novelraw Chapter 118 : The Genius of the Fields
Chapter 118 : The Genius of the Fields
(Rooga POV)
The village was already awake when I arrived.
The smell of baked bread drifted from the ovens, the blacksmith’s hammer clanged rhythmically, and children ran barefoot along the dusty path shouting greetings.
I liked mornings like this — ordinary ones.
No training, no lessons, just life humming like a simple song.
As I passed the small market, a few of the older farmers nodded in greeting.
“Morning, young Valemont,” one said. “Out for your stroll again, eh?”
Another chuckled. “That boy’s too lazy for a Valemont, I swear. Darius must’ve spent all his energy on the first and third!”
The others laughed, but there was no cruelty in it.
Someone else added, “Lazy maybe — but clever. Saw him fix that broken mill gear last week faster than our smith could curse about it.”
The first farmer scratched his beard. “That one’s got something strange about him. Too smart for a human boy. You ever look in his eyes? Like he’s seeing three things at once.”
Their words trailed after me like a breeze.
I didn’t mind.
I’d heard it all before — lazy, odd, different.
They weren’t wrong. I didn’t train like Father or Elara, didn’t burn with the same fire Riaz had.
But the land listened to me in a way it didn’t to anyone else.
Down by the fields, I stopped beside a row of sprouting grain.
The soil pulsed faintly beneath my feet — warm, alive.
I knelt, pressing my palms against the earth.
Mana stirred gently around my fingers, flowing into the ground.
Tiny roots shivered, responding to the touch.
A faint shimmer of green light rippled across the field, and the air filled with the scent of spring even though harvest was still weeks away.
The nearby workers stopped and watched in silence.
When I looked up, some smiled.
“See that?” one whispered. “He’s doing it again.”
Another nodded. “Told you he’s got something to do with the land. The goddess may’ve blessed Selene, but the boy… the boy carries her whisper.”
They still thought Mother had created the great tree.
No one knew it was Maori, not Mother.
And I was fine keeping it that way.
Let them believe what made them proud — it didn’t change the truth beneath the roots.
A few years ago, I would’ve hidden that magic.
But not anymore.
Mother didn’t stop me now — not since Father told her,
“Selene, you don’t have to hide behind your past. Let him live.”
And she did.
For the first time, she watched me use magic with pride instead of fear.
It felt strange at first — like stepping into sunlight after too long in shadow — but now it felt right.
The land wasn’t something I commanded; it was something I talked to.
And sometimes… it answered back.
I stood and dusted off my hands, glancing back toward the village gate.
No Roghar today.
He’d stopped shadowing me closely months ago.
The first time he left me alone, I thought something was wrong.
When I asked, he simply bowed and said,
“The villagers protect what protects them. My blade is no longer needed at your heel.”
And he was right.
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Now when I walked through the streets, people waved from their porches.
Children followed me, laughing and asking for stories.
Even the gruff old smith stopped to hand me a cup of water, muttering,
“Drink before you collapse, little genius.”
I smiled at that.
Lazy, maybe.
Genius? I wasn’t sure about that.
But for the first time, I understood something simple:
I didn’t have to earn
their trust.I just had to keep walking among them, listening, helping where I could.
The sun was climbing higher, painting the fields in gold.
The villagers had gone back to work, the market buzzed with noise, and the scent of fresh bread carried on the wind again.
I sat down by the well, watching them all — laughing, sweating, living.
No one looked at me with fear anymore.
No one whispered about the curse of the Valemonts or the tragedy that once haunted our house.
Just smiles.
Just peace.
And for someone who once thought the world only moved in numbers and mana percentages, that peace felt like the truest kind of magic there was.
The day was warm and quiet — a rare afternoon when the wind felt lazy, drifting through the village with the smell of sun-dried hay and roasted barley.
I’d spent most of the morning in the carpenter’s shed, whittling small shapes out of spare wood. Little animals, mostly. Kids liked them, and it kept my hands busy while my thoughts wandered.
That was when I heard her voice.
“Rooga! You’ve got good timing for once!”
I turned toward the road. Fera, sleeves rolled up, stood beside an old handcart that had seen better days. Its left wheel hung half-broken, the axle splintered, one handle nearly falling off.
Beside her stood Reyja, smaller and quieter, her hair tied with a ribbon the same color as the sky.
She looked thinner than before — her complexion pale — but her smile was warm enough to make up for it.
I smiled back. “What’s wrong with it this time?”
Fera huffed, kicking the wheel lightly. “What isn’t wrong with it? I’m about ready to throw it out.”
“Don’t,” I said, crouching down to inspect the cracks. “It just needs a new axle. The frame’s still good.”
“Ha! Listen to him,” Fera said with a laugh. “Thinks he’s a real craftsman now.”
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have expected to stand here like this — laughing with Fera, the same woman who once slapped me for my words.
But time had a strange way of smoothing out old hurts.
She had long since forgiven both me and Crome.
Now, whenever we met, it felt natural — familiar, even.
We’d joke, argue about tools, and sometimes work together fixing something the villagers had given up on.
As for Crome… well, he usually did
help, but only if Reyja was around.And since Reyja’s health kept her at home most days, that meant today was my turn alone.
I could imagine him now, pretending to “train” somewhere near the pond, probably rehearsing what he’d say next time Reyja came out.
I smirked to myself. “So he’s skipping again, huh?”
Fera crossed her arms. “If you mean that redheaded boy, yes. The moment Reyja says she’s resting, he suddenly remembers he has training to do.”
Reyja laughed softly. “He means well.”
I rolled up my sleeves and set to work.
The wheel axle was worn down to the grain, so I cut away the damaged part and measured a new beam using a spare plank Fera had kept.
Reyja sat nearby on a wooden stool, watching quietly, her eyes following every motion of my hands.
The sun caught the soft strands of her hair, turning them gold at the edges.
“You really can fix anything,” she said.
I chuckled. “Not anything. Just things people think aren’t worth fixing.”
“That’s the same thing,” she replied gently.
I paused for a second, looking at her — then went back to work.
It didn’t take long. A few nails, a little mana to harden the wood fibers, and the wheel turned smooth again.
When I lifted the cart’s handle to test it, it rolled forward perfectly, no wobble, no creak.
Fera blinked. “...You really did it.”
“Of course I did,” I said, brushing dust from my hands. “I told you it just needed care.”
Fera wiped her forehead, grinning. “You’re wasted on sword training, boy. You should just become the village craftsman.”
“Maybe someday,” I said, smiling.
Reyja stood up and touched the cart gently. “It’s like new.”
Her smile was small but genuine. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, every word felt soft — like she didn’t want to disturb the air around her.
“You always help, even when it’s not your job,” she said quietly.
I shrugged. “It’s nice to see things work again. People too.”
She tilted her head. “People too?”
I nodded. “Sometimes they just need a little care. Like this cart.”
Fera laughed loudly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Lyra. You’re starting to sound like a philosopher.”
“Maybe I’m just observant,” I replied, smiling.
When the work was done, Fera offered me a loaf of bread fresh from her oven as thanks.
Reyja insisted I take two.
I didn’t argue — her eyes had that stubborn kindness that reminded me too much of Mother.
As I walked home, I looked back once.
Fera was rolling the cart toward her shop, humming.
Reyja stood by the fence, waving, sunlight painting her in gold.
And for a moment, I thought — this, right here, was what peace felt like.
Not the silence after battle.
But the laughter that fills a place after forgiveness.