On the day of triumph,
In stark contrast to the bustling celebrations filling the capital's streets and alleys, the Count's mansion lay silent. No grand feast, no festive ceremonies— not even a modest gathering marked his return.
Upon disembarking at the port, the Count declined the prepared honor guard of a thousand soldiers from the expedition fleet. Instead, he hurried home and turned away well-wishers with the excuse that, after years of battle, he needed time to comfort his lonely wife. Though some ambitious flatterers felt disappointed, everyone accepted this noble excuse.
Now, in the mansion's grand hall, the returning hero of the Imperial Navy stood face-to-face with his own young son. His gaze was somber, weighted with an intensity of emotions. If not for his trust in his wife's fidelity, Count Raymond's first reaction upon seeing the boy would have been to doubt the child was his. For the child's appearance bore little resemblance to his own.
The men of the Rowland family were famed for their rugged, powerful stature, embodying ideals of strength and heroism. By these standards, Count Raymond himself was a figure of robust build and striking presence. Yet, before him now was a mere child— a slender, pale boy of three who looked more fragile than any Rowland man should. A serious illness had, perhaps, left him weakened, or so Raymond tried to convince himself.
As his future heir, young Du Wei Rowland sat in silence, his gaze meeting his father's with a calm composure that irked the Count. By tradition, the louder a child's cry, the stronger his spirit. This boy, however, was unsettlingly quiet. He simply sat on the bed, hands placed on his knees, looking up at his father, his expression one of detached curiosity, even scrutiny.
Count Raymond dismissed the thought as ridiculous. How could such profound emotions dwell in the eyes of a three-year-old?
Yet, the boy's mind, untroubled by his age, was more complex than even his father's. The Countess's gentle love had softened his heart, and he now harbored a wary curiosity toward this sudden "father." Where, he wondered, had this man come from?
"Can he really not speak yet?" Count Raymond's tone was severe, though it softened when he glimpsed the tears in his wife's eyes. Three years at sea had left her to endure pregnancy and motherhood alone. Sighing, he conceded, "Well, we shall bring the Empire's most learned teachers to his side. He will speak in time. But his frail state is concerning. The Rowlands are a military family, and my son must follow my path, growing into a figure fit for Imperial service. His training must begin early. I believe Alpha, my loyal captain of the guard, would be ideal to teach him the basics."
The Countess, her eyes brimming with tears, protested, "But…he's so young."
"That's precisely why he needs it—to overcome this weakness and inherit our family's military prowess!" Count Raymond insisted, resolute in his decision.
The next day, following a formal audience in the palace, Count Raymond was awarded a third First-Class Medal of Valor by the Emperor himself and elevated to the position of Vice Commander in the Empire's High Command—a post second only to the Emperor. He relinquished his military rank, handed over his naval command, and hurried home, declining every congratulatory banquet and polite invitation, even from the priests of the Temple of the Radiant Goddess.
By now, it was no secret in the capital that Count Rowland's son was an imbecile. Seeing the faint sadness in Raymond's eyes, his allies could not help but feel a pang of sympathy, while his rivals quietly rejoiced.
Back home, the Count faced his son alone. This time, the beautiful Countess was absent, replaced by Alpha, his captain of the guard, a First-Class Swordsman of the Empire, and a master of the Flowing Flame Sword—a skill acknowledged among the very best in the Imperial capital.For some inexplicable reason, Count Raymond harbored a slight aversion toward his own son. The boy's gaze, which should have been blank and innocent, seemed instead to carry a faint hint of resistance. Yet he told himself he was likely imagining things—after all, how could a three-year-old understand such matters? Moreover, having been away on expedition, he hadn't held his son even once since birth; the child's unfamiliarity with him was only natural.
The Captain of the Guard knelt on one knee beside Du Wei's bed with the impeccable decorum of a family retainer, then carefully lifted the boy, stripped away his clothes, and methodically examined every inch of his small frame. Du Wei squirmed, clearly uncomfortable being handled this way, but he was powerless to resist the strength of an imperial first-class swordsman.
The Captain sighed heavily, his expression somber, as he gently set the child back on the bed and rose to his feet after saluting the Count. "My lord," he said in a measured tone.
"Speak plainly, Alpha. You're my most trusted companion; there's no need for reserve," the Count replied with a sigh.
"Young Master Du Wei's body is extremely frail," the Captain began hesitantly, "and he seems to suffer from… certain congenital weaknesses. His bones are delicate, his heartbeat irregular. Frankly, his constitution is even poorer than the average child. If he is to learn martial arts in the future, I fear…" He hesitated, gritting his teeth. "I fear there is little hope for any significant achievement."
"What, then, do you recommend?"
"I believe, my lord, that martial training may not be the best path for the young master. Perhaps we should observe if he exhibits any talent in other fields."
The Count's face darkened as he heard these words.
The shattering of his hopes for his son's martial future weighed heavily on the Count for several days. Yet, comforted by his beautiful wife, he finally rallied. After all, this was his only son. And although the Rolin family had made its name through valor, there were ancestors who had achieved distinction as brilliant tacticians rather than martial heroes. They did not fight on the frontlines, but commanded from afar, leading troops with wisdom and strategy.
A great general need not wield extraordinary combat skills personally; if Du Wei could one day master grand strategy and command, he, too, could bring honor to the Rolin name. And if martial prowess was not his path, then let it be knowledge instead.
But a child who could not yet speak—how could he be taught anything at all? Even if they summoned a learned scholar to impart knowledge, the boy would at least need to speak first.
Where the Countess, in her gentle, maternal heart, saw only her son's innocence, Count Raymond harbored a different thought. He sensed that the boy's silence was not due to inability, but rather reluctance. The more often he visited his son, the more he felt the boy was not a simple-minded fool, oblivious to the world around him, but rather a child rejecting it altogether. There was clear emotion in his eyes—a distant, alienated defiance, not the vacant stare of ignorance.
Thus, a lavish reward was declared throughout the capital: regardless of birth or station, be they esteemed scholar or humble farmer, anyone who could coax a single word from the young heir would receive a thousand gold coins!
This strange proclamation quickly spread across the city, attracting an odd assortment of hopefuls, including a few traveling minstrels. Their methods were equally bizarre—some played flute melodies by Du Wei's bedside for hours, others beat gongs near his ear, and one even attempted to startle the boy with sudden shouts behind him. There was one bold soul who suggested throwing the boy into a river, reasoning that he'd surely speak up to plead for help. The man was promptly thrown out of the Count's residence with broken legs for his trouble.
"Throw him into the river? Even if my son were a simpleton, he's still my son!" Count Raymond growled in disgust.
As the capital buzzed with gossip about the peculiar contest, it was, in fact, one of the household servants who unwittingly solved the puzzle. The man, a former groom named Mad, had been "appointed" by Du Wei's mutterings during a bout of feverish delirium. A simple and good-hearted fellow, Mad had the idea of taking Du Wei to visit the stables, reasoning that most young children were delighted by animals.
The Count agreed, seeing no harm in trying.
When Mad carried the young master into the stables, however, it so happened that the current stablehand had neglected to clean out the horse manure. As the stable doors opened, an overpowering stench of dung hit them like a wall. Mad nearly staggered back from the foul odor.
In a spontaneous reaction, Du Wei exclaimed, "It stinks!"
The result was that Mad received the thousand-coin reward on the spot, and even the negligent stablehand went unpunished, receiving twenty coins as well.
Watching his son, now looking slightly deflated, Count Raymond became convinced of one thing: this boy had chosen not to speak on purpose.
"From today, he shall be your tutor," the Count announced, indicating the elderly man in a white robe standing beside him. "This is Master Roziat, an imperial astrologer and renowned scholar of history. He will be your mentor."
At first, the esteemed Roziat fulfilled his duties splendidly. In just a year, Du Wei, though barely four, could already write in the imperial script. This early grasp of letters, though modest, was uncommon in children of his age.
Even the Count, who held a measure of distaste for his son, began to feel a flicker of pride. Could his son be… a prodigy?
But by the time Du Wei turned five, Roziat encountered challenges of his own.
One evening, as the Count and Roziat conferred in the study, the elderly scholar looked utterly defeated. "My lord," he said, a tremor in his voice, "I must humbly ask you to find another, more capable than I, to teach your son. Young Master Du Wei is exceptionally bright, and I, as an old man, lack the strength to instruct such a pupil…"
The Count's face fell. Even a fool could see that "exceptionally bright" was but an excuse. Could his son truly be beyond hope? Even one as learned as Master Roziat seemed unable to manage him.
"Master Roziat…" the Count began grimly.
"No, no, dear Count," Roziat stammered, "please do not try to persuade me. This task is simply beyond my abilities!"
Roziat's tone was so resolute that the Count could only give a wry smile. Could tutoring his son truly be such an "impossible" mission? If even a gifted scholar of the Count's own choosing found the task insurmountable, what hope was there?
In truth, Roziat himself was shaken to the core. Teaching a child was one thing, but listening to a five-year-old offer insights like "over-centralization of royal power is the root of tyranny" nearly gave the poor scholar a heart attack. If the boy had merely made innocent observations about the heavens or the seasons, Roziat might have dismissed them as child's prattle. But the depth of his insights left him certain these were ideas the Count must have aired at home—surely unwittingly absorbed by his son.
The Count's trusted advisor fled the household as swiftly as possible, leaving the Count with the growing dread that his son might indeed be beyond salvation.
Du Wei, meanwhile, quietly watched from a tower window as the old scholar climbed into a carriage and departed.
"Master Du Wei," Mad said, cautiously breaking the silence when he noticed the young heir's sullen expression.
"Mad," Du Wei replied, his voice low and contemplative, "do you think ignorance is a form of bliss?"
The former groom, ill-equipped to answer such a question, stood in stunned silence. Ignorance? Was his young master troubled by such matters? Yet he dared not answer.
"Never mind," Du Wei murmured, turning away with a weary expression.
Compared to this world, I know too much.
I understand why the sun and moon hang in the sky, why night follows day, why the seasons cycle through each year. Yet it's precisely this knowledge that brings sorrow. Perhaps in this world, ignorance truly is a kind of happiness.