It had been two days since the baby was sent away from the church, left to be found by anyone willing to give him a home.
"Why am I so unloved by this world?" the infant thought—though he had no words, the ache was there. Every raindrop that struck his forehead felt like a reminder. He cried, not just from the cold or hunger, but from a yearning to be held… to be loved. The world already felt unfair to him.
Sensing the child's distress, the silver-backed horse slowed its pace, trying to calm him. Minutes passed. The boy's breathing settled into a slow, deep rhythm. The moon began to rise, and with it, the chill of night. A gentle breeze lulled him into sleep.
After forty-nine hours of tireless travel, the horse could go no farther. It collapsed from exhaustion. Together, the baby and the beast slept, the sound of mockingbirds echoing softly in the barren wilderness.
Hours passed.
Keith woke with a cry that pierced the quiet. The horse didn't respond. It was dead.
His cries echoed into the ruins.
From atop a crumbling building in this desolate wasteland, a figure stirred. Cloaked in tattered brown robes, the man peered down.
"Well, what do we have here?" he muttered.
He descended carefully, stepping over broken rubble, glass, and sand. His eyes fell on the dead horse… and the wailing infant.
He approached slowly, then scooped the baby into his arms, rocking him with surprising tenderness.
"Hey there, little wasted rat… got a name?"
A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, landing on a set of dog tags around the baby's neck. The man lifted them, squinting.
"Keith Ognailed," he read aloud. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Well now… I'll be damned. You're a gift."
He coughed—a wet, sick sound—and wiped the black blood from his mouth. *Fourteen years left,* he thought grimly.
The man tucked Keith close to his chest and began the trek home.
He shielded the baby from the heat as best he could, even as the sand scorched the soles of his feet. After four hours, he arrived at a small stone shack, worn by time but still standing.
"This is home. Just the two of us now," he said, coughing into his arm. More black blood. He laughed it off like it was nothing. For him, this *was* normal.
Inside, he hung his cloak on a rack near a stone chair. The floor was covered in sand. The man—grizzled, elderly, and marked with burns and scars—knelt by an old cabinet. From within, he pulled a dusty glass bottle filled with a thick brown liquid.
"Lucky you, kid," he sighed, stretching his back. "Still got some yalkel milk left. Been told it doesn't spoil."
He took a sip—no ill effect.
He grabbed a dirty baby bottle from the top shelf, then set a pot of water to boil over the fire. He tossed a towel into the pot to sterilize it. Ten minutes later, using heat-resistant gloves, he pulled out the steaming rag and began scrubbing the bottle clean. After five careful minutes, he filled it with warm milk.
"Sorry, little guy," he said gently, feeding him. "I forgot to introduce myself."
"My name is Roelgenheld. Or just Rog, if you prefer. Most folks did."
He chuckled—low and strange, with a hint of madness in it.
When Keith was full, Rog wiped the milk from his chubby cheeks and laid him in a large basket lined with old cloth. The two of them drifted off to sleep.
Hours passed.
Then—**BANG!**
A sudden crash jolted them awake. Keith screamed. Rog's eyes snapped open.
Grabbing two black daggers with red-tinted hilts, he turned just in time to see a massive, twenty-foot centipede monster burst through the wall.
Fear threatened to paralyze him, but he pushed it down. This was his home. And that child was under his care.
With a roar, he lunged at the beast—two vertical slashes, then three horizontal strikes. The blades dug in, but the creature lashed out with its jaws, slamming Rog to the ground.
They traded blows, a brutal stalemate. Until the centipede caught the scent of Keith.
It turned. Charged.
"No!" Rog bellowed.
Dark shadows enveloped his legs as he triggered a technique that let him dash forward in a blur. He blocked the monster's lunge just in time.
"You won't touch this child. Not even a scratch. Even if it costs me my life."
As he held the line, a thought surfaced.
*Why am I fighting so hard for this kid?*
The question lingered… until the answer came.
Because, for the first time in his life, he *chose* to.
And in that moment of will, Keith's presence awakened something in him—an aura, an energy. Shadows erupted across Rog's body, forming black armor, forged by resolve.
With a final surge, he dashed forward. One devastating strike. Shadow and steel as one. The centipede's head hit the ground with a wet thud.
The armor faded. Rog dropped to his knees, breathing hard, bleeding—smiling.
He turned to Keith, still crying in his basket.
"Well, kid," he said between labored breaths, "I know you're meant to be with the elves… but I'm raising you until I drop dead."
He coughed, black blood dripping from his lips.
"You just cost me two years of my damn life, you little shit."
And yet, he cradled the baby in his arms with the gentleness of a father. He smiled.
Then the two of them fell asleep, together, in the quiet aftermath.