This story takes place sixteen years ago—a boy is being born. Born from the womb of a woman of lesser blood, yet within him coursed the blood of a noble lineage.
"Push! Push!" a nurse bellowed, as a woman lay writhing upon the bed, screaming in agony.
Her cries reverberated throughout the hospital. She pushed and pushed, yet nothing—almost as though destiny itself rejected the child's arrival into this world. But the mother refused to believe even fate could deny her child's birth. She pushed once more, this time with double the resolve.
And with great exertion, the child was born—a boy graced with the golden hair of a noble family, yet bearing the features of the common blood that brought him into the world.
The boy's cries pierced the air, loud and strong, but his mother's vitality waned. She had poured every ounce of strength into bringing her son into existence, with no regard for her own well-being.
"May I see my boy?" she asked, her voice soft and frail.
A nurse complied, gently placing the newborn at her side. The moment the child was laid beside her, his wails ceased, as though he instinctively knew he was next to his mother. The woman turned to her child, her fingers grazing his tender face, feeling the softness of his skin. She then ran her hand gently through his little tufts of golden hair, her gaze locking with his—eyes as blue as the endless sky.
"My beautiful boy… you have entered a world that will do everything in its power to crush you, to make you feel worthless. But do not yield to despair, for I shall always be watching over you. I hope you grow into a man who holds himself with pride and extends compassion to those around him."
She took a breath, then continued.
"You know, little one… I've just thought of a name for you. Garfield. It was the name of the main character in a book my father used to read to me. He was a strong man—one who fought for the innocent. That's what I wish for you… and so that shall be your name: Garfield Frutia."
Her eyes dimmed and grew lifeless. The child's cries once more echoed through the hospital. He understood—he had just lost his mother.
The nurses took the child and placed him in an orphanage, where he would remain. It was a humble home situated in the Fourth Sector of Constella, with very few children in its care.
Ten years would pass, and the boy grew. As he walked the streets of the Fourth Sector's Middle District, he came across a cat in the road. It was a feeble thing, soaked from head to tail, its hind leg clearly broken.
He stared at the cat for a few silent seconds, his expression tinged with sadness. He couldn't help but feel sympathy. Just as he was about to step onto the street—perhaps to help—it happened: a carriage came hurtling down the road at alarming speed. He took a step back, watching the inevitable.
"You're better off dead, little one. Who'd want to live in such a wretched world, anyway?" he muttered, his tone flat, devoid of emotion.
Yet before the carriage could trample the feline, a man stepped into the street, extending his arm. The vehicle came to a screeching halt. The man then bent to one knee and gently picked up the cat.
"Are you insane? I could've run you over!" the coachman barked.
The man, holding the fragile creature in his arms, looked up at the coachman with a warm smile.
"I do apologize… but I could not simply stand by and allow this little one to suffer further. What kind of man would that make me?"
The coachman clicked his tongue and drove off. He appeared to be ferrying someone of high status—a noble, perhaps. But Garfield's attention remained fixed on the man who had risked his life for a mere cat.
The man stepped onto the sidewalk where Garfield stood, the boy's expression a portrait of bewilderment. He studied the man's face—there was no fear, only a gentle, reassuring smile.
"Mister… why would you risk your life for a cat?" Garfield asked.
The man looked down at him and replied.
"Brother, if there is a life you can save… then you may as well save it."
Garfield didn't understand. Life in the orphanage had taught him to fend for himself, for no one else would. To witness someone risking their life for another was perplexing.
"I still don't understand."
The man chuckled.
"That's alright—you're still a child. But try to see it this way: everyone in the Middle and Lower Districts are your brothers and sisters. And you wouldn't want your brother to be hurt, would you?" he asked.
"I don't really have siblings, so I wouldn't know."
"Neither do I," the man replied, "but from what I've seen and read, siblings treat each other with love and compassion. You should offer the same to everyone from the Lower Districts."
Garfield began to comprehend the man's words, though he did not fully embrace them.
The man walked away with the injured kitten, and Garfield turned to make his way back to the orphanage.
Upon arrival, he saw a carriage parked outside the gate. It was familiar, as was the coachman. It was the very same carriage that had nearly struck the cat.
He stared at the carriage for a moment as he stepped onto the property. As he entered, a wheelchair suddenly rolled toward him, nearly colliding with his path.
"Excuse me," a soft, graceful voice chimed.
His attention snapped away from the carriage and toward the speaker in the chair—a golden-haired beauty, her delicate features reminiscent of a porcelain doll.
"Greetings. My name is Veronica Redgrave."