"Why did you do that?"
The old man's question caught me off guard. I paused mid-bite, my mind racing to understand his meaning. Seeing my confusion, he clarified, his voice gentle yet probing.
"Why did you help me there, young man?"
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze. The question seemed simple, but it demanded more than a simple answer. I glanced down at my food, my thoughts drifting back to the scene earlier, to the faces of the bullies and the anger that had surged within me.
Why had I helped him?
"I don't know…" I began, my voice uncertain. "I guess I just couldn't stand to see them bullying you like that."
The old man continued to look at me, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. "But why? You didn't have to get involved. You could have walked away like so many others."
His words echoed in my mind, triggering memories of my own struggles, of Stroud's mockery, and the countless times I had felt powerless. I took a deep breath, trying to piece together my feelings.
"Maybe… because I know what it feels like," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know what it's like to be picked on, to be seen as weak and helpless. And I just hated it at that time."
The old man nodded slowly, his expression softening. "So, you acted out of empathy, then?"
I thought about it for a moment. Empathy… was that it? Perhaps it was part of it, but there was more. I felt a deep-seated anger, a desire to fight back against the unfairness of it all.
"I think it was more than just empathy," I said, my voice growing stronger. "It was also anger. Anger at seeing someone else suffer the way I have. Anger at those who think they can just take what they want because they're stronger."
The old man's gaze grew thoughtful. "You remind me of someone I once knew," he said quietly. "Someone who also couldn't stand to see injustice."
I looked up at him, curious. "Who was that?"
"A long time ago, I had a friend. He was much like you—brave, passionate, and unwilling to back down in the face of injustice. He stood up for the weak and fought against those who abused their power." The old man's eyes grew distant, lost in memories. "But the world wasn't kind to him. He faced many hardships, and his path was not an easy one."
I listened intently, feeling a strange connection to the story. "What happened to him?"
"He became a great warrior, respected and feared by many. But in the end, his desire to protect others cost him dearly. He made many enemies and lost much along the way. Even the people he thought he was close to turned out to be strangers."
The old man's voice grew softer, tinged with a sadness that mirrored the weight of his words. "He did everything for everyone without distinguishing between family or friends. He treated all people equally and judged them by the same standards. But perhaps because of that, he grew distant from those he was closest to."
I could see the pain in the old man's eyes, the regret that seemed to seep from every word. He continued, "He believed in fairness and justice, but in doing so, he overlooked the unique bonds and responsibilities that come with close relationships. His impartiality, while noble, made him seem cold and detached from those who cared for him. They felt as though he placed the needs of strangers above their own."
I felt a pang of sympathy and a hint of fear. "What happened to him in the end?"
The old man sighed deeply, his gaze distant. "Eventually, he was cast away by those he had sought to protect. They couldn't understand his choices, and in their eyes, he had become a stranger. The very people he thought he was protecting began to see him as an outsider, someone who didn't belong."
I frowned, the old man's story stirring a mix of emotions within me. It felt uncomfortably familiar, echoing the situation I found myself in now—discarded by my family, with no one to believe in me. The weight of their judgment still pressed heavily on my shoulders.
The old man looked at me thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You look young," he said, his voice gentle but probing. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," I replied quietly, the word feeling heavy on my tongue.
The old man's eyes widened in surprise. "Fourteen? And what are you doing here, in this place?"
I hesitated, the question bringing back the memories of my recent ordeal. The accusation, the trial, the punishment—all of it felt like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I struggled to find the words to explain.
"If you don't want to answer, that is fine." The old man replied, waving his head. But he did not leave.
"..."
As if he knew I would eventually speak. Slowly, I started forming the words in my head.
"I was... accused of a crime I didn't commit," I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. "My family didn't believe me. They sent me here as punishment, to fight on the front lines."
The old man's expression softened with understanding and sympathy. "That's a heavy burden for someone so young," he said quietly. "To be cast aside by your own family, to be thrust into a world of violence and death... it's a harsh fate."
I nodded, the weight of his words pressing down on me. "I don't know why this happened," I admitted. "I've tried to be a good son, to live up to my family's expectations, but it was never enough. And now, I'm here, alone and fighting for my life."
"That is a sad fate," the old man replied, looking at the sky. It was dark, filled with stars. The cold breeze rustled through the trees, adding to the chill of the night.
We sat in silence, the cold air wrapping around us like a shroud. The old man didn't try to soothe me or offer false comfort. Instead, he spoke plainly, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience.
"The world is often unfair," he said. "There are times when it seems like everything is stacked against you when you're left wondering why things happen the way they do. But that's just the way it is. The world isn't always just, and it doesn't always make sense."
I managed a small smile, appreciating his honesty. "Yeah, that's true," I said. "It doesn't make sense, but we still have to keep going."
The old man nodded, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding. "Exactly. We have to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult it gets."
A moment of silence passed before I turned to him with a question that had been on my mind. "How did you end up here?"
The old man's gaze shifted, a distant look in his eyes. "I was just a beggar on the streets, trying to survive," he began. "I didn't have much, just the clothes on my back and the hope of finding something to eat each day. One day, I was so hungry that I stole some food. But sadly, the bread I had stolen was being prepared for the son of the Baron. I did not know it; if I had known, I would have never done such a thing. Eventually, I was caught, and they sent me here as punishment as those breads were now in my stomach."
His story was simple compared to the one about his friend. It was odd and weird, but I somehow wasn't able to find what it was at all.
But still, just because of some bread, he had been sent to this place.
'The life outside the Mansion is definitely different.'
For the first time in my life, I had contact with someone who was not affiliated with my family and was a commoner.
"That's harsh," I said quietly. "Just for trying to survive."
I glanced around at the other trainees, many of whom still eyed me with suspicion and disdain. For the first time, I began to understand their hatred. If I were in their shoes, suffering under the whims of the powerful, I would likely feel the same.
"It's no wonder they hate me," I murmured, more to myself than to the old man.
The old man shrugged, a resigned look on his face. "Life is harsh sometimes. But you do what you have to do to keep going."
I nodded, feeling a sense of solidarity with him. Despite our different backgrounds, we were both here, facing the same struggles and fighting for our lives.
"Thank you, young man," the Old man said with a serene smile.
"Lucavion," I replied, deciding that it would be better to address each other by name.
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, Lucavion. A fine name."
"And what should I call you?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "you don't need to call me anything special. Just call me 'old man.'"
But it seemed this old man had a weird quirk.
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