"Happy birthday, nephew!"
A towering, two-meter-tall man grinned with a bulky frame as he stood before him, a massive sword strapped securely across his back. A jagged scar slashed across his left eye, lending his grin a fierce edge. In his outstretched hand gleamed a small, curved knife.
"Thank you, Uncle," Noah said, reaching out. His small fingers brushed the cold, smooth steel. He traced the gentle arc of the blade, his touch lingering on the subtle grooves and the weighty hilt edged with sharp precision.
He had long since accepted that he now lived in a world entirely different from his own.
"Brother, you can't do this! He is only three years old!" his mother immediately objected, scowling.
"War doesn't care how old you are. Better to hold a knife now than face death empty-handed tomorrow."
"But… but handing him a knife…"
"No buts. Time is troubling. If you don't arm yourself, you could die the next day without even knowing it," the uncle said firmly, shaking his head.
"Sigh."
His mother could only lower her head in defeat.
Seeing his mother sad, Noah wanted to console her, but looking at the knife in his hand, he felt helpless.
He wanted to protect his family to his last breath, and from what he knew about this world—filled with violence and laws that barely protected anyone except the king—he had no interest in being weak.
But…
"Uncle, take it back," Noah said quietly, holding the knife out with steady hands. His mother's face lit up with a mix of surprise and relief.
The bulky man froze, his thick brows furrowing as he studied Noah. "Hmph," he muttered, taking the blade with a reluctant grip. "You've got the spine of a warrior, even if you don't see it yet." He ruffled Noah's hair with a rough laugh.
"Now let's blow out the candles for Noah."
After enjoying a hearty cake, Noah savoured chicken legs to his heart's content. His uncle quietly slipped away after a while without anyone noticing.
Of course, the little figure who was paying attention to everything also slipped out a few moments later.
"Uncle, wait for me!"
His uncle paused mid-stride, turning back with a hearty chuckle. 'What is it, brat?' he asked with meaningful eyes. "I thought you'd turned into a coward after giving the knife back. But it seems I was wrong—you've still got warrior blood flowing through those veins, unlike those cowardly exorcists who hide behind their tricks."
After saying this, his uncle handed Noah the knife again and walked away, his laughter echoing through the quiet street. "I shall name you Leon from now on—Leon Finn, not that weak-ass Noah."
Noah stared at the simple curved knife in his hand, his expression unreadable. "If I were truly a kid, I wouldn't have accepted this. My uncle is a little crazy in the head," he thought wryly, his crimson pupils narrowing as he examined the blade.
"Who hands a knife to a toddler?" he muttered under his breath, though a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips despite himself.
Dressed in a loose black robe over a simple white T-shirt and trousers, Noah quickly hid the knife in his back pocket. His movements were cautious, his sharp eyes scanning his surroundings with vigilance.
"Leon Finn, huh…" Noah muttered softly, his voice barely audible over the sound of his quiet steps. He tiptoed his way back to the house, his tiny figure moving cautiously in the dimming light. By the time he reached the front door, beads of sweat trickled down his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt.
As he reached for the door, he suddenly froze.
The memory of his earlier excuse flashed through his mind—he had told his family he was going to meet with fatty. A nervous frown crossed his face. "If I go in now, I might get into trouble."
With a reluctant sigh, he turned on his heel and made his way toward Marcus's house instead.
Compared to his house, which was made of bricks, the fatty's house was made of clay and looked weak, its uneven walls patched with straw and mud, bearing the signs of years of repairs.
An earthy smell of wet clay hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of grass from the nearby fields.
A single, low window allowed a sliver of light to escape, casting a faint glow on the ground outside. Inside, the dim interior revealed mismatched furniture and the faint clatter of dishes being shuffled around.
Noah paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on the house. When he arrived, he spotted fatty, he was devouring a piece of chicken wing, grease glistening on his fingers and chin as he drooled over the next bite.
"What are you doing, fatty?" Noah's voice broke the silence, startling the boy from behind.
Fatty yelped in surprise, nearly dropping the chicken wing he was gnawing on. His plump frame shivered as he turned around, visibly annoyed. "Don't scare me like that!" he snapped, heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief. "And my name is not Fatty."
"Oh?" Noah replied, arching an eyebrow. "Then what is it?"
He puffed up his chest, "It's Marcus. Marcus Leyland."
Noah's gaze drifted across the open land, completely ignoring Marcus. Patches of freshly tilled soil stretched out under the warm glow of the setting sun, the earth rich and dark. The soft rustle of leaves mingled with the distant sounds of farmers calling to one another.
"What are you here for?" Marcus frowned, a snarl of displeasure tugging at his chubby features.
"I just need to rest here for a while," Noah murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "If my parents ask, let them know I was here."
"Sigh, fine, fine."
Marcus shook his head helplessly, folding his arms across his plump chest. The warm breeze ruffled his hair, but his mood remained far from pleasant.
Noah's gaze drifted with a confusing thought in his heart.
This fatty's family was actually well-off, owning tens of acres of land and employing these farmers, yet he felt puzzled because he seemed poorer than his own family, who didn't own any land. In fact, his mother and father stayed at home most of the time.
His father occasionally came home carrying dead animals, and that was about it. Could a hunter truly compare in wealth to a landlord?
After staying in this place for half an hour, Noah quietly left, clutching the fabric of robes tightly.
The rough wood of the knife's hilt dug into his palm as he gripped it tightly, its weight felt oddly comforting to him.
The setting sun bathed the horizon in molten gold, its rays brushing Noah's pale face with a fleeting warmth.
Shadows lengthened around him, the golden light catching the white strands of his hair, making them glow like threads of moonlight and his crimson pupils against the pale of his skin shone with the reflection of the dawning sun. He has inherited these features from his mother.
"Sigh, why is this Noah always so cold and distant?" The fatty shook his head and continued to eat his chicken nuggets with relish.
"He doesn't even have friends; our acquaintance isn't enough for that…"
Noah returned home, settled onto the cushion, and tried to meditate. But today, his mind refused to quiet.
Countless thoughts flooded his mind, and his heart grew restless.
He opened his eyes, revealing his crimson pupils. "What went wrong?"
"Maybe it's because of this knife?"
Thinking of this, he used his tiny hand to slowly move the weathered wood on the floor. After applying sufficient strength, he finally managed to create a gap.
He promptly placed the knife carefully inside, hiding it with a piece of woollen cloth wrapped around it, and then replaced the wood, completely covering his tracks.
"Hope this works."