The Day of Triumph
The atmosphere within the Count's mansion stood in stark contrast to the jubilation filling the streets and alleys of the Imperial Capital. There was no grand feast, no celebratory ceremony, not even a simple cocktail party.
After leaving the docks, Count Raymon had rushed back home, leaving even the planned ceremony—where a thousand soldiers selected from the expeditionary fleet were to march into the city for a public review—in the hands of his deputy. Once home, he declined all visitors. The official excuse was: after years of campaigning, the Count needed some private time to soothe the lonely heart of his beloved wife at home.
Although this disappointed many who had painstakingly prepared to flatter the Empire's new hero, this seemingly respectable excuse was readily accepted by all.
And now, within the mansion of Count Rollin, the triumphant hero of the Imperial Navy sat facing his biological son.
His gaze was deep, melancholy, and complex.
Had he not been utterly convinced of his wife's fidelity… Count Raymon's first thought upon seeing the child before him would have been: Is this truly my seed?
Because the child's appearance differed drastically from his own!
The men of the Rollin family were renowned for their robust, manly image! The standard image of a Rollin man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a wide chest, thick arms, a square-jawed face, a straight nose—the epitome of a rugged, heroic man!
At the very least, Count Raymon himself fit this description. He was imposing and handsome, considered exceptionally good-looking among the Imperial nobility, famous in his youth as a paragon of masculinity.
But this little thing before him…
Though only three years old, he seemed far too pale and frail for the famously sturdy Rollin lineage… Hmm… The Count recalled the child had fallen seriously ill a month prior; perhaps that explained his current weakness.
Meanwhile, the three-year-old future heir to the Rollin earldom, Duvalin Rollin, stared back at his father with an impassive expression. He didn't cry loudly or vigorously like children his age usually would, which displeased the Count greatly. Tradition held that the louder a child cried, the healthier they were!
This child before him was unnervingly quiet. He sat on the bed, hands resting on his knees, head raised as he looked at his father—with what seemed like curiosity, or perhaps scrutiny.
The Count decided he must be mistaken.
How could a three-year-old's eyes hold such complex emotion?!
While the Count brooded, Duvalin Rollin's feelings were undoubtedly far more complicated.
The beautiful and mature Countess, with her maternal love and actions over the past month, had successfully softened Duvalin's heart.
But this suddenly appearing "father"…
Hmph, where did he spring from!
"He… truly still doesn't speak?" The Count's expression was stern as he glanced at his wife beside him. Seeing the tears welling in her eyes, his heart softened slightly. He remembered his three-year absence at sea, leaving her neglected. He hadn't been there for her during childbirth, when a woman most needed her husband's comfort. That his only son had turned out like this… it wasn't something he could blame this poor woman for. His tone gentled: "Very well, my dear. If the child doesn't speak, we'll hire the Empire's most learned tutors. He will speak. But he is too frail. Our Rollin family has always stood firm in the Empire through martial prowess. My son will naturally follow my path, becoming an Imperial General. Such weakness won't do… Hmm, he is three now. It's time to consider finding him a tutor. A weak body can be strengthened with years of training… What about Alva? He is my most loyal Captain of the Guard, highly skilled in martial arts, utterly devoted to the family. I propose Alva begins teaching Duvalin some basic exercises starting next month."
Hearing that her poor son was to begin training so young, tears streamed from the Countess's beautiful eyes: "But… he's still so small."
"Precisely because he is so weak, we must begin strengthening his physique early! How else can he uphold the Rollin family's martial traditions?" The battle-hardened Count was resolute on this point, making the decision with a wave of his hand.
The next day, after an audience with the Emperor at the palace, where he received his third Imperial First-Class Medal of Valor in a grand victory ceremony, the Emperor publicly announced the promotion of the highly decorated Count Raymon to Deputy Commander of the Imperial High Command – the second-highest military position in the Empire.
Following a private conversation with the Emperor in a separate chamber, Count Raymon voluntarily relinquished his title of Imperial Navy First-Class Admiral and surrendered his military command. Leaving the palace, he once again declined the congratulations of his colleagues and countless invitations to banquets, even politely refusing requests from several Archbishops of the Temple of the Goddess of Light, before hurrying home.
That Count Rollin's son was an idiot was no secret in the Imperial Capital. Seeing the hint of melancholy that shadowed the Count's face even during the medal ceremony evoked sympathy from friendly colleagues, though political rivals couldn't help but gloat privately.
Back home, the Count again faced his son. This time, however, the beautiful Countess was not present. Beside him stood Alva, his loyal Captain of the Guard for nearly twenty years, an Imperial First-Class Swordsman whose "Flowing Flame Sword" technique was recognized as one of the finest in the capital.
For some reason, Count Raymon felt a distinct lack of fondness for this son. He sensed that the look in the child's eyes wasn't merely vacant; there seemed a hint of resistance. Yet, he dismissed this as overthinking: What could a three-year-old possibly understand? And I've been away on campaign since his birth, never once holding him. It's only natural he sees me as a stranger.
The Captain of the Guard knelt formally on one knee before Duvalin's bed, performing the standard salute of a family retainer. He then picked Duvalin up, stripped him completely, and meticulously felt every bone and muscle from head to toe with one hand. During this process, Duvalin struggled, clearly uncomfortable with being handled this way by a man, but the strength of an Imperial First-Class Swordsman was beyond his resistance.
"Hmm…" Alva's expression was grave. He sighed, set the young heir down, bowed to the Count, and stood up. "My Lord Count, I…"
"Alva, you are my most trusted man. Speak freely, hold nothing back," the Count sighed.
"Master Duvalin's body is very weak. Moreover, he seems… congenitally deficient. His bones are fine, his heartbeat irregular… his constitution is even frailer than the average person's. If he were to study martial arts in the future, I fear…" Alva gritted his teeth, "...I fear he would achieve little success."
"What do you suggest then?"
"I believe martial arts is not a suitable path for the young master. Perhaps we should see if he possesses talent in other fields."
After Alva finished speaking, the Count's face darkened considerably.
The dashed hope for martial arts deeply disappointed the Count for several days. However, bolstered by the comforting words of his beautiful wife, he rallied. After all, this was his only son.
Though the Rollin family stood firm through martial prowess, history had seen one or two illustrious ancestors renowned for their strategic brilliance rather than combat skills. These forebears, also lacking in physical prowess, had excelled at orchestrating campaigns from afar, maneuvering troops, and achieving victory from a thousand miles away.
A great general didn't necessarily need supreme martial skill to lead the charge; becoming an exceptional strategist could also bring glory to the family name.
Since he couldn't learn martial arts, he would learn scholarly pursuits!
But how could a child who didn't even speak learn scholarly pursuits? Even if they hired the most learned scholars, the child had to be able to speak first.
Unlike the Countess's simple, loving maternal heart, Count Raymon harbored a growing suspicion: He increasingly felt his son could speak but refused to.
The more often the Count visited his son, the more convinced he became that the boy was not a vacant idiot, but rather a child alienated from and resistant to the world around him. The look in his eyes when he regarded his father was unmistakably one of unfamiliarity and rejection—it showed emotion, not the blankness of ignorance.
Where there are rewards, there will be those willing to try.
The Count immediately offered a substantial reward throughout the Imperial Capital: regardless of social status—be it a learned scholar or a lowly farmer—anyone who could make his son speak would receive one thousand gold coins!
This novel event quickly spread through the capital. Applicants came in all varieties: scholars, healers, even a few traveling bards. Their methods were equally diverse: one played a flute before Duvalin for an entire afternoon; another banged a gong near his ear; another deliberately shouted behind him when he was unprepared... One bold soul even suggested throwing the Count's son into the river, arguing he would surely cry for help... The person proposing this idea was promptly beaten by the Count's guards and thrown out of the mansion.
Nonsense! Even if my son is an idiot, he's still my son! Throw him in the river? I'll throw YOU in first!
Just as the whole capital was buzzing about this affair, the greatest challenge was inadvertently solved by a servant within the Rollin mansion itself.
The servant who solved the problem was Mader, the one "appointed" by Duvalin's feverish mutterings during his illness.
This former stable hand, a good-natured and honest man, came up with an idea: take Duvalin to see the stables. Usually, children of that age were curious and delighted by animals. Though a rustic idea, the Count, willing to try anything, agreed.
So, Mader carried his young master into the stables...
Coincidentally, the stable hand who had replaced Mader had been lazy that day and hadn't cleaned the manure. As soon as Mader pushed open the stable door with the child in his arms, an overwhelming stench of horse dung assaulted them. The smell was so potent that Mader nearly stumbled backwards from the force of it.
And it was at that moment, the little Duvalin in his arms reflexively uttered a low sentence.
"Oh god, it stinks!"
The outcome was this: Mader immediately received the reward of one thousand gold coins. Even the lazy stable hand who hadn't cleaned the manure wasn't punished; instead, he received twenty gold coins.
Watching his son's utterly defeated expression, Count Raymon became even more certain: This boy was deliberately refusing to speak!
"From today, he will be your tutor," the Count said to his son, pointing to an elderly man in white robes beside him. "This is Master Rosiat. He holds the Imperial title of Astrologer and is also a scholar deeply versed in history. He will be your tutor from now on."
Initially, the learned Master Rosiat performed his duties excellently.
After a year of foundational teaching, the not-yet-four-year-old Master Duvalin could already write Imperial script! While not unheard of for a normal child, writing at four was still quite an achievement.
Even Count Raymon, who had never warmed to his son, couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope: Could my son actually be a genius?
However, as Duvalin approached his fifth birthday, even the capable Master Rosiat encountered difficulties.
When Duvalin was five and a half, one evening, the Count had a long conversation with Master Rosiat in his study...
"Count Raymon, I must ask you to find another tutor," the old astrologer said with a weary expression. "Your son is... clever, but an old man like myself lacks the energy to instruct such a pupil..."
Seeing the old scholar's face, the Count's heart sank. Anyone could see that the "clever" comment was mere politeness... Is my son truly an idiot? Could even the wise Master Rosiat not educate him properly?
"But, Master Rosiat..." the Count began, his face dark.
"No, no, my esteemed Lord Count," the old scholar replied anxiously. "I beg you, please do not insist. This... this demanding task is truly beyond my capabilities!"
The old scholar's words were firm, leaving the Count with a bitter smile. Is educating my son really such a "demanding" task? If even the learned old astrologer couldn't manage, there was little hope in finding someone else.
Observing the Count's grim expression, Master Rosiat felt a pang of fear...
Sigh. If it were only strange remarks like "the sun and moon are just big balls," one could dismiss them as childish nonsense. But hearing a five-year-old say something like "the excessive centralization of imperial power is the root cause of corruption" nearly stopped my heart!
In truth, after teaching Master Duvalin for a full year, the old scholar understood perfectly well that his pupil was not the "idiot" rumored about. On the contrary, the boy was intelligent, perhaps even more so than children his age. But even the brightest child wouldn't utter critiques on such profound matters as "imperial power"!
Therefore, the old scholar naturally assumed these shocking viewpoints must have been inadvertently voiced by the Count himself at home, overheard and carelessly repeated by the child! Count Raymon held immense power as the second-in-command of the military headquarters, with widespread influence in the Imperial Navy... For such a figure to privately criticize imperial authority at home suggested deep dissatisfaction with the royal family! And if one thought a step further...
I am merely an old scholar. I have no wish to be entangled in political struggles! The sooner I leave, the better!
The Count agreed to the old scholar's firm resignation. Master Rosiat practically fled, packing his belongings and departing the mansion immediately. Witnessing this, the Count could only smile bitterly.
Could it be... my son truly is beyond hope?
Duvalin watched his tutor of over a year leave in silence. He stood by the window in the tower room, observing the old scholar pack his bags and climb into the carriage that carried him away.
"Young Master," Mader ventured cautiously, seeing his young lord's somber expression. After successfully getting the young master to speak, Mader had remained Duvalin's personal attendant.
"Mader," Duvalin didn't turn around, but his voice betrayed low spirits. "Do you think... is ignorance bliss?"
"Huh?" Mader was at a loss. Truthfully, the former stable hand wasn't very learned. Such a question from his young master left him speechless. Ignorance? Is the young master troubled about himself? But this was a topic Mader dared not address.
"Never mind," Duvalin turned back. He seemed to smile faintly, a trace of weariness on his small, childish face.
Compared to the people of this world, I know too much.
I know why there is a sun and a moon in the sky. I know why day and night cycle. I know why the seasons change, why spring fades into autumn...
And it's precisely because I know these things that I feel troubled. Perhaps... living in this world, ignorance truly is bliss.