The morning sun bathed the fields in a soft glow, though the earth itself remained stubborn and unyielding. Cracks split the soil, and sprouts struggled to reach the light. A lonely scarecrow stood in the middle of the farmland, its straw hat tilting slightly to one side as if even it had grown tired of standing guard.
"Ren! Come, lend me your hands," a deep voice called.
Ren jogged toward the fields, a hoe clutched awkwardly in his hands. His father, a broad-shouldered man with skin tanned by the sun, was already at work. Each swing of his farming fork struck with practiced strength, piercing the earth as though it were second nature.
Ren planted his feet beside him, gripping his hoe too tightly. "Like this, Father?"
His father chuckled, adjusting Ren's stance by nudging his shoulders.
"No, boy. Loosen up. You're not at war with the soil. Persuade it. Convince it to yield."
Ren blinked. "Convince… the soil?"
"Hah! Farming isn't about strength alone." His father's grin widened as he demonstrated, his fork sinking smoothly into the earth. "It's patience. Persistence. Every swing is a promise to the land: *'I'll care for you, so feed my family.'*"
Ren tried again, this time with less tension. The hoe sank deeper, though his arms trembled.
His father let out a hearty laugh. "Better! But if you stiffen up like that every time, you'll break your back before the week is done."
Ren scratched his cheek, embarrassed, but he couldn't help smiling.
By noon, the family gathered inside their small wooden home. The smell of boiled roots and herbs filled the air.
Ren's mother served the meal with a gentle smile, her hands worn yet graceful. She wiped her brow with the hem of her apron before setting down a clay bowl before each of them.
His little sister sat eagerly, swinging her legs under the table. She clasped her hands together. "Thank you for the food!"
Ren repeated softly, "Thank you for the food."
His father grunted approvingly as they ate. Despite the simple meal, laughter warmed the table more than any seasoning could.
That evening, when the fields had gone silent and the crickets had begun their nightly song, Ren's mother lit the old lantern in their house. Its dim glow cast shadows against the wooden walls. His sister curled against her side, eyes gleaming in anticipation.
"Mother, tell us a story!" she pleaded.
Ren leaned closer as well, pretending not to be interested, though his ears perked.
His mother chuckled softly. "Very well… Tonight, I'll tell you about a hero."
Her voice took on a rhythmic, almost magical tone.
"There was once a man, born with nothing but courage. He was no knight, no sorcerer, no noble. Just a farmer's son. But when darkness spread across the land, and monsters devoured villages, he refused to run. He stood alone against a hundred foes, armed with only a broken blade."
Ren's sister gasped. "Did he win?"
"Yes," their mother whispered, her eyes twinkling. "Because he never gave up. He fought for his family, for his people… and because of his courage, even the gods themselves granted him strength."
Ren's chest stirred. A hero… a man like that could change everything.
He wanted to say something, but instead he looked down at his calloused hands.
He was just a farmer's son. Nothing more.
That night, when his mother asked him to fetch water for his sister, Ren trudged toward the well with a pail. The air was cool, the moon bright overhead.
That's when he saw it.
A flicker of light.
It hovered faintly at the edge of the forest, swaying gently like a lantern carried by unseen hands.
"…What is that?" Ren whispered.
Too steady to be a firefly. Too soft to be a torch.
He hesitated, heart thumping. But it was late, and the forest was dangerous. He shook his head and turned back.
"It's nothing," he muttered, though the image lingered in his mind long after he returned home.
And so, Ren's days continued: the soil, the laughter of family, his mother's stories, his father's teachings, and his sister's giggles.
But in the back of his mind, the strange light in the forest glimmered still.