Chapter 71

Even in the Central Plains, those who engaged in intellectual battles would employ sharp gazes and Sound Transmission at the conference table.

(Sound Transmission: A martial art that uses internal energy to transmit speech to a specific target.)

Such tactics were typically the concern of direct heirs destined to inherit the family. As a mere collateral branch, it was not something I needed to worry about, nor had I ever.

I now understood that for over a decade after my birth in Sierren, I had lived within the protective embrace of my Father, experiencing only what had been filtered and softened for me.

I was terribly clumsy at dealing with people who hid their true feelings.

Knowing this was not a matter I could resolve alone, I immediately turned to my Father and asked,

“Then, what should I do?”

“From now on, you must think for yourself.”

“Pardon?”

Father smiled kindly.

Because I had forgotten my next move, the battlefield on the chessboard remained frozen in a precarious moment, unable to advance. I knew he would not force an end to this game.

His outstretched hand settled on my head, gently stroking along the soft texture of my hair.

“Is there ever a single right answer when one person deals with another? There will be those who are truly honest with you, and those who deceive you. I cannot tell you to doubt every good person you meet, nor can I ask you to indulge the circumstances of every unpleasant person.”

“…”

“I simply wish for my son to become someone who, instead of declaring ‘this person is such-and-such,’ can observe them for a long time and discern their many facets.”

“…I will do so.”

My face felt inexplicably warm. I tilted my head, pressing my forehead into his hand as he stroked my hair, pretending to be younger.

Something suddenly came to mind, and when I asked, Father, after a moment of contemplation, told me to ask Mother. He withdrew his hand and began tidying the chessboard, and I helped him.

I also spent time alone with Mother.

It had been a long time since I had tea with her alone. When I had first begun learning the Sierren language, I would often invite her for tea to comfort her during her times of sorrow.

Mother seemed to recall the same days. She smiled faintly, adding milk and sugar to my teacup as if I were a child.

“This reminds me of the old days.”

“Me too, Mother. Back then, you used to give me warm milk with sugar. It was sweet and delicious then, just as it is now.”

“Yes, then… you said that. You were so cute.”

I watched with a fond smile as Mother’s voice softened, drifting dreamily into reminiscence.

The woman I first saw when I opened my eyes seemed like a dry, brittle branch. She was so pale, I was astonished that such a fragile-looking woman could be my mother. The memory of that day was still vivid.

Now, with Mother before me, her skin plump and rosy, a blush on her cheeks, I felt happy.

“Many people say I take after my maternal relatives.”

“Hmm…? While your hair and eye color might suggest that, I wasn’t as clever a child as you were. If it weren’t for you, I can’t imagine he would have been so embarrassed to look at me every time he saw me that he would run away.”

This was something I had heard often, even after scolding my parents into reconciliation. Yet, no matter how many times I heard it, it struck me as amusing. What kind of newlywed husband would run away from seeing his wife’s face!

I raised my teacup to my lips to hide a chuckle.

I had learned from Mother the art of lifting a teacup silently, taking a sip, and setting it down. She had specific rules for the direction of one’s fingertips and the angle of the wrist, so I diligently practiced one method until it became second nature.

Thanks to that, I never felt awkward whenever I had to hold a teacup, no matter the setting.

Come to think of it, Father and Mother had once mentioned something about events before their marriage. I found myself, perhaps too eagerly, wondering if they had discussed it further.

Mother, quickly sensing my hesitation, asked first, “What is it? What were you going to say?”

“I’m not sure if it’s proper for me to be curious about such things. Please scold me if I’m being impertinent.”

“Oh, I will. So, what are you curious about, my son?”

“…A while ago, after my midterms, when I saw you both, you were talking about how Uncle arranged your marriage.”

Mother suddenly choked on her tea and coughed. I quickly pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her.

Looking into her tear-filled blue eyes, I felt a pang of sympathy.

Yet, the thought of what grand and absurd secret might be hidden beneath it all made me unwilling to retract my question.

If I had been a spectator at their wedding, I would have laughed it off as a chaotic, amusing affair. But now that it concerned my parents, every detail was a source of curiosity.

I also felt that perhaps, now that I was of age and living away from home to learn various things, it might be acceptable to ask.

“No matter how I think about it, the timing doesn’t seem right…”

“Timing? What do you mean?”

“You both met for the first time on your wedding day, and if Father kept avoiding you… I don’t understand how I could have been born…”

“…”

“When I asked Father, he couldn’t give me a proper answer and said I could find out from Mother.”

“…He said that?”

“Yes.”

A long silence followed.

Determined to uncover the secret of my birth before this holiday ended, I let Mother ponder while I munched on cookies.

The cookies, studded with sweet chocolate and raspberries, became more tart and sweet with every bite, leaving a delightful aftertaste.

I wasn’t in a hurry, as I could always go back to Father if Mother didn’t tell me.

There must have been a reason why Father specifically told me to ask Mother, rather than telling me himself.

“…I.”

Her voice was as faint as a mosquito’s hum, but to my ears, honed to a high realm, it was perfectly clear. Sensing that Mother was about to speak, I put down the cookie and assumed a posture of respectful attention.

Mother spoke each word with great difficulty.

“…I heard that drinking alcohol could help with nervousness.”

“…”

“I brought some alcohol that day… and it was quite… potent. So, he had a bit of a hard time…”

“…”

“You are his and my son. You don’t need to doubt that.”

“…Why did Father tell me to ask Mother…?”

“…He.”

“Yes.”

“Has no memory.”

Ah. I covered my face with one hand.

Even if I hadn’t had a lover, at my age, I couldn’t possibly be ignorant of the act of intimacy. Animals mated to bear offspring, and it was natural for humans to do the same. My birth without such an act was nonsensical.

When I was younger, I had even wondered if Mother had another lover.

However, no matter how much I searched, I could find no trace of anyone else involved, other than Father and Mother avoiding each other.

My lingering doubt stemmed from the fact that my hair and eye color so perfectly matched Mother’s.

My two younger siblings inherited features from both Mother and Father, alternating between them. It had once seemed peculiar that I had only inherited Mother’s traits.

I learned that on their wedding night, a man and woman who had drunk too much shared intimacy. For Father, the memory ended with him drinking from a wine glass at a quiet table beside the bed. Overcome by embarrassment and shame, he couldn’t face Mother the next day, which marked the beginning of their discord.

Knowing that all my previous worries had been in vain, I found it rather amusing. There was a reason the household had been so peaceful.

Mother added various explanations, saying things like, “It must have been my fault for frightening him, trying to smooth things over,” and “It’s all in the past now, there’s no need to worry about it.”

“No, it’s enough that I am clearly your child.”

“Then, you don’t need to worry about that, at least. I never imagined you would think such a thing. No matter what anyone says, Mika, you are a proud child of him and me.”

“…Yes. I apologize for asking something so trivial. I just wanted to know before I got any older.”

As I shook my head, Mother reached out and took my hand. I willingly placed my hand on the table and clasped hers.

She, who had been shyly fanning herself and clutching a handkerchief throughout, looked at me with clear eyes and said,

“Mika, you are still young. I am truly happy that you decided to come to your parents for advice instead of worrying alone. Of course, William and I weren’t the most mature parents at first. We were young and didn’t know much then. We will still have many things we don’t know. But, Mika.”

“…Yes, Mother.”

“I hope that rather than worrying alone, you will discuss and ponder things with us. We are family, aren’t we?”

I nodded at her earnest face.

I patted the back of Mother’s hand, and she let out a sigh of relief, withdrawing her hand. As she had done when I was younger, she picked up a cookie and placed it in my hand. I accepted it readily and took a bite.

In a way, it was a comical misunderstanding and an embarrassing story. Yet, I was deeply moved.

To me, family and blood ties were something passionate and profound.

In my past life, from my very first breath until my name was erased from the registry, everything surrounding me was under the name Namgung.

Now, I stood fully upright under the name Ernhardt.

It was human nature to seek the familiar over the new. The feeling of being accepted by my blood relatives was like a weight lifted from my chest, leaving a refreshing coolness.

The cookie in my mouth tasted familiar. It was the sweet taste of affection.

We chatted about various old stories, and I lost track of time.

She told me about her pregnancy. She had experienced morning sickness with food during the early stages. She said she had an unprecedented craving for food, so intense that she couldn’t bear it, and everything she saw appeared as food, making her feel sorrowful and scared.

After eating so much, when her body grew heavy, suddenly, at a certain moment, I, nestled in her womb, became still without any movement. No matter how much she called out or ate, I didn’t respond.

She confessed, tearfully, that she had thought I was afraid of her, that she had had ill intentions, and that she had been scolded for it, so I gently stroked her back.

She also told me that after I was born, she had resolved to play with me a lot and raise me as an active child, but in the end, it was thanks to me that she regained her spirit, and she was grateful.

Eventually, I moved my chair to sit beside her, holding her hand, and urged her to continue.

She recounted the shock she felt when I, at my first attempt to speak, called her “Mother” instead of “Mom,” and how, at the age of not yet three, I had called her to prepare meals and told her to take care of herself, scolding her.

She also told me about the time her maternal relatives, upon hearing this in a letter, rushed over in disbelief, thinking it was a lie, just to see my face.

These events, which were not particularly memorable to me now, felt like listening to someone else’s story.

However, Mother’s expression seemed much more at ease as she spoke, so I held her hand for a long time, listening quietly to her various tales.