The weather was lovely today. A maid carried Lanche to the garden to bask in the sunshine.

Lanche enjoyed it without a care. His days were simple: nursing, grabbing toys, sunbathing, and sleeping.

He was the most trouble-free baby imaginable—rarely crying, only fussing when hungry, drifting off when tired. The maids couldn’t praise him enough.

His one tiny flaw? Barely worth mentioning.

But now, two years older and labeled a "little pervert," Lanche was deeply offended.

Why burden an infant—no, a *three-year-old*—with such a prejudiced title? Didn’t they trust the pure heart of a child?

What ill intentions could he possibly have? He just wanted coconut milk!

"Well, that settles it," sighed one maid.

"*Shh!* How could you say that?!" another snapped, eyes wide.

The first maid clapped a hand over her mouth, still cradling Lanche.

He’d just woken up, puzzled by their hushed words.

"Master Wedley is dead, and you say ‘that settles it’? Are *you* the killer?" the second maid glared.

"I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Don’t tell anyone!" The flustered maid apologized frantically.

Luckily, their friendship spared her worse. "Never speak like that again, you slow-witted country girl," came the warning.

"Yes! Yes!" The maid sweated nervously, making Lanche feel the heat—and the shock. *That little genius who loved calling himself a prodigy… was gone?*

"Ah, Master Wedley truly had talent. He could wield a sword at seven."

"He might’ve become a great general."

"Indeed."

"But… why did he die?"

"*Hush!* Don’t ask such things, you unwise country girl!"

The maid fell silent, chastened.

Lanche listened, sensing hidden turmoil. *Was this world so dangerous?*

Unease crept in. He was just a helpless infant. Could he even survive to adulthood? Especially after remembering that nobleman’s chilling gaze.

Now he understood why families here had so many children.

Nobles, commoners, even royalty—all strived to bear many heirs.

First: talents manifested at birth. Like lottery tickets, more children meant better odds of a "win."

Second—and he now knew this too—death rates were high. No wonder the population struggled.

If he recalled correctly, Wedley was only ten. A ten-year-old trained in swordsmanship… dead?

"I heard…" the scolding maid whispered despite herself, "…after practice, Master Wedley went to wash his face at the well. Someone bumped into him. He fell in and drowned."

"What a tragedy…" The maid holding Lanche sighed—a pious country woman at heart. She bowed her head in prayer: "May Master Wedley’s soul find peace."

"And the person?" Lanche blurted out.

His clear speech startled the maids.

"A-ah… Brother Wedley?" He tilted his head innocently, preserving his cute, clueless baby act.

"You heard us mention Brother Wedley, didn’t you?" A maid chuckled, ruffling his hair.

"He often played with you. You must’ve liked him… but you’ll never see him again—"

"Don’t say such things to young Master Lanche," the other maid interrupted, shifting him protectively.

"He won’t understand anyway."

"The one who knocked him over… was he the killer?" the country maid pressed, worried.

"Of course! He hanged himself out of guilt."

Lanche felt it was too neat. But dwelling on it scared him. *Was this noble family scheming?*

Suddenly, he wondered if being a talentless runt was a blessing or a curse.

"Hey! You two! Take Master Lanche back inside!" A stern maid’s voice cut through the air.

"Yes, ma’am! Right away!" They hurried off, Lanche perched on a shoulder.

Through innocent eyes, he saw the Bolnors Family estate snap into tense activity.

He didn’t know why—only that he was carried back to his room to play.

That evening, at dinner, he saw the nobleman again.

Still stern-faced, now with a fresh scar on his temple. His expression was darker than storm clouds.

Over thirty souls filled the grand dining hall, yet not a breath dared sound too loud.

A long table draped in crimson velvet held brass candlesticks and lavish dishes. Nearly twenty members of the Bolnors Family sat along its sides.

Lanche was placed in the last chair by a maid.

Younger infants stayed cradled in their mothers’ arms at the front.

Glancing around, he spotted his own mother—Lady Marquina—being helped to her seat, pale and frail.

He hadn’t seen the beautiful young woman in ages. Since his birth, her health had failed; she couldn’t bear more children and spent most days resting.

The maids adored Lanche but often sighed for Lady Marquina, pitying her barrenness.

She sat with downcast eyes, cloaked in sorrow.

The other five wives sat in stark contrast:

The First Madam—silent and imposing.

The Second—gentle, serene.

The Third—quietly weeping, Wedley’s birth mother.

The Fourth—elegantly dressed, drawing eyes despite her silence.

The Fifth—calmly playing with her infant, utterly composed.

Compared to them, Sixth Madam Marquina looked heartbreakingly broken.

Lanche sighed inwardly and turned his gaze to his side of the table.

At the head sat the eldest son—around twenty, a stern mirror of his father.

Below him sat brothers and sisters, thirteen in total.

*Thirteen…* Lanche counted silently. *I’m the fourteenth. No talent. Worse off than Sixth Mother!*

*Oh wait—Wedley’s gone. I’m fifteenth! Whoa!*

Then the nobleman at the head spoke, his voice heavy with grief for his son’s "accidental" death.

*Accident?*

Lanche wondered if it was truth… or a choice not to dig deeper.

As head of house, the man prioritized unity. He called only for mourning—a son, a brother, lost.

Lanche lowered his head in prayer, mimicking the rest.