Chapter 4
By the time Ethan was one year old, he could already say a few simple words.
The first word he ever said wasn't "Father" or "Mother." It was "sword."
That day, Richard was practicing swordsmanship in a side hall while Ethan sat on the carpet nearby playing.
Richard's sword moves were full of force, the blade slicing the air so fiercely that the attendants couldn't help cheering.
When he finished, he stood with the sword lowered, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and asked me in a good mood, "Victoria, what do you think of my Skyblade Technique?"
I was about to toss out some empty praise when Ethan, still sitting on the carpet, suddenly spoke in his babyish voice. "Slow."
The entire side hall fell dead silent. Everyone stared at the little boy who could barely stand steady, their eyes wide with shock.
Richard's face darkened at once.
He walked over to Ethan, crouched down in front of him, and asked through gritted teeth, "Eith, what did you say?"
Ethan lifted his head and looked at him without the slightest fear. Then he repeated it. "Slow. Too slow."
My heart tightened. I quickly stepped forward and scooped Ethan into my arms, pretending to scold him. "Eith, don't talk nonsense. Apologize to your father right now."
But Richard raised a hand to stop me.
He stared hard at Ethan, his eyes full of scrutiny and disbelief. "Slow? Then tell me, what counts as fast?"
Everyone thought there was no way a one-year-old child could say anything meaningful.
But Ethan lifted one short finger and pointed at the sword in Richard's hand. "A sword is for killing. It has to be fast, sharp, and merciless."
He spoke one word at a time, each one clear. "Fancy moves are useless."
Richard was completely stunned.
He stared at the delicate little boy in front of him, shock written all over his face like never before.
Could those words really come from a one-year-old child?
"fast, sharp, and merciless." He repeated under his breath, a shrewd gleam flickered in his eyes.
After a long moment, he suddenly burst out laughing. "Perfect. Well spoken. That's my son. A born general. A born general indeed."
He snatched Ethan from my arms and lifted him high, his face overflowing with pride and wild joy.
I stood there with empty arms, looking at that so-called father and son, my heart cold as ice.
Richard, you're wrong.
He isn't a born general.
He's just remembering who he used to be.
Alexander Knight, the war god whose spear had once terrified the Northern Horde.
From that day on, Ethan's "talent" began showing itself at a terrifying speed.
At two, he already knew thousands of characters and could fluently recite basic primers and family records.
At three, he was able to point out a numerical error in the finance minister's memorial right in open court, in front of all the officials, leaving the old man red-faced and ashamed enough to apologize on the spot.
Richard was shocked and thrilled at the same time.
He started keeping Ethan by his side and personally taught him reading, writing, and how to handle state affairs.
The ministers all submitted memorials praising Ethan as a heaven-sent genius and a blessing to the Empire of Albion.
Richard was overjoyed, and on Ethan's third birthday, he officially named him Heir Prince.
At the investiture ceremony, little Ethan wore a set of miniature Heir Prince Regalia and stood on the high stone steps, receiving the bow of every official.
His little face was tense, his expression solemn, and his eyes were far too steady for a child.
I stood behind him, looking at that small but perfectly straight back, and my heart was full of emotions I couldn't put into words.
Alexander, your revenge has already begun.
And I will be your strongest support.