My father owned a small dojo of the Leaf Falling from the Tree in a quiet village located very close to the border of the Kingdom of Leore. And where my father, my older brother, and I lived together.
According to my father, my mother abandoned us only a month after I was born. She said she couldn't bear the thought of watching my father grow old while she remained almost unchanged. After all, my mother was an elf, while my father was human. Since she left when I was still an infant, I have no memories of her.
People unfamiliar with how relationships between different species work might assume that this made my brother and me half-elves, but that was not the case.
Half-elves are born extremely rarely from a relationship between an elf and a member of another species. Their appearance naturally depends on the species of their other parent, since they usually inherit a mixture of characteristics from both sides. However, one trait shared by virtually every type of half-elf is that they live considerably shorter lives than normal elves or dark elves.
This is because, excluding dragons and deities, elves are without a doubt the longest-lived species on the entire continent. Even today, since elves were first created, there has never been a recorded instance of an elf or dark elf dying of old age.
No one knows exactly why half-elves are so rare. Many scholars believe it has something to do with the immense love the goddess Elfidora holds for her creations, the elves and dark elves, and that she wishes to see as many of them born as possible. Naturally, many dark elf scholars strongly disagree with this theory.
In any case, my brother and I were not among those rare half-elves. We were ordinary elves. The only feature we possessed that could be considered unusual was our raven-black hair, inherited from our father. Black hair was certainly uncommon among elves, but by no means impossible.
My father was, without a doubt, a great man. He raised two children entirely on his own and willingly took whatever additional work he could find just to make sure we had enough to eat, because our dojo was never particularly full of students.
Unfortunately, one reason for that was my father himself.
Despite being an incredibly hardworking man who genuinely loved martial arts, respected its rules, and never stopped training, he simply wasn't especially talented as a martial artist. Still, that certainly wasn't the only reason our dojo struggled. In fact, although my father lacked exceptional talent when performing the style himself, he was an excellent teacher.
The larger problem was where we lived.
In villages near the border of the Kingdom of Leore, another martial art called the Lion's Fangs was far more popular. The style had originated in Leore shortly after The Leaf Falling from the Tree style. Unlike the art practiced in our dojo, however, the Lion's Fangs was considerably more aggressive and placed much greater emphasis on attacking.
Fortunately, the nearest dojo that taught the Lion's Fangs style was still quite far from our village. Because of that, some people continued coming to my father's dojo.
Between those few students and the odd jobs my father took whenever he had the opportunity, we managed to get by. We were certainly poor, but our life was still satisfying. Occasionally, my father would earn a little more money than usual, most often by working as a bodyguard for a merchant passing through the area. Whenever that happened, after making sure we had everything we needed, he would buy something small for my brother and me.
My brother almost always asked for training equipment.
I, on the other hand, asked for whatever books my father could find.
Ever since I was little, my dream had been to become a teacher. Unlike my father and my brother, I had absolutely no interest in martial arts.
Fortunately, my father never particularly objected to my dream. My older brother, Boreo, who was four years older than me, had shown an extreme interest in martial arts from a very young age. Before I had even learned to speak a complete sentence, it had already been more or less decided that he would eventually inherit the dojo.
Even so, my father still insisted that I learn The Leaf Falling from the Tree style. He always said I needed it for self-defense.
But I was a stupid, lazy child.
I skipped his lessons whenever I could, sneaking away to my secret hiding place with a book instead. I kept doing it even after my father caught me and scolded me time after time.
And whenever he scolded me, I could always see something resembling a light disappointment in his eyes…
Looking back, he had probably already realized that, although my brother undoubtedly possessed great talent, mine might have been equal to his—or perhaps even greater. And that was without even considering the extraordinary physical strength I had possessed since childhood.
Deep down, I think a part of my father wanted me to inherit the dojo, even though he never once said so aloud.
Despite all those little problems, however, we lived well enough. We might not have had a mother, but the three of us were undoubtedly a happy, close-knit little family.
At least, we were.
But from that day everything began to change…
I was thirteen years old, and that day—like on most days—I was inside my secret underground hideout, a small chamber I had created using earth magic. Reading one of my favorite books, "The Fundamental Values of a Teacher", while, according to my father, I should have been with him, my brother, and the other students, training at the dojo.
I had just been about to reread the chapter about perseverance when I suddenly heard someone pounding violently against the door of my hideout.
I immediately lowered the book and hurried toward the entrance.
Only one other person knew about this place besides me: my brother.
So it could only have been him.
Usually, whenever he came looking for me here while training was still underway, it was because my father had sent him to tell me to return to the dojo and join everyone else. Sometimes, however, my brother came entirely of his own accord, hoping he could persuade me to train with him.
And every now and then, precisely because he was the one asking me, I would actually give in, follow him back to the dojo, and spend the rest of the lesson training beside him.
But there was something strange this time.
My brother never knocked that forcefully.
He was an extremely polite person.
That was why I quickly opened the door without wasting another second.
And there, exactly as I had expected, stood my older brother.
His short raven-black hair, just like mine, came from our father, while his emerald-green eyes were one of the few features he had inherited from our mother.
As always, he was wearing the traditional uniform of our dojo, which effectively concealed his lean but surprisingly well-defined physique. Most people who met my big brother for the first time assumed—both because of his slender build and his naturally gentle personality—that there was practically nothing but skin and bones underneath his uniform.
They were usually quite surprised the first time they happened to see him without a shirt.
But at that moment, there was nothing gentle or relaxed about my brother's expression.
His face was filled with concern.
"Aurola, they've started building a Lion's Fangs dojo in the village!" my brother exclaimed, his voice overflowing with worry.
My eyes widened.
"Really?!" I stupidly asked, even though the expression on his face already made the answer painfully obvious.
Some foolish part of me was still hoping he would shake his head and tell me that he had been joking.
"Yes, Aurola. Really," he replied, his voice carrying a mixture of melancholy and bitterness.
For almost any other dojo dedicated to the "Leaf Falling from the Tree" style located farther inland within the kingdom of Yggdora, the arrival of a Lion's Fangs dojo probably wouldn't have represented a particularly serious problem.
Certainly, there would have been some rivalry between the two schools. That was almost inevitable.
However, the popularity of the Falling Leaf style increased considerably the closer one traveled toward the capital, where the main dojo of the style was located and where its current master personally taught. In those regions, a new Lion's Fangs dojo would have created some additional competition, but probably nothing disastrous.
Our situation was completely different.
Considering both our village's position near the border of Leore and its already small population, there was a very real possibility that, once the new dojo opened, the number of students attending my father's dojo—which was already fairly low—would be cut in half.
Or perhaps become even worse than that.
Without even thinking about it, I immediately followed my brother and started running toward our dojo.
It was true that I didn't like martial arts. In fact, I had spent most of my childhood doing everything I possibly could to avoid practicing them.
But this was different.
Even setting aside the financial problems our family would inevitably face from losing students, there was also the possibility that, if too few students remained, my father would eventually be forced to close the dojo entirely.
And that was something I absolutely did not want to happen.
I might not have enjoyed martial arts myself, but the two people I loved more than anyone else in the world adored them.
For my father, that dojo represented the work of his entire life.
And for my brother, martial arts had been his greatest passion for as long as I could remember.
I didn't want to see either of them lose something they loved so deeply. More than anything else, I simply didn't want to see them sad.
As we ran toward the dojo, my brother Boreo explained the situation to me in greater detail.
Apparently, while they had all been training, a young practitioner of the Lion's Fangs style had arrived at our dojo. He was the man who would soon be entrusted with the new dojo of his style that was going to be built in our village. He had personally come to greet my father and, as a matter of courtesy, inform him of what was about to happen.
From what I could gather from my brother's description, my father had been quite upset by the news, although he had done everything he could to prevent the young man—the future master of the new dojo—from noticing.
The newcomer was apparently one of the two most talented students of the Lion's Fang style dojo closest to our village, the other being the son of that dojo's owner.
The owner had recently decided that it was finally time for him to retire. Naturally, he had chosen to leave his own dojo to his son. However, he didn't want his other best student to be left completely empty-handed after dedicating so many years to his teachings.
By a fortunate coincidence, the old master happened to own a small and currently unused plot of land in our village. And so, he had decided to build a second dojo there and entrust it to his other top student.
The reason my father had tried so hard not to show his disappointment was simple. Even without having witnessed their conversation myself, I could understand it perfectly.
My brother had described the future owner of the dojo as a young man not much older than himself. He had apparently been extremely polite and kind throughout the entire conversation, and his passion for martial arts had been so obvious that even my father couldn't possibly have missed it.
So the answer was obvious.
My father simply didn't want to make the young man feel guilty or worried.
He had told me many times that, ever since he was a child, his greatest dream had been to run his own dojo and teach martial arts to as many students as possible. Because of that, he undoubtedly understood the young man's feelings better than most people ever could.
That was precisely why both his honor as a martial artist and his stern yet incredibly kind heart would never allow him to taint someone else's dream with worries that belonged to us.
My father had never been a particularly selfish man.
By the time Boreo and I finally arrived at the dojo, the other students had already finished their training for the day and returned to their homes.
Our father, Kano, stood completely alone in the center of the dojo.
There was a deeply pained expression on his face.
At that time, he was fifty years old. Like my brother and me, he had raven-black hair, which he kept cut short. However, unlike Boreo's slender and athletic frame, my father was an absolutely massive man, possessing such powerful, explosive muscles that even the loose uniform of our dojo couldn't come close to hiding them.
His eyes, identical to the ones I had inherited from him, were a warm light brown.
The instant he noticed the two of us standing at the entrance, the expression on his face changed.
He immediately forced his worries aside, evidently not wanting either of his children to become concerned because of him, and replaced that pained expression with the gentlest smile he could manage.
"Don't worry. Everything will be fine," he told us. "I'll just have to start taking on a few more jobs…"
He then stepped forward and pulled both my brother and me into a tight embrace, wrapping his enormous arms around us.
"I promise I'll make sure everything turns out all right!" he added firmly.
At that moment I couldn't see his expression.
Even so, I was almost certain that there were tears in his eyes.
Neither Boreo nor I knew how to respond to our father's attempt to reassure us. After all, the person who was undoubtedly suffering the most at that moment wasn't either of us.
It was him.
And yet, even then, his first instinct had been to protect us from his own worries. So neither my brother nor I said anything. Instead, we simply wrapped our arms around our father and returned his embrace as tightly as we could.
From that moment on, the number of students at the dojo dwindled day by day, and my brother and I never again received the gifts our father used to give us.
But an unexpected glimmer of hope appeared about two years later…