Kays Translations

Short Story to Commemorate the Book Release

Life in the House of Kaupels

The Missing Alchemist’s Life n Another World: A Commemorative Short Story for the Book Release “Since I Was Reincarnated With Nothing but Magic Power, I Decided to Begin Alchemy.”

Six Months After Martine Returned to the Kaupels Estate With Arthur

“—What do you think you’re doing?!”

My voice rang sharply across the nursery, slicing through the quiet afternoon. The maid froze mid-motion, her hand still hovering above the baby crib.

“—?! O-Oh, Martine-sama!” she stammered, face paling.

“I told you already—you are not to enter this room! Get out. Now.”

Her eyes darted nervously before she gave a shallow bow and fled, skirts rustling as the door shut behind her.

It wasn’t the first time. Months ago, one careless maid had hurt Arthur by accident. Since then, I’d given strict orders: no one was to enter this room without permission. Yet even with that rule in place, the moment I left for a short while, another maid had tried to touch my son.

A quiet sigh escaped me as I turned toward the crib. The air smelled faintly of milk and clean linens. Arthur, nestled among soft blankets, blinked up at me with his round, sky-colored eyes. He was perfectly fine—no signs of distress. His tiny hands were clutching a stuffed animal, waving it about in delight.

“Daah, fuu!” he gurgled.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Hehe, you want to be held, don’t you?”

When I lifted him into my arms, his warmth seeped into me. He was heavier than before—proof that he was growing, that he was thriving.

“Oh, Arthur, you’re so lively today,” I whispered, pressing my cheek to his soft hair.

Yet that joy always came with a pang of memory.

He hadn’t always been this healthy. Arthur had been born an entire month early, so small and fragile that he had teetered between life and death right after birth. The midwife later told me that in cases of premature delivery, it wasn’t uncommon for newborns to fail to breathe at all. Arthur had been one of those children.

He hadn’t drawn breath when he came into this world.

Desperate, the midwife used wind magic to force air into his lungs—to make him breathe. It was a reckless act, one forbidden except in direst emergency. A newborn’s magical resistance is almost nonexistent; exposure to foreign mana can easily damage their internal mana circuits, leading to lifelong injury—or death.

But leaving him as he was meant certain death.

So the midwife made her choice. “If we’re to save him, we have no other way,” she’d said, and invoked her spell.

By some miracle, Arthur had begun breathing within ten minutes. He lived—yet the spell had left a scar within him. His magical channels were partially damaged. And because of that, he would never be able to wield elemental magic.

“My fault…” I murmured, my voice trembling with guilt.

“Chui, chui,” Arthur cooed softly, reaching up to pat my cheek with his tiny hand as if to comfort me.

A laugh escaped through my tears. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

When I hugged him close again, he let out a happy squeal and wrapped his arms around my neck, returning the embrace with all the strength his little body could muster.

“Fwaa, raah,” he babbled contentedly.

I carried him over to the sofa and sat down, my heart finally at ease. From there, Arthur stretched his hand toward the table, where a few books lay scattered.

“Oh my, you want to read again?” I said. “Which one shall we read today?”

“Ta-ta! Ta-ta!” he exclaimed, pointing eagerly.

The book his tiny finger indicated was “The Heroic Tales of the Kingdom of Dammels,” a collection of stories about the founding king and the legendary warriors who had shaped the realm’s history. At first, I had read him simple picture books, but lately, he seemed far more interested in stories with real heroes and adventure.

“Faa?” he asked, tilting his head in that disarming way of his—like he was asking, ‘Is that okay?’

How could anyone resist that? My heart melted at the sight.

But then—

“Oneesan! Where are you, Oneesan?!”

I sighed. Again.

This house had once been little more than a converted storage building. The walls were thin, the rooms few—he had no need to shout like that.

Before I could respond, the door burst open.

“There you are!” Ditnell strode in, his voice sharp and accusatory. “Honestly, could you not at least answer when I call? Well, no matter. Even so, Oneesan, you’ve behaved disgracefully! Hardly the conduct befitting a lady!”

His words hit like a slap. I stared at him, momentarily speechless.

“What are you—?”

“To raise your hand against a maid not once, but repeatedly! You’ve become an embarrassment to the Kaupels family. As if bearing a defective child and then returning home in shame weren’t enough—must you bring further disgrace upon us?”

My blood went cold.

“I did nothing of the sort—”

“Oh, spare me your excuses,” he said with a smug curl of his lip. “The maid came to me in tears, and I took her under my protection. You won’t be able to talk your way out of this one.”

“I told her only to leave—”

“I’ll handle her punishment myself,” Ditnell interrupted, dismissive. “But I’ll be reporting this to Father. Be prepared to face the consequences. Until judgment is decided, you are not to leave this cottage. Understood?”

And with that, without waiting for my reply, he turned and left—leaving the air heavy with his arrogance and the faint slam of the door behind him.

I sat frozen for a long moment, Arthur’s breathing soft against my chest.

“What was that even about…?”

Accused of violence? I’d done no such thing. Yes, I’d dismissed the maid, but that was for breaking my clear orders. If she wept afterward, it was her own fault.

“…Could there be another reason, like before?” I murmured.

My mind drifted back to a memory—two years ago, when Ditnell and Rosanne-san had entered the Noble Academy.

Not long after their enrollment, rumors had begun to spread. Rosanne killed someone, people whispered.

The truth was far different. On her journey to Kaupstat, twelve-year-old Rosanne had been attacked by bandits—and had simply defended herself. Yet Ditnell had twisted the tale, leaving out the attackers’ identity, saying only: ‘Rosanne killed many when she was twelve.’

It painted her as a murderer, and the entire academy had turned on her. Few had known the truth; bandit raids were common, and the matter had never been publicized.

I had confronted Ditnell when I discovered he was the source. He had merely smiled and said, “I never lied. How others interpret my words isn’t my fault.”

Cowardly. Despicable.

When I later learned he’d done it simply because Rosanne had scored higher than him in swordsmanship trials, I could only stare in disbelief. To wound his fiancée’s reputation out of wounded pride—such pettiness defied reason.

And now, I wondered… what was his aim this time?

“Is it just to make me miserable,” I murmured, “or does he have another motive entirely?”

Ditnell could be ruled by emotion, but he was also cunning when it served him. Was this another petty act of cruelty—or part of something larger?

“…No,” I said quietly to myself. “I might be overthinking.”

Arthur gazed up at me, blinking curiously. “Naa, naa?”

I smiled faintly, brushing his soft hair. “It’s nothing, darling. Come on—let’s finish our story.”

Still, even as I opened the book again, a shadow lingered in my heart.

Whatever was coming, I would be ready for it.

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