A year had passed since we broke ground on the orphanage, and I still couldn't believe how fast it all came together.
I sat in my little director's office, slowly swirling the last of my coffee, watching dust motes dance in the morning sunlight that poured through the big window. The Monad family hadn't just helped—they'd basically handed us a blank check. When I'd stared at the budget in shock, Lea had just shrugged with that big-sister smile of hers and said, "High nobles have a reputation to keep, Noel. Anything less would be embarrassing."
She really was incredible. The Legendary Stalker. Most people in the capital still whispered about the four-day bloodbath that earned her the title—how some monster of a man had slaughtered entire hunter parties before she stepped in.
They said she fought him to a standstill, barely edged out the win, then severed every limb and put nine blades through his heart. I'd never asked her for the full story; she always changed the subject and ruffled my hair like I was one of the kids. But having someone like her in my corner? Someone who treated me like a little brother instead of the guy who used to wear a boar mask and punch problems? It felt… nice. Fresh. Like I wasn't carrying everything alone anymore.
I missed Arthur and the old training days sometimes, but life here was good. I still kept up with my own training at dawn, hunted the occasional monster when the hunter association called, and every kid I pulled out of trouble found a bed here.
Two hundred and thirty-six children now—roughly one-eighty demi-humans and the rest human. At first the human kids tried ganging up on the demi-humans, little turf wars breaking out in the courtyard.
I was ready to step in hard, but Sylvie—my little green-haired firecracker—had already sorted it. She marched right into the middle of one fight, hands on her hips, and declared, "We're all family now, dummy!" The kids actually listened. She's five now (I think).
I still base her birthday on the day I rescued her—17th of September, 906. Today's 12th of August, 908, so yeah… I missed her "pseudo-birthday" last year, but I'm planning a big one this time. She's gonna lose her mind when she sees the cake I ordered.
Speaking of my little girl… she'd recently "moved out" of my room and into the big girls' dormitory. I still remember her standing in the doorway with her tiny backpack, puffing out her chest and announcing, "Papa, I'm a grown girl now!" She was Five and a half. I pretended to wipe away a tear while she giggled and hugged my leg before skipping off. I still check on her every night, though. Old habits.
I glanced at the watch on my desk. Playtime was over.
"Alright, time to be the mean teacher," I muttered with a grin, pushing my chair back.
The kids were still buzzing outside the classroom when I reached the door—laughing, chasing each other, someone's shoe already flying through the air. I cleared my throat loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.
"Ahem."
Forty-three little heads snapped toward me. In two seconds flat every single one of them was in their seat, backs straight, hands folded like perfect angels. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
"Good morning, Mr. Xerlectus!" they chorused in that sweet, slightly off-key way kids do.
"Good morning, class," I replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. "Where did we leave off last time?"
Little Emma's hand shot up immediately, bouncing in her seat. "We were doing minuses, Mr. Xerlectus!"
"Good girl, Emma. Thank you." I picked up the chalk and wrote on the board: 3 - 2 = ?
"Alright, anyone know this one?"
Jack's hand flew up. "Five!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Jack… that's pluses, buddy. You gotta subtract."
He scrunched his face, then held up one hand and slowly counted out loud—starting with three fingers up, then folding two down. His eyes went wide. "It's one!"
"Correct!" I gave him a thumbs-up and the whole class clapped like he'd just slain a dragon.
Before I could write the next problem, tiny Mia—a shy fox-eared demi-human who used to hide under tables when she first arrived—raised her hand so high she was practically standing on her chair. Her ears twitched nervously.
"Mr. Xerlectus… can I try the next one? Even if I get it wrong?"
The room went quiet. This was the same little girl who wouldn't speak above a whisper three months ago. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.
"Of course you can, Mia. Go for it."
I wrote 5 - 3 = ? on the board. Mia stared at it, ears flicking, then slowly counted on her fingers just like Jack had shown her. When she got to the answer her whole face lit up like the sun.
"Two!" she squeaked, tail swishing behind her.
The class erupted in cheers. Sylvie clapped the loudest, leaning over to high-five Mia across the aisle. "See? I told you you're super smart!"
Mia's cheeks turned bright pink, but she was grinning so hard I thought her face might split.
We kept going for another twenty minutes—more subtraction, a couple of silly mistakes that had everyone giggling, and one moment where Tommy dramatically pretended to "subtract" his own shoe before I made him put it back on. The laughter in that room felt like medicine.
Then I clapped my hands once. "Nap time, everyone. Heads down, eyes closed for fifteen minutes."
Groans filled the room, but they obeyed. Mostly. I sat at my desk with a book, pretending to read while I watched from the corner of my eye. Sure enough, little Clark's head popped up like a meerkat, trying to peek at the picture on my page.
"Ay, no peeking, Clark."
He squeaked and slammed his head back down so fast his desk rattled. "Ohhhhhh…"
I had to turn away so he wouldn't see me smiling.
Fifteen minutes later I clapped again. "Recess! Go have fun—and no climbing the roof this time, Tommy!"
The room exploded into cheers. Chairs scraped, shoes stomped, and they all poured outside like a green-and-brown wave of pure joy. I stood at the window for a second, watching Sylvie immediately organize a new game of tag while the others chased butterflies through the flowerbeds.
I shook my head, still smiling.
Yeah… this was a pretty good life.