The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestone path as I stepped out of Martha and Lisa's modest home after eating with them, the wooden door creaking shut behind us with a soft thud.
Rumia walked beside me. Her usual cheerful chatter had been replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to weigh down the space between us. I could feel the heat of her sideways glances, each one a silent accusation that I pretended not to notice.
The village around us buzzed with its typical late-afternoon activity. Merchants were closing their stalls, mothers called children in for supper, and the blacksmith's hammer rang out its final rhythmic beats of the day. Yet despite the familiar sounds of daily life, I found myself acutely aware of every sullen sigh that escaped Rumia's lips.
I already knew exactly why storm clouds had gathered in those bright eyes of hers. The way she had watched me engage in polite conversation with Lisa, the slight stiffening of her posture when I had complimented Lisa's cooking, it all painted a clear picture. But I had absolutely no intention of playing the role of the oblivious protagonist, asking "What's wrong?" only to receive an indignant "You idiot!" in response.
The truth was as simple as it was complicated. Rumia was still a child, barely six summers old, with the round cheeks and innocent wonder that belonged to someone who hadn't yet tasted the bitter realities of the world. Before I could even begin to entertain romantic thoughts about her – and that was a generous hypothetical – at least ten years would need to pass. Even then, there were far more pressing obstacles standing in our way.
Chief among them was her father, Aldan, the village chief whose stern countenance had become as familiar to me as the morning sunrise. The man possessed an uncanny ability to appear whenever Rumia and I were together, his weathered face set in perpetual disapproval. Those eyes of his would fix on me with the intensity of a hawk studying its prey, as if he could divine my every thought and motivation through sheer willpower alone.
I suspected that Aldan's wariness stemmed from my habit of asking questions – too many questions, according to most villagers. My curiosity about trade routes, political connections, and the web of relationships that bound this community together had not gone unnoticed. In a place where most people were content to live their simple lives without looking beyond the next harvest, my inquiries marked me as an outsider, someone who didn't quite fit the mold.
Not that I harbored any illusions about remaining celibate for the rest of this life. I fully intended to pursue romantic relationships when the time was right, but Rumia simply wasn't among my potential candidates. It wasn't a matter of preference so much as pragmatism – the relationship simply wasn't feasible given our circumstances.
Everyone in the village knew of Chief Aldan's ambitious dreams. The man practically radiated his desire to elevate his family's status, to transform the modest name of his household into something that commanded respect beyond these rural borders. He had connections scattered across the region like seeds waiting to sprout, relationships cultivated through years of careful networking and strategic alliances.
The most logical path to achieving his goals would be to arrange an advantageous marriage for his daughter. Rumia, with her already quite childish beauty, would undoubtedly attract the attention of nobles or influential merchants from the larger cities. I was certain that Aldan already had several prospects in mind, men whose wealth and position could catapult his family into the upper echelons of society.
Against such calculated ambitions, what could I offer? I was nobody special in this world – not yet, anyway. Whatever plans I might have for my own future, they were still nothing more than half-formed dreams and careful observations.
Besides, Rumia's current infatuation was nothing more than the innocent crush that every child experiences at some point. These feelings would fade as she grew older. As the old saying went, childhood love rarely survived the transition to adulthood.
The thought brought back memories of my previous life. I had been roughly Rumia's age when I first experienced the sting of romantic rejection, though the circumstances had been far different.
There had been a girl who frequented the same public park where I would spend my afternoons, a bright creature with golden pigtails who seemed to embody everything my dark existence lacked. She would arrive with friends, their laughter ringing across the playground like silver bells, while I sat alone on a weathered bench, nursing fresh bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.
My foster parents in that life had been... challenging people. They viewed me as little more than an unwelcome burden, a mouth to feed in exchange for government payments. Physical discipline was their preferred method of maintaining order, and I bore the evidence of their parenting philosophy in purple marks that bloomed across my skin like twisted flowers.
After particularly brutal encounters – usually triggered by some minor infraction like leaving a toy out of place or speaking without permission – I would escape to that park. It became my sanctuary, the one place where I could exist without fear of sudden violence. And there, like a beacon of hope in my otherwise gray world, was this girl whose very presence seemed to warm the air around her.
For weeks, I watched her from afar, memorizing the way she moved, the sound of her laughter, the careful way she would braid wildflowers into her hair. In my young mind, she represented everything pure and good that still existed in the world. I began to imagine elaborate scenarios where I would somehow gain the courage to approach her, where she would see past my shabby clothes and haunted eyes to discover something worthy of her attention.
The day I finally worked up the nerve to act, I had spent nearly an hour searching for the perfect rose in the park's small garden. It was a beautiful specimen, deep red petals still kissed with morning dew, and I held it carefully as I approached her like it was made of spun glass.
She was sitting alone for once, her friends having wandered off to explore some other corner of the park. This was my chance – perhaps my only chance.
"Excuse me. I… I picked this for you."
She had looked up then, and I watched her expression shift from mild curiosity to something far less pleasant. Her eyes, which I had imagined would sparkle with delight, instead narrowed as they took in my appearance. She studied me from head to toe with the brutal honesty that only children possess, cataloging every stain on my clothes, every sign of neglect that marked me as different from her world.
"Yuk! You stink!"
Her friends had materialized from nowhere, drawn by the commotion, and soon their collective laughter filled the air where her silver bells had once rung. They pointed and whispered among themselves, and I stood frozen in the center of their circle, still holding that damned rose like an offering to gods who had already rejected me.
The humiliation burned hotter than any beating I had ever received. My foster parents' prohibition against "wasting water" on unnecessary baths had marked me as surely as any scarlet letter, branding me as someone unworthy of basic human kindness.
That moment hadn't broken me – I was already too fractured for any single incident to complete the job. But it had crystallized something important in my young mind: I was truly alone in this world. No cavalry was coming to rescue me, no fairy godmother would wave her wand and transform my circumstances. If I wanted anything better than the scraps I was currently being thrown, I would have to seize it myself.
And seize it I had.
I had clawed my way up from those humble, brutal beginnings to reach the pinnacles of high society. I had learned to speak their language, wear their clothes, play their games with a skill that eventually surpassed many who had been born to privilege.
But that was another life, another world entirely.
It was a bit funny since my flashback clearly told that accumulating wealth, gaining status, perhaps even earning enough influence to court someone like her properly was doable by me.
And honestly? The confidence wasn't misplaced. Even without my Assimilation ability lurking beneath the surface, I harbored not a single doubt that I could ascend to the pinnacle of nobility if I truly set my mind to it.
But therein lay the real question: did I possess the sustained attention, the burning dedication required to pursue such lofty heights merely for one girl's affection?
The answer settled in my chest like a stone. Not really.
My desire to venture beyond these village boundaries, to discover what lay in the vast unknown and grow stronger in the process—that drive belonged entirely to me. It wasn't some noble quest born from romantic ideals or heroic aspirations. I wasn't playing the part of a prince in shining armor, ready to move mountains for love. The truth was far more pragmatic: if I wanted companionship like Rumia's in the future, I was confident I could attract many like her.
"Hey, Hal—"
Her voice barely had time to form my name before my steps faltered.
There, positioned directly in our path like some immovable guardian, stood Village Chief Aldan. His weathered face bore the familiar expression I'd grown to recognize—that particular frown reserved especially for moments when he found me in his daughter's company.
This guy again. The timing couldn't have been worse if he'd planned it.
A fleeting, almost paranoid thought crossed my mind: was he actually following us? Keeping tabs on his daughter's interactions like some overprotective sentinel? The idea seemed ridiculous, yet here he was, appearing at precisely the moment when Rumia and I had been enjoying a rare stretch of uninterrupted conversation.
Whether surveillance or coincidence, his timing with me was consistently impeccable.
"See you," I said curtly, already pivoting to walk away before this encounter could escalate into something more complicated.
The decision to retreat wasn't born from cowardice or even dislike of confrontation. The calculation was far more practical than that. Aldan held the position of village chief, and more importantly, he was the man who had graciously provided shelter for my mother and sister when we'd arrived here with nothing but the clothes on our backs. His goodwill toward Isabella had been a lifeline during our most vulnerable period, and that relationship remained positive—for now.
I couldn't afford to jeopardize that delicate balance. If my interactions with his daughter somehow poisoned his opinion of our family, if his growing disapproval of me eventually translated into action against us, the consequences would extend far beyond my own pride. In the worst-case scenario, if he decided to exercise his authority and drive us from the village, I would definitely feel guilty.
"Wait, Hal! Already? Let's play some more," Rumia gripped my sleeves.
The gesture was innocent enough, but I could practically feel Aldan's disapproval radiating like heat from a forge.
"Rumia."
"Oh, father," she responded immediately, her grip on my sleeve loosening as she stepped back. The disappointment in her voice was visible, but she knew better than to challenge him directly.
"Don't waste your time with frivolous pursuits," Aldan continued, his gaze sliding pointedly in my direction. "You have a bright future ahead of you."
The indirect jab was so obvious.
But…
Why exactly was this grown man picking on a child?
The situation was genuinely laughable when viewed from the proper perspective. Here stood a village chief, a man responsible for the welfare of an entire community, investing his energy in petty territorial displays over a teenage boy.
"Yes, father," Rumia nodded obediently, though her lower lip protruded in a barely contained pout.
I found myself genuinely curious about what specific future Aldan envisioned for her. Was he planning to marry her off to some merchant's son? Perhaps he harbored dreams of elevating their family's status through her marriage to minor nobility?
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I carefully suppressed the smirk that wanted to follow.
"See you around, gramps," I said with casualness as I walked past him, close enough that he couldn't miss the subtle disrespect embedded in the nickname.
After leaving them I chose to get back to the house.
Lisa's earlier commentary about my absence echoed in my memory—her pointed observation about how little time I spent helping our mother with household responsibilities.
My wandering and exploration, my pursuit of personal growth and discovery, had indeed been consuming larger portions of my days. While I justified it as necessary preparation for whatever challenges lay ahead, the fact remained that Isabella was managing an increasing share of domestic duties without my assistance.
I was a gentleman so obviously I couldn't let this insult pass.
The door to our house came into view, and I entered it.
No answer. I tilted my head. The house was quiet except for the faint, bubbling hiss of distillation. She was in the hut, of course.
I walked across the yard toward it, past drying racks of herbs strung like green garlands, past the stone mortar still smeared with fresh paste. The wooden door to her workspace creaked faintly as I eased it open, stepping into the humid air within.
There she was.
Isabella.
Bent slightly forward, her back to me, arms raised as she held a thin-necked glass vial up toward the lantern light, squinting to study the contents. Her fingers rotated it gently, and the blue liquid inside shimmered and danced. I paused—speechless.
The apron she wore was old and stained from countless alchemical sessions, but it hugged the curve of her hips like a velvet glove. Beneath it, the long tunic dress clung to her lower back and thighs in all the right ways, the outline of her generous ass jutting out with proud perfection. Full, round, heavy. Fuck. That ass could break kingdoms.
I lingered. I stared.
She was focused, lips parted slightly, murmuring something about consistency or clarity. Her concentration was absolute. But I knew her rhythm. I knew her body better than anyone alive. The slight sway of her hips, the tilt of her neck as she narrowed her eyes—all of it stirred something deeper than lust. It stirred hunger. Possession. Need.
I stepped closer, quiet as a shadow, and reached out.
My hand met the warm swell of her rear, firm beneath the cloth.
"Mom," I murmured.
"Ah!" she gasped, her whole body jolting. The vial slipped from her hands and shattered against the stone floor with a sharp crash, blue liquid fanning across the grout like spilled ink.
Isabella turned instantly, her eyes wide with surprise that melted into familiar exasperation as she saw me standing there.
"Oh baby," she sighed, placing a hand to her chest, her voice dropping into that maternal scold she rarely meant. "Don't scare me like that…"
She bent down to gather the broken glass, apron swaying as she moved. The neckline of her tunic dipped low, and I caught a full view of the shadowed canyon between her breasts—twin melons heaving slightly from her startled breath. The swells were barely contained, skin flushed from the heat of the lab, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over the soft mounds.
I watched her work, hunched on hands and knees, her ass high, cleavage hanging. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. My desire was already throbbing in my chest, my hands twitching to grip her, pull her close.
But I couldn't yet.
Yet indeed.
A year ago, thanks to my Omni-Essence Assimilation Skill I had awakened a new Skill while giving the Anti-Nightmare 'treatments' to my mother at night.
Skill: Heart Weaver
Current Mastery: Rank 4
Progress to Rank: 77%
This skill allows you to subtly yet powerfully influence the affection of others. The more intimate and emotionally resonant your interactions with a person, the more effectively you can increase their Love Gauge towards you.