Kays Translations

Chapter 2: Carried by Fate to a Remote Village

Before anyone gets the chance to ask me that tired question—“And just who are you?”—I think it’s better that I explain things in my own words. That way, there won’t be any confusion later.

To begin with, when it comes to family, I really only have one person I can call my own: my mother, Martine.

As for my father, I’m told he’s none other than the head of House Vahenal, a powerful marquisate. But in truth, I’ve never laid eyes on him, nor have I even heard his name spoken in our home. To me, he is nothing more than a distant shadow, an unfamiliar figure who happens to share my blood.

And here’s the curious part: there was no love between my parents. Not even the cold logic of a political marriage bound them together. No, the chain that linked them was far more transactional, almost cruel in its simplicity.

It all began three years before my birth, on the day the Crown Prince was wed.

When the Crown Prince marries, it is only a matter of time before he sires children. The moment noble families caught wind of that inevitability, they scrambled. Why? Because in the world of nobility, proximity to the royal heirs—whether through marriage or trusted companionship—means power. Families rushed to produce children of similar age to the future royal offspring. If the age gap was no more than two years, then at the Royal Academy they would have the chance to mingle, to forge bonds. Yet the most advantageous position of all belonged to those of exactly the same age.

After all, if your child shared the Crown Prince’s birthday year, they would debut at the same coming-of-age ball, attend the same classes, and perhaps grow up shoulder to shoulder with royalty itself. That alone could secure a lifetime of influence.

But nature doesn’t always bend to ambition. One cannot simply will a child to be born at the perfect moment.

At that time, the Marquis of Vahenal had just inherited his title. He had a proper wife—the marchioness—and already an heir. What he lacked was a cluster of younger siblings to strengthen his family’s standing.

So, when the Crown Prince’s marriage was announced, the Marquis did not simply seek a concubine to bear him children. No, he devised a scheme: he would surround himself with many mistresses, then elevate whichever woman produced the most valuable child into the position of official consort.

But what makes a child valuable in his eyes? Bloodline. Heritage. Ability. Power. Which meant the women he chose had to be noble-born, gifted in some fashion, and above all, expendable.

Thus, the Marquis sought out indebted noble families and offered them salvation: in exchange for their daughters, he would erase their debts and provide them with new terms.

Among those who fit the criteria was House Kaupels, a minor viscountcy drowning in debt. The Marquis approached the head of the family, Bosman Kaupels, and presented his offer:

“Give me your daughter as a mistress. In return, I will shoulder your debts, render them interest-free, and extend repayment over thirty years.”

It was a bargain Bosman could not refuse. And so, my mother was handed over.

That is the story of my conception—or so I’ve pieced together from fragments whispered by members of the Kaupels household. Whether it is the unvarnished truth or a tale polished to excuse past sins, I cannot say.

Had things ended there, I might still have found myself acknowledged—perhaps as an illegitimate son of the Marquis, perhaps given some modest station. But fate was not so kind.

Shortly after my birth, I underwent the customary examination. From the flow of my mana, the mages expected to discern my elemental affinity. Yet there was nothing. No spark, no attribute—nothing at all.

When the Marquis received the report, he coldly dismissed me with a single phrase: “A defective product has no place in the House of Vahenal.”

And with those words, he severed ties. My mother and I were returned to the Kaupels estate, not as honored kin but as discarded goods.

Even the Kaupels family seemed stunned. They had expected their daughter to remain within the Marquis’ household, her child granted at least some recognition. Instead, they received back both mother and child, carrying nothing but the Marquis’ written assurance that he would honor his financial promises despite the rejection.

So it was that I grew up in the viscount’s home. I learned words, letters, and immersed myself in books, grasping knowledge wherever I could. It was in those early years that I first understood what it meant to be called defective.

At the beginning, the viscount’s household treated my mother with a shade of pity, whispering that she had sacrificed her life for the family’s sake. But pity sours quickly. Soon enough, the whispers turned to venom.

“Defective’s mother.”
“The woman unloved by the Marquis.”

And when my mother wasn’t within earshot, the maids let their cruelty slip toward me as well:

“Why not throw out the trash?”
“Such a shame, a child stuck with a mother like that.”

Their words stung, yet more than anger, I felt confusion. Was it my fault? Should I rage against them, or bow my head and apologize? Either way, I could only feel guilty toward my mother, who bore the brunt of it all.

I lived in that house until I was three. Then one day, my grandfather Bosman brought a marriage proposal for my mother. The suitor was some merchant guildmaster. I remember sitting quietly beside her when Bosman’s gaze flicked toward me and he said coldly:

“As for that… it will go to an orphanage.”

My mother smiled serenely as she replied, “I see.”

I told myself it couldn’t be helped, that this was simply the way of things. Yet my heart clenched with loneliness.

But three days later, my mother severed all ties with House Kaupels, relinquished her title, and stepped down into the life of a commoner. She took my hand and led me away.

That moment has remained etched into me. I had believed all along that one day I would be abandoned. Instead, she chose me over the gilded cage of nobility. She cast aside luxury and status, simply to stay by my side.

From that day forward, I vowed to make her happy.

Of course, my mother is not as fragile as she appears. Before leaving, she cleverly sent a copy of our disownment papers to House Vahenal itself, ensuring that the Kaupels family would not dare meddle with us further.

I can still remember her expression as the carriage carried us away—her smile sharp and dark as she chuckled to herself. It was terrifying… and unforgettable.

But I digress. Let me continue.

We eventually settled here, in a remote village called Helvendorp, part of the lands belonging to Baron Merlot. The wilderness presses close on every side—untamed forests and rugged mountains enclosing us in green silence.

Our home is a modest farmhouse, about twenty years old, two stories tall. There are two rooms upstairs, two more on the ground floor, plus a dining kitchen. The largest space is the earthen storeroom—nearly twenty tatami mats in size—with a cool cellar beneath it for preservation. Strangely, the storage is more spacious than the living areas, but such is the design of farmhouses.

We have no bath, only a simple bathing spot outside, screened with wooden planks, with water jars set out for washing away the dirt of the fields.

There are three of us living here: my mother, myself, and Stefana.

Stefana is not family. She is a slave belonging to Baron Merlot. Officially, she serves as my mother’s bodyguard. Unofficially, she is our warden, ensuring we cause no trouble in the Baron’s domain.

In truth, to the Baron, we are little more than former nobles turned troublesome commoners.

Stefana herself is striking: long, wavy crimson hair like a living flame, a proud and commanding face, marred by a scar running from forehead to jaw across her left side. She looks every inch the veteran warrior. Yet in reality, she once ranked only as a D-class adventurer—stronger than the average soldier, but far from legendary. She was chosen not for her power but for her appearance and the fact that, being a woman, she would be deemed less threatening.

Why was a guard even necessary? It all began with Tobias, the Baron’s eldest son.

When my mother and I first visited the Baron’s estate—ostensibly to congratulate her old school friend, Lady Rosanne, on her childbirth—she confided that we sought a quiet place to live. Tobias, without consulting his father, offered us land in this village at a bargain.

Normally, nobles moving into another’s domain are strictly monitored. Outsiders are not granted secluded homes beyond the watchful eye of the ruling family. But Tobias treated us not as nobles, but as commoners, given that my mother had already renounced her title.

The Baron, however, saw it differently: to him, we were still of noble blood, and our settlement counted as a noble migration.

Thus came the compromise—we would live here, under the guise of “a respectable widow and her slave bodyguard.” No mention of my mother’s past as a noblewoman, nor of her ties to the Baron’s family.

And so, for the past two years, we have lived quietly in this out-of-the-way village called Helvendorp.

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