The infant lay face down in the mud.
The old man felt irritated just at the sight of it. He nudged the small body with the tip of his shoe and muttered, "Troublesome. If you want attention, at least cry." The baby didn't move.
Frowning, he knelt and turned the child over. The baby's face was… unfortunate. Not injured, just oddly shaped, squished as if someone had pressed too hard and forgot to fix it.
The infant opened his eyes and stared at him. Silence. Then, suddenly, the baby grinned.
"Tsk. Absolutely no shame," the elderly man clicked his tongue.
Around the infant's wrist was a damp piece of paper. He unfolded it and read:
He is healthy but ugly.
We are leaving this child behind.
Don't search for us.
We can't raise him.
The old man read it three times, then scoffed. "Really? You abandoned him for this?"
The infant kicked his legs.
The elderly man narrowed his gaze. That tiny boy's legs wiggled energetically—too much energy for a newborn abandoned in the mud. He gently lifted the child.
"Hmm."
The infant tried to crawl but failed. Again. And again.
The old man couldn't help but smile; it had been years since he'd felt amusement like that. "Alright," he sighed. "You can stay."
The baby gurgled happily.
"Don't get too excited; I'm no good with kids," the elderly man cautioned.
Life on the mountain was harsh. The infant learned wind instead of blankets, cold stone instead of warmth, and silence instead of lullabies. The old man never gave him a name. "Names are tricky," he said. "If you survive, you can choose one."
By three, the boy was already running—not well, mostly falling, but full of energy. The elderly man lounged on a rock, sipping tea. "Again," he said.
The child stumbled, rolling down a slope. He stood, face dirty, nose red. The old man waited.
Once more, the boy took off.
"Good," the old man nodded. "At least your face is uglier than your legs."
The child blinked, then grinned.
By five, training took a strange turn. The old man tied small wooden weights to the boy's ankles while other children lifted stones and swords.
The child asked, "Master. Arms?"
"No."
"Body?"
"No."
"Sword?"
"Especially not."
"Why?"
The old man fixed him with a serious look. "Run if you can't hit someone."
The boy thought. "What if I want to hit them?"
"Then run faster than your fists."
Satisfied, the child nodded. His legs burned at night, but he ran the next morning. Circles. Uphill. Until he was sick.
The elderly man silently observed, saying little.
"Ugly or not, you might actually survive," he muttered to the sleeping child one night. The boy snored loudly, his legs twitching even in dreams.
TO BECONTINUED......