The village's outline finally emerged through the morning mist.
Paul Brown stood at the front of the wagon, gazing at the small village nestled among mountains and forests.
Tiled rooftops dotted the landscape, and wisps of chimney smoke rose gently in the wind, like his mother's sighs—soft and familiar.
This was his home.
The Brown family's estate, Oakleaf Village.
He lowered his head, looking at the worn silver badge in his palm, shaped like a shield with an eagle's wings and a longsword, faded by time.
This family crest had rested under his pillow since childhood, but now it felt like a stone pressing on his heart.
The wagon slowly rolled into the village entrance.
...
"Is… is that Young Master Paul Brown?"
An old woman leaned against a fence, squinting her cloudy eyes at the wagon.
Her grandson, herding geese nearby, looked up at the tall young man on the wagon, a flicker of fear crossing his face before he quickly bowed his head.
"I thought he'd died on the front lines…"
"Don't talk nonsense—he's a knight's medal recipient!"
Villagers gathered in small groups along the road, but none approached to greet him.
Most just watched from a distance, some whispering, others staring coldly.
Only a few nodded with quiet relief, but they said little.
"He's still so distant…" someone murmured.
Paul Brown heard but didn't turn back.
He looked at the familiar road, flanked by weathered stone walls and moss-covered wooden houses.
He remembered every corner, every cobblestone, even the spot where he'd fallen as a child and scarred his knee.
But now, it all felt like it was behind a pane of glass.
He had returned, but he no longer belonged here.
...
At the doorstep, his mother was already waiting.
She stood under the threshold, wearing her old gray-blue dress, her apron dusted with unwashed flour.
Her hair had grayed considerably, the lines at her eyes deep as ravines, but her gaze still held the gentle, steadfast light of his memories.
Paul Brown stepped down from the wagon slowly.
"Mom…" his voice came out hoarse.
His mother said nothing, only stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
"You're back. That's all that matters."
Her voice trembled, but no tears fell.
She gripped his hand tightly, as if afraid the wind might carry him away again.
Paul Brown's heart jolted, his nose stinging with emotion.
He hadn't realized how much his mother had aged until now.
"This time, I'm staying."
His mother nodded.
"Your father left you more than just this house."
She turned and opened the heavy oak door, revealing the familiar yet foreign darkness beyond.
...
That afternoon, Paul Brown sat in his father's old study.
The air was thick with the scent of wood, ink, and aged parchment.
An old map hung on the wall, and the desk was piled with ledgers and village records.
"After your father died, no one wanted to take on these tasks," his mother said softly.
"The village council pushed small matters back and forth, and they went unresolved."
Paul Brown opened a ledger, immediately seeing a string of deficits and red-marked shortages: only thirty percent of the autumn granary remained, livestock diseases went untreated, and beasts had been spotted multiple times near the northern ridge.
Even more glaring, a parchment was circled in red ink with the words: "Traveling merchants avoid Oakleaf Village" and "security concerns."
This wasn't an estate—it was a sinking ship.
He sat in silence for a long time.
"Do they know you're back?" his mother asked.
"They know," Paul Brown closed the ledger.
"But they don't want me here."
"Then you need to show them you're not here for handouts."
"You're here to lead, aren't you?"
His mother smiled but didn't answer, standing to prepare dinner.
...
At dusk, Paul Brown walked to the Village Hall.
It was his first time entering as the heir.
The hall was sparsely filled, with a few village elders talking by the fireplace.
They stopped when he walked in.
"Young Master Paul Brown," an elder with a white beard nodded, his tone politely reserved.
"I heard you retired?"
"Yes," Paul Brown scanned the room, his gaze sharp.
"I also heard no one's addressed the northern ridge defense reports in a year."
The room's atmosphere grew tense.
Another elder coughed awkwardly.
"That's because we're short on manpower… and we thought you were still at the front."
Paul Brown slowly produced a letter bearing the legion's wax seal.
"I've brought military deployment orders and tax reports."
"Now, I am this estate's administrator."
His tone was calm but carried an undeniable steel resolve.
After a moment's silence, the elders nodded slowly.
"Then… shall we start sorting matters tomorrow?" the white-bearded elder ventured.
"Tonight," Paul Brown's gaze swept over the candlelit meeting table.
"Start with the border defense reports."
He was no longer the boy seeking the village's approval.
He was the Brown family's heir, the only man left to wield a sword for a battered noble estate.