Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Cain slowly grew accustomed to life in the village.
He helped the farmers carry their harvests, repaired fences, chopped wood, and learned to greet people with a quiet smile. The villagers liked him—how could they not? Even the young women often whispered about him, amused and awed by his calm voice and unnaturally handsome face.
Cain liked it here too. The laughter, the morning air, the scent of wet earth after rain. But getting used to emotions was still difficult. Sometimes, he would stare at people laughing and wonder why he couldn't feel the same warmth inside. Still, the old man, Roen, helped him through those moments—teaching him how to talk, how to express, how to live.
Over time, their bond deepened.
Roen had no family left, no son to carry his name, and Cain quietly filled that empty space. He saw in the boy a strange strength and an innocence that shouldn't have coexisted, and it made him proud.
Yet, Roen worried. Cain was young, gifted, and sharp, but remaining in a small village would waste him. Roen himself had once been a cultivator before old age led him here to live out his final years in peace. He knew too well that in this world, strength was survival. Without it, even the kindest souls would be trampled underfoot.
One night, as the fire crackled between them, Roen thought deeply.
He had a friend in the city—an instructor at a cultivation academy. Perhaps it was time Cain went there, to learn, to grow, to find his own path.
But he wouldn't decide for him.
He would ask.
"Cain… Cain!" Roen's voice called from inside the house.
Hearing his name, Cain quickly stepped in and bowed respectfully, just as Roen had taught him.
Roen smiled, eyes soft with pride. "Come in, my boy, he knew he treated him like a child but couldn't help it. There's something we need to talk about."