Time skip.
Because I refuse to narrate every diaper change.
I was six when I learned two important facts:
- Being a bastard is a full-time debuff.
- Hunger doesn't care about your feelings.
By eight, I was carrying water, chopping wood, and pretending I didn't hear people call me "mistake" to my face.
By ten, I understood the village economy:
We grow food
The manor takes food
The army takes what's left
We eat stones and motivation
My mum worked like three people in one body.
Grounds work in the morning.
Laundry at noon.
Kitchen scraps sorting at night.
Sometimes she came back with half a loaf wrapped in cloth like she was smuggling treasure.
Sometimes she came back with nothing.
Every time, she smiled and said, "I already ate."
She was lying every time.
I was eleven when I first went up to the manor yard.
Not inside the manor.
Don't be crazy.
The yard.
I was hauling feed with other village kids when I saw him:
The official son.
Clean clothes.
Soft hands.
Sword lesson at noon.
Sweet buns at break.
I was carrying horse crap in a broken bucket.
He looked at me once, frowned, and asked a servant, "Why is that one staring?"
That one.
Not even a name.
Cool.
Great family dynamic.
At twelve, I tried "system open" again.
Nothing.
I tried "status."
Nothing.
I whispered, "inventory?"
Nothing.
I whispered, "please?"
Still nothing.
So either the system died, blocked me, or it's watching and laughing.
All three are possible.
At thirteen, border raids got worse.
More horns at night.
More smoke on the horizon.
More men not coming home.
The speeches started too.
A recruiter stood on an old cart in the village square and shouted:
"Glory to the principality!"
Nobody clapped.
"Honor your blood!"
Nobody moved.
"Defend your people!"
An old guy in the back muttered, "Feed your people first."
I almost laughed. Then I saw the recruiter writing names.
That part was not funny.
At fourteen, they posted the first pre-draft list.
Mostly poor boys.
Servants' sons.
Bastards.
"Volunteer reserves," they called it.
Sure.
And I'm a dragon.
My name was on the paper.
ARLAN — village ward, male, fit for training levy.
I stared at it for a long time.
Like if I stared hard enough, the ink would feel embarrassed and disappear.
It didn't.
My mum found me that night outside the hut.
She sat down beside me in silence.
Then she handed me a cloth bundle.
Inside was a small knife.
Old. Worn. Kept sharp anyway.
"It was your grandfather's," she said.
I looked at her.
She corrected herself.
"The one who raised me. Not… him."
Not the lord.
Of course not the lord.
I nodded.
She put a hand on my head and said, "Whatever they call you, come back alive."
No speech.
No drama.
Just that.
Come back alive.
The next morning, a rider came from the manor with stamped orders.
Training levy moved forward.
Immediate intake.
Because "orc movement near border has intensified."
Yeah.
War update: still bad.
I packed everything I owned in one cloth bag.
So, one shirt, one stale crust, one knife, and lifelong emotional damage.
As I stepped out, I heard it.
A small chime in my head.
Then white text.
After YEARS.
[Late Bloom Condition met.]
I froze.
Another line appeared.
[Candidate accepted: Survival Route.]
I just stood there like an idiot.
Then I whispered:
"…now you show up?"
No answer.
Of course.
I looked at the road to camp.
Then at my mum.
Then back at the road.
Four words in my head, super clear:
Don't die for free.
And then I started walking.