a child strange.
"Really? Well, it’s fine if I’m all right now. I’m growing up healthy and adorable. Ta-da!"
Rudeus pulled at his cheeks and made a strange face. Paul Greyrat laughed.
I watched Rudeus briefly. Such behavior was unnecessary. Yet he did it to ease the other person’s tension, lighten the mood, and perhaps prove that he was childlike.
Rudeus sometimes performed himself. In that way, he was similar to me, but different. I performed only the actions necessary to reduce friction. Rudeus sometimes mixed in mischief.
"It’s those unchildlike parts of you that worry me," Paul Greyrat said.
"Are you dissatisfied because your eldest son is so well-behaved?"
"No, I’m not dissatisfied, but..."
"You can tell me, with a thoroughly dissatisfied expression, that I ought to become more like a Greyrat man."
"It’s not something to boast about, but when I was your age, I was a little rascal obsessed with peeking under girls’ skirts."
"Peeking under skirts?"
Paul Greyrat was about to explain when Zenith Greyrat’s voice came from behind him.
"Dear."
It was one short word. Paul Greyrat closed his mouth.
I turned a page. A Greyrat man. Paul Greyrat used the phrase as a joke, but it contained much information: interest in women, casual sexual jokes, debauchery in his youth, pride in swords and strength, and a family atmosphere that laughed all of it away.
This was not a strict noble household. It was a knightly family on the frontier. They possessed a certain status, but lived relatively freely. That freedom seemed to benefit Rudeus.
"If you want to become a proper Greyrat man, why not bring home a girl someday?" Paul Greyrat said.
Zenith Greyrat sighed. Rudeus wore a thoughtful expression. He had likely imagined something unnecessary.
"Understood. Then I’ll go into the village and find a skirt to flip up."
"Ah, be kind to girls. And don’t become arrogant just because you’re strong and can use magic. A man’s strength isn’t meant for throwing his weight around."
Paul Greyrat’s voice had grown somewhat serious. His words were not bad: rules for the use of power, and the problems that arose when the strong wielded power over the weak. Paul Greyrat understood them through experience, though whether he always practiced them was another matter.
Rudeus nodded. "I know, Father. Strength is for showing girls how impressive you are."
"...No, that isn’t—"
"I’m joking. It’s for protecting people weaker than you, right?"
Paul Greyrat smiled in relief. "Yes. That’s right."
Protecting the weak. Simple words, but the conditions for carrying them out were complex. Who was weak? How far should one intervene? Would protection invite greater danger? Did the protected person even want it? Was the protector seeking self-satisfaction?
There were many questions. But Paul Greyrat would not put it that way, nor would Rudeus. They acted first. I did not yet know whether that was humanity’s strength or weakness.
Rudeus tucked the botanical encyclopedia beneath his arm and fastened the staff Roxy Migurdia had given him at his waist. As he headed for the door, he abruptly turned back.
"Oh, right. Father, I think I’ll be going out occasionally from now on. Whenever I do, I’ll make sure to tell someone in the family. I’ll practice swordsmanship and magic every day, return before it gets dark, and stay away from dangerous places."
Paul Greyrat froze. "Uh... right."
He looked blank, perhaps because the child had stated the cautions the parent was supposed to give. Rudeus was like that. He removed the other person’s worries in advance. He read people well and was skilled at crafting the image he wished to present.
That made him dangerous at times. A child who imitated adulthood too quickly could fail to belong properly among either adults or children.
As I reached that conclusion, Paul Greyrat looked at me. "Eugene."
"Yes."
"What about you? Rudeus is going outside. Will you go with him?"
I closed my book. Going out would allow me to observe the village in daylight and compare its population flow against the terrain I had examined at night: farmland, waterways, security, the range in which children moved, the work routes of adults. It had informational value.
However, this was Rudeus’s first voluntary outing. If I accompanied him, his behavior might change. He might feel less danger, or become overly conscious of me and act more extravagantly than usual.
"If Rudeus wants me to accompany him, I will."
Rudeus looked at me and hesitated. He had likely wanted to go alone. Crossing the door Roxy Migurdia had opened, by his own will, must have held meaning for him. I did not completely understand that meaning, but I knew it mattered to him.
"Let’s go together," Rudeus said.
"Understood."
Paul Greyrat looked somewhat relieved and, at the same time, somewhat concerned. "Don’t go too far."
"Yes."
"And stay away from dangerous places."
"Yes."
Paul Greyrat looked from Rudeus back to me. "Eugene. Stay with Rudeus."
I did not answer at once. The literal meaning was simple: do not physically separate from Rudeus, and protect him if danger arose. But that was not all Paul Greyrat wanted. He wanted the brothers to be together: to walk together, see things together, and return together.
"Understood."
At my answer, Paul Greyrat smiled as though exhausted. "You two seem so easy to raise, yet you’re a lot of work in an entirely different way."
Rudeus laughed. I did not reply.
Zenith Greyrat packed a waterskin and a small cloth for us. As always, Lilia meticulously checked our supplies.
"Young masters, please be careful not to trip on the road."
"Thank you, Lilia," said Rudeus.
"Thank you," I added briefly.
Lilia bowed. Every time she looked at me, she grew a little tense. I had never acted hostile toward her, given unjust orders, or insulted her. Yet she found me difficult.
It was probably different from the instinctive unease she felt toward Rudeus. Lilia seemed good at reading people, and so she knew the difference between Rudeus and me. Rudeus was strange, but he possessed human desires. I was quiet, but my desires were faint.
Humans understood others through desire: wanting to eat, be praised, be loved, touch someone, flee, or win. A person with such desires would be easier to handle. I lacked most of them. That was why Lilia found me difficult to read.
At the door, Rudeus took a shallow breath. His heartbeat quickened slightly. Tension entered his fingertips. His gaze fixed on the bottom of the door before slowly lifting.
He was afraid. But he did not stop walking.
Rudeus opened the door. There was light: a dirt road, low fences, fields, and the voices of villagers. Outside.
I had already seen this landscape many times. But it was different for Rudeus. He took one step outside, and I followed at his side.
For the first few steps, Rudeus said nothing. He walked as if everything were normal, but his body was slightly stiff. I matched his pace. I judged that Rudeus should be the one leading.
"Are you all right?" Rudeus suddenly asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You look like you’re not having any fun."
"I am observing."
"That answer is never any fun to hear."
"Is that so?"
Rudeus laughed softly, and some of his tension faded. He began greeting the villagers.
"Hello."
"Oh, you’re Paul Greyrat’s boy."
"You’re Roxy’s student, aren’t you?"
"What a polite child."
The villagers knew Rudeus: Paul Greyrat’s son, Zenith Greyrat’s child, Roxy Migurdia’s student. Personal reputation was not formed in isolation. It was formed through family, teachers, and one’s role in the village. Rudeus was safely accepted within that network.
People greeted me as well. "Young Eugene, you came out too."
"Yes."
"You brothers are close."
Close. Rudeus glanced at me at those words. I did not reply. The villagers saw us walking side by side and made their judgment. They did not inspect the reality inside. Human society generally functioned through appearances. That was convenient.
For several days, we walked through the village. More accurately, I accompanied Rudeus along the paths he chose. He memorized the roads, fields, waterways, warehouses, watchtower, and paths into the forest.
He also identified plants: those that could be eaten, used as medicine, or made into poison, and [Vatilus Flowers], which could be used for perfume. It was as though he were preparing for the possibility of being thrown out of his home.
I did not know why he imagined such a situation. But it was not bad. Assuming that a structure such as a home would last forever was dangerous. The same applied to a relationship called family. It could endure, but it could collapse at any time.
Rudeus seemed to understand that. It was probably because of memories from his previous life. The fixation and anxiety he occasionally showed toward family came from there.
The village was small. Everything must initially have been new to Rudeus, but after several days, the range of his movements expanded. Little by little, he went closer to the forest.
The forest was dangerous. Mana accumulated there, and monsters emerged. I had heard this area was relatively safe because monsters were hunted regularly. Relatively. That word was not trustworthy. It did not mean there was no danger, only that no major problem had occurred yet.
Rudeus headed toward a hill with a large tree. It was a good place to observe the terrain around the village.
"You can see the roads pretty well from here," he said, opening the botanical encyclopedia.
"It is lower than the watchtower."
"You can’t climb the watchtower whenever you want."
"That is true."
"You’ve probably gone somewhere even higher at night."
I looked at Rudeus. He was smiling, not interrogating me. It was a joke bordering on certainty. He knew I left the house at night. He did not know everything, but he had noticed some of it.
"High places are advantageous for securing a view."
"So you did go."
"There was no danger."
"Is that supposed to be an answer?"
Rudeus sighed. I looked at the tree. It was old, with deep roots and broad branches. Good for children to play in, and equally good for overlooking the surroundings.
Wind passed by, carrying voices.
"Get out of the village, demon!"
Rudeus stopped. I looked toward the fields. Children’s voices. Multiple individuals. Excited. Using hostile words. Demon. Get out of the village. Social exclusion.
Rudeus’s breathing changed. It was unlike his reaction at the door. Not fear. Memory, anger, and hesitation.
"Go away!"
"Eat this!"
"I hit them!"
Below the hill was a muddy field. Three children were throwing mud at a small child walking along the path. The target could not run because they held a basket against their chest. Their arms were occupied protecting it.
Their hair and clothes were already filthy with mud. Green hair. Elven ears. Their build was similar to Rudeus’s. Gender could not be determined from appearance alone. Fear response was strong. Willingness to resist was low. There were signs of repeated bullying.
Rudeus clenched his fist. He started to move, then stopped for an instant. Memories of his former life seemed to have caught his ankle.
Three against one. Attackers and target.
If I handled it, it would end immediately. It would not take even one second to incapacitate the three children throwing mud. Restraining them without injury would also be simple. Instilling sufficient fear to prevent a recurrence was possible. No—there were even more certain methods.
But before I acted, Rudeus took a step forward. Mana gathered at his fingertips. Mud clumped together, and Rudeus ran down the hill.
I did not follow. This time, I judged that I should not act first. Paul Greyrat had told him to protect the weak. Rudeus remembered those words, and now he was trying to put them into practice.
From the hill, I watched Rudeus Greyrat step outside by his own will for the first time, then move for the sake of someone beyond that door for the first time.
The lump of mud flew precisely into the face of the largest child. The child staggered backward.
"Gah!"
It was not a serious injury. The mud was soft and slow. If it entered the eye, it would cause pain and discomfort, but was unlikely to damage vision. The action was meant to draw attention and change the target of the attack.
All three children looked toward Rudeus. "What was that?"
"Don’t butt into something that doesn’t concern you!"
"Are you on the demon’s side?"
Rudeus stood before them. His legs trembled slightly. He tried to make his voice loud, but his breathing was unsteady. Even so, he did not run.
"I’m not on a demon’s side," Rudeus said. "I’m on the side of the weak."
The statement itself was exaggerated, a dramatic declaration. Rudeus occasionally said things like that—words mixed with embarrassment, bravado, and sincerity. But it was effective.
The bullied child lifted their head. Their eyes showed through the muddy face: wariness, fear, and a very small measure of surprise. They did not seem accustomed to anyone intervening for them.
"Don’t act so cool!"
"You’re that knight’s son!"
"We’ll tell everyone you’re friendly with a demon!"
The threat was simple: ruin his reputation in the village, tell their parents, isolate him as a group. Even among children, power existed through size, age, siblings, parents’ status, and rumors. Cruder than adult society, but structured the same way.
Rudeus stiffened for an instant when they shouted that they would call their older brother. No actual older brother had appeared, but Rudeus’s response was clear. He seemed to be pulled toward memories of his past.
I prepared to move. If Rudeus froze completely, or the three children resorted to direct violence, I would intervene. But Rudeus spoke again.
"S-Shut up! The three of you attacking one person are the worst!"
His voice cracked slightly, but he shouted with conviction. Then he made another lump of mud. This one missed. Not because he deliberately avoided hitting them, but because his emotions had disrupted his control.
The three children counterattacked. Three lumps of mud flew at him. Rudeus dodged: half a step to the right, lowering his knees, leaning his upper body back, and using a short burst of wind to alter the direction of splashing mud.
Footwork learned from Paul Greyrat. Magic learned from Roxy Migurdia. And Rudeus’s own almost cowardly instinct for cautious evasion.
Rudeus was not a strong child. Especially not compared with me. But he knew his own weakness. That was why he chose not to be hit.
"You missed!"
"Stop dodging!"
"Telling someone not to dodge is a strange demand," I murmured.
Rudeus did not hear me. He continued to dodge. After the second lump missed, he no longer attempted to strike them. He only evaded, kept his distance, and moved so he would not be hit.
The three children threw mud for a while longer. But when none of their attacks landed, they soon lost interest. Bullying was generally sustained by the other person’s reaction: fear, tears, anger, humiliation. Without those reactions, aggressors grew bored easily.
"This is boring!"
"Let’s go!"
"We’ll tell everyone the knight’s brat plays with demons!"
They disappeared beyond the field. I watched them go. There was no need to pursue them. The immediate objective was not punishing the aggressors, but protecting the victim—and not disrupting the first connection Rudeus had formed.
I walked down the hill. Rudeus was breathing hard. His physical exhaustion was low for the amount he had moved, but his mental strain was considerable. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and turned to the muddy child.
"Hey, are you all right? Is your basket okay?"
The child hugged the basket and nodded. "Y-Yeah... I’m okay..."
Their voice was quiet. Rudeus paused as he saw their face. I understood the reaction. Even covered in mud, their features were visible: small, slender, frightened. An appearance likely to provoke the desire to protect.
Humans reacted to things that were weak, small, and trembling. Whether that was a genetic mechanism born from reproduction and child-rearing or the result of social learning was difficult to determine. Rudeus reacted as well.
"Come over by the waterway for a moment. I’ll wash you off."
"Huh...?"
The child stared at him in confusion. They did not resist. Whether they lacked the strength to resist or had begun to trust Rudeus was still unclear.
Rudeus made water and adjusted its temperature with the properties of fire. Chantless magic. A combination of water and heat. Its combat application was low-level, but it was highly useful in daily life.
Rudeus used magic in this way too. I found it interesting. Magic, as I had used it, was mostly a means to kill opponents, defend oneself, or control an environment. Yet Rudeus warmed water to wash a child’s hair, then mixed wind and heat to dry it.
He used magic as an extension of daily life. Inefficient, but people found reassurance in such inefficient acts.
"Ah!"
When the water first touched them, the child flinched. Rudeus held them by the nape. Not tightly. I stood nearby and checked the temperature. No skin damage. No drop in body temperature. The basket was safe.
The child soon calmed down. As the mud washed away, their hair color was revealed: emerald green.
Rudeus froze for a very brief moment. He must have remembered what Roxy Migurdia had said: the Superd Race, emerald-green hair, and a red jewel in the forehead. But this child had no jewel there. Their ears were long. Perhaps they were of elven descent. They were certainly not a pure-blooded human.
Mixed ancestry was not uncommon in this world. Yet the village children had grouped that difference beneath a single word: demon. A crude classification.
"Th-thank you..."
Rudeus looked a little smug. "If you don’t firmly push people like that back, they’ll keep getting worse."
"I can’t beat them..."
"What matters is being willing to resist."
"But there are bigger kids usually... I don’t want it to hurt..."
Rudeus fell silent. He understood those words in a way different from mine. Rudeus had been bullied. That memory still held him. He connected the child’s words not to information, but to his own past.
Watching him, I thought that human wounds were not useless. Damage from the past distorted present judgment, but it also allowed people to recognize damage in others. Error and function arose from the same place. It was certainly a strange structure.
"Do they bully you because of your hair color?"
The child looked as if they would nod, but shook their head instead. "I don’t know..."
"What about your father?"
"He’s half-elf... the other half is human."
"And your mother?"
"She’s human, but they say she has a little beastfolk blood..."
Tears welled in the child’s eyes. "So Dad says I’m not a demon... but my hair doesn’t look like his or Mom’s..."
A tear fell. Rudeus patted the child’s head. His movements were awkward, but the child did not shy away.
Zenith Greyrat often patted my head as well. I had never judged the act unpleasant. I simply had not understood its meaning. I still did not fully understand it, but the child before us was calming under that touch. Their breathing slowed, and the tension in their shoulders eased.
People were calmed by another person’s hand. Weak and strange.
"All right, shall we go?" Rudeus asked.
"W-Where...?"
"I’ll go with you. Those kids might come back. Are you going home, or do you need to take that basket somewhere?"
"Lunch... for my father..."
"Then we’ll go with you."
The child glanced at me. They had been aware of me all along, but had not been able to speak to me. I asked, "What is your name?"
The child flinched. "Syl... phy..."
The latter half of the name faded due to their quiet voice. Rudeus smiled brightly.
"I’m Rudeus. This is Eugene, my younger brother."
"We are twins," I said.
"Y-Yeah, but you’re still the younger one."
"By order of birth, that is correct."
Sylphiette looked between us. Rudeus seemed to reassure her. I did not. Whenever our eyes met, she immediately lowered her head. That was natural. I had done nothing for her. It was natural to be drawn first to the person who had helped you rather than one who had done nothing.
"Aren’t you scared?" Sylphiette asked Rudeus.
"Of what?"
"If you’re with me... the other kids..."
"Then you can play with me. We’re friends now."
Sylphiette’s eyes widened.
Friend. The moment that word was spoken, her reaction changed. Her pupils shook, her lips parted slightly, and her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.
The fear did not disappear. But another emotion formed over it: surprise, joy, doubt, and a desire to believe.
I observed the change. The word friend did not physically increase one’s defenses. It did not eliminate aggressors, increase food, or heal wounds. Yet Sylphiette’s breathing steadied. Rudeus’s single sentence created a place for the child in a world where mud had been thrown at her only moments before.
Cause and effect did not match. But the result existed.
"Friend..." Sylphiette repeated very softly.
"Yeah. Friends," Rudeus said casually. It was highly likely that he was only pretending to be casual. Rudeus was not accustomed to having friends either.
Sylphiette nodded.
We headed toward the watchtower. Sylphiette’s father, Rawls, was stationed at a watchtower by the edge of the forest. He was a half-elf with blond hair and long ears. He looked lean, but possessed the muscles of an archer.
Upon seeing Sylphiette, he first checked the condition of her clothes. "Were you bullied today?"
That question came first. Therefore, this was a repeated incident.
Sylphiette shook her head. "I got help."
Rawls looked at us. I watched him look at Rudeus, then at me, then back at Rudeus. His first judgment had gone to Rudeus, likely because Rudeus was easier to approach than I was.
"Greyrat... are you Paul Greyrat’s boys?"
"Yes. I’m Rudeus Greyrat."
"I’m Eugene," I said.
Rawls looked at me for a moment. His expression seemed to stop briefly. People often paused after seeing my face. It could have been because of my appearance, or something else. Rawls soon recovered and smiled.
"I’m Rawls, Sylphiette’s father. I’ve heard about you from Paul Greyrat."
Sylphiette pressed herself to his side. Yet shortly afterward, she looked toward Rudeus again. She had already formed a point of reference. Fast. Dangerously fast.
Rudeus said he would not change his attitude toward Sylphiette whether she was a demon or not. Rawls sighed deeply in relief. Rudeus’s words were not childlike, but rather than find that strange, Rawls received them gratefully.
In an environment where his child was excluded, the polite son of a knight had promised not to show prejudice. To a parent, that fact alone had value.
I spoke to Rawls. "The bullying is likely to recur."
Rawls’s face hardened. "...I suppose it will."
"There were three aggressors. One may be called Somar. They said he has an older brother, but I cannot confirm whether that is true."
Rudeus looked at me. "You heard his name?"
"I analyzed the sounds. One child addressed another by that name."
"You were listening to that too?"
"Yes."
Rawls looked somewhat surprised. I continued. "The immediate physical harm is low, but social isolation is accumulating. Sylphiette is at great risk when traveling alone."
Sylphiette flinched. Rawls rested a hand on her head. "I knew, but... I’m sorry."
Sylphiette shook her head. "It’s okay."
It was not okay. Usually, the words it’s okay did not convey a fact. They were a signal that the speaker did not want the other person to be hurt further. In that respect, human language was inconvenient.
Rudeus seemed to try to change the mood. "Rawls, may we play with Sylphiette for a while? There’s a hill with a big tree on the way here. We’ll play there and bring her back before sunset."
Rawls hesitated, then nodded. "All right. But do not go close to the forest."
"Yes."
Rudeus gave another detailed explanation: where we would play, when we would return, and where Rawls should search if we failed to return by that time. Rawls listened with a blank expression. These were not words a parent was meant to hear from a child. But this world lacked means of communication. Rudeus’s explanation was reasonable.
We returned to the hill. Sylphiette walked a little closer than before. At first, she had stayed three steps behind Rudeus. Then two. By the time we reached the hill, she was close enough to touch the hem of his clothes. I recorded the distance. Rudeus did not notice.
"So, what should we play?" Rudeus asked.
Sylphiette lowered her head. "I don’t know... I’ve never played with a friend..."
Rudeus paused. He had likely repeated the same words to himself in the past. I heard them too: I have never played with a friend.
That was not simply a lack of experience. It was an absence of relationships, an absence of ways to play, an absence of a place among one’s peers. Sylphiette lived within the village, yet remained outside it.
Rudeus smiled. "I don’t know much either. Until recently, I only stayed at home."
Sylphiette raised her head. Those words reassured her.
[The same.]
Humans easily opened their hearts to someone with the same lack.
After that, Sylphiette asked Rudeus to teach her the warm-water and warm-air magic he had used. Her eyes shone. She was the same child who had been crying only moments ago.
Rudeus began explaining: water, fire, wind, temperature, moisture. The explanation was difficult for a child. Sylphiette looked as though she did not understand even half of it. Yet she listened seriously because Rudeus was the one speaking.
Rudeus made a small ball of water over his palm. Sylphiette tried to imitate him. At first, the water scattered. On the second try, it flowed between her fingers. On the third, a tiny drop gathered.
"You did it!" Rudeus said.
Sylphiette beamed. Her smile was entirely different from before. It was not the face of the child being pelted with mud.
Was this a friend? I thought so. I still had no precise definition, but I confirmed one phenomenon. When Sylphiette was with Rudeus, her reactions changed. Her fear decreased, she spoke more, and she lifted her eyes.
The effect differed from healing magic. It did not close wounds. It made a person able to move again.
We remained on the hill until the sun began to set. Rudeus and Sylphiette spoke most of the time. I occasionally answered questions. Sylphiette was cautious each time she spoke directly to me, but as time passed, she shrank back a little less. That alone was a significant change.
When the sun hung low, we brought Sylphiette back to Rawls. He thanked us repeatedly. Rudeus smiled as if it had been nothing. I thought it had been something. This was the day one child’s position in society had begun to change.
When we returned home, Paul Greyrat stood before the entrance. His expression was poor: anger, concern, shame, and tension over needing to behave like a father.
He spoke first. "Do you know why I’m angry?"
Rudeus blinked. "No."
"Ett’s wife just came by. She said you hit Somar."
Somar. As expected. The aggressors’ side had delivered information first. They had likely concealed their own actions and emphasized only the harm they had suffered. Typical self-defense.
Rudeus tried to explain. "I don’t know what Father heard, but—"
"No! If you did something wrong, you apologize first!"
Paul Greyrat raised his voice. I looked at him. He did not yet know the facts, but he had reached a conclusion. That was dangerous. Discipline was necessary, but punishment without confirming the facts damaged trust.
Rudeus’s expression cooled. He was angry, though his face was quiet.
"Sylphiette was walking down the road—"
"Don’t make excuses!" Paul Greyrat cut him off.
At that moment, Rudeus’s eyes changed. They resembled the way he had looked at the children throwing mud, though the target was different. This time, it was Paul Greyrat.
"You get angry and say I’m making excuses the moment I open my mouth," Rudeus said. "You make a child apologize before hearing a single word. Adults have it easy. It’s so simple and quick for you."
Paul Greyrat’s hand moved. I could have stopped it. I had calculated the distance, speed, and angle. But I did not.
His palm struck Rudeus’s cheek. Smack.
Zenith Greyrat caught her breath inside. Lilia stopped moving. Rudeus’s head turned slightly from the blow. He was not injured. There was pain, and humiliation.
Rudeus slowly turned his head back. His voice was low. "Father, until now, I’ve tried as hard as I could to be a good child."
What followed was calm. Because it was calm, it was sharper. Rudeus described how he had behaved, the order in which Paul Greyrat had judged wrongly, and what it meant to hit a child before hearing him out.
Paul Greyrat’s expression gradually hardened. Anger drained from it, replaced by confusion, then regret.
I intervened at an appropriate point. "I will supplement the facts."
Everyone looked at me. "Three children, including one presumed to be Somar, were throwing mud at a child named Sylphiette. Sylphiette could not evade because she was protecting a basket. Rudeus hit one child with mud once, changing the target of the attack to himself. After that, he did not attack again and only evaded the mud they threw."
Paul Greyrat’s lips tightened. I continued. "Rudeus did not hit anyone. No fistfight occurred. Sylphiette’s physical harm was limited to mud and a fear response. I did not examine Somar’s injury, but it is unlikely to have been caused by a direct blow from Rudeus."
Silence fell. Rudeus looked at me in surprise. He had likely not expected me to say such things.
Paul Greyrat could not speak for a long time. Then he slowly lowered his head. "...I’m sorry. I was wrong, Rudeus. Eugene. I got angry without listening properly."
Rudeus said nothing for a moment. He had won. He had won the argument. Yet he did not look pleased. He had not wanted to corner Paul Greyrat. He likely only wanted him to listen.
"Please listen to me first next time," Rudeus said. "I might be wrong. It might sound like an excuse. But I still want you to hear me out first."
Paul Greyrat nodded. "All right."
Zenith Greyrat came out from inside. She looked at Rudeus’s cheek, then at Paul Greyrat. Paul Greyrat shrank back further.
Watching them, I thought that family was a truly strange structure. People made mistakes. Hurt one another. Got angry. Hit each other. Then apologized. Afterward, they still ate in the same house and slept beneath the same roof.
If it were a contract, it could be broken. If it were an organization, someone could be replaced. If it were a dangerous element, it could be removed. But family did not work that way. At least, this family did not.
"Father, can I bring Sylphiette home next time?"
"Hm? Ah, of course."
At that answer, Rudeus’s expression softened a little.
That day, Rudeus gained a friend. Sylphiette. A green-haired child of mixed blood, called a demon in the village and pelted with mud. Rudeus extended his hand to her. I watched from beside him.
I still did not understand the word friend well. It was neither a contract, blood relation, nor a relationship of command. It was a very strange word. But there was too much left behind to call it meaningless.
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