Neither Scholar Nor Warrior (Part 2)

The dashed hope of martial training left Earl Raymond disheartened for days. Yet, under the gentle solace of his beautiful Countess, he rallied. After all, this was his only son.

Though the Rowling family had risen through martial valor in the empire, history boasted a few brilliant strategists among its ranks—figures not skilled in combat but masterful in orchestrating armies, securing victories from afar.

A great general didn't need peerless combat prowess to charge the front lines. Commanding the grand tapestry of war could just as well burnish the family's glory.

If martial arts were off the table, then scholarship it would be!

But how could a child who wouldn't speak study letters? Even the most erudite scholar required a pupil who could at least talk.

Unlike the Countess's pure, tender maternal heart, Raymond harbored a growing suspicion: his son wasn't unable to speak—he simply refused.

The more he visited Duwei, the more convinced he became. This boy wasn't the vacant fool others assumed. His eyes, fixed on his father, glinted with estrangement and defiance—emotions too sharp for an ignorant simpleton.

Heavy rewards breed bold takers.

The earl promptly issued a proclamation across the capital: a thousand gold coins to anyone—noble scholar or lowly peasant—who could make his son speak.

The novelty spread like wildfire. A motley crew flocked to try their luck—some earnest, others absurd. Traveling bards joined the fray, their methods a carnival of folly: one piped a flute in Duwei's face all afternoon; another clanged a gong by his ear; a third startled him with shouts from behind. One brazen soul suggested tossing the earl's son into a river—surely he'd cry for help then. That fool earned a broken leg from the earl's guards and a swift ejection from the mansion.

Joke's on you! Raymond fumed inwardly. Idiot or not, he's my son. I'd sooner pitch you into the river!

As the capital buzzed with the oddity, the riddle that stumped all was cracked—by accident—by a servant within the earl's own walls.

The solver? None other than Mard, the man "chosen" by Duwei's delirious mutterings.

Once a stablehand, Mard was a kindly, honest sort. His idea was simple: take Duwei to see the horses. Most children that age delighted in animals, curious and cheerful. Rustic, perhaps, but worth a shot—and the earl approved.

So Mard carried his young master to the stables…

By chance, the new stablehand replacing Mard had slacked off that day, leaving the stalls uncleaned. When Mard pushed open the door, a wall of rancid manure stench hit them, so thick it nearly knocked him off his feet.

In that instant, little Duwei, almost instinctively, muttered under his breath:

"Stinks to death!"

The outcome? Mard claimed his thousand gold coins on the spot. Even the lazy stablehand escaped punishment, pocketing twenty coins for his unintended aid.

But watching his son's sulky, defeated expression, Raymond grew surer than ever: the brat was holding his tongue on purpose.

•

"Starting today, he's your teacher." Pointing to an elderly man in a white robe, the earl addressed his son. "This is Master Rossiart, holder of the Imperial Astrologer title and a scholar versed in history. He'll be your mentor."

At first, the learned Rossiart excelled in his task.

Within a year, barely four-year-old Duwei could write the empire's script! For a normal child, writing at four wasn't extraordinary, but it was no small feat either.

Even the earl, long cool toward his son, felt a stir of hope. Could he actually be a genius?

Yet as Duwei neared five, even the capable Rossiart hit a wall.

One evening, at five and a half, the earl summoned the scholar to his study for a long talk…

"My lord, please find someone more skilled," Rossiart said, his face etched with defeat. "Your son is clever, but an old man like me lacks the vigor to guide such a pupil…"

The earl's heart sank at the scholar's weary look. Even a fool could tell "clever" was a polite lie. Is my son truly hopeless? he wondered. If a mind as sharp as Rossiart's can't teach him, who can?

"But, Master Rossiart…" Raymond began, his voice stern.

"No, no, honored earl," the old man interrupted, visibly anxious. "Please, don't press me to stay. This task is beyond me!"

His resolve was ironclad, leaving Raymond with a bitter smile. Teaching my son—a 'daunting' task? If a scholar of Rossiart's caliber can't manage, what hope is there?

Seeing the earl's darkening mood, Rossiart inwardly trembled…

Gods help me, he thought. If Duwei's odd remarks—like "the sun and moon are just big spheres"—could be shrugged off as childish quirks, hearing a five-year-old claim "centralized royal power breeds corruption" nearly stopped the old man's heart.

After a year with Duwei, Rossiart knew the boy wasn't the "idiot" rumors painted. He was sharp—sharper than most his age. But no child, however bright, should weigh in on topics like royal authority!

The scholar concluded these radical notions must stem from the earl himself—overheard at home and parroted by an unwitting child. Raymond wielded immense power, second only in the military, with deep ties in the navy. If he privately criticized the crown, it hinted at discontent with the throne. And if one stretched that thought further…

Rossiart, a frail old academic, wanted no part in political quicksand. Best to flee while he could!

The earl relented, and Rossiart, practically bolting, packed his things and fled the mansion—a sight that left Raymond with another wry grimace.

Is my son really beyond saving?

Duwei watched his tutor of over a year depart in silence, standing at the attic window as Rossiart boarded a carriage and vanished into the distance.

"Young master," Mard ventured cautiously, noting his charge's somber face. Since coaxing Duwei's first words, he'd become the boy's personal attendant.

"Mard," Duwei replied without turning, his voice tinged with melancholy. "Do you think ignorance is a kind of happiness?"

"Uh?" Mard faltered. A former stablehand with little learning, he was stumped by such a question. Ignorance? Was the young master brooding over himself? But how could Mard dare touch that thread?

"Forget it," Duwei said, turning at last. A faint smile crossed his small, tender face, shadowed with a weariness far beyond his years.

Compared to this world's people, I know too much.

I know why the sun and moon hang in the sky, why day turns to night, why seasons shift, why spring fades to autumn…

But that knowledge is my burden. Maybe in this world, ignorance truly is bliss.