Chapter 271: Little Child

"Myles, are you tired?"

The little child raised his head.

"No."

His eyes were large and pitch-black, their darkness so complete that they seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

He looked up at the man with an impassive face, his expression so utterly blank that it was almost unnatural for a child of his age.

There was no weariness in his features, no irritation at the question, nor any particular desire to answer it. He had heard a question. He had supplied the appropriate response, that was all.

Then, after a brief pause, his eyes narrowed slightly. The corners of his mouth lifted, forming a small smile.

"I am fine, uncle."

The man smiled back.

"Good job. You remembered well."

The little child’s smile vanished immediately.

His face returned to its previous state, devoid of any discernible emotion.

There was no disappointment in him at the loss of praise, nor any satisfaction at having received it. He had learned that certain expressions were expected under certain circumstances.

The house was empty when they entered.

There were no other voices, no footsteps coming from the adjoining rooms, and no signs of another person living there. Its walls were adorned with pictures of animals, paintings of wilderness landscapes, and a handful of photographs depicting the man and the little child together.

Forests. Mountains. Wild animals standing beneath enormous skies.

More forests.

The little child looked at one of the paintings as he passed.

He had been shown an extraordinary number of books since he was small. Books about almost everything, fairy tales, novels, math, grammar, the construction of infrastructure to interior design, from architecture to the arrangement of domestic spaces.

His uncle had placed them before him, read to him, or instructed him to study their contents. The little child had absorbed an immense quantity of information without developing any corresponding need to seek it out himself.

He knew, for instance, that the decorations in the house were outdated.

The style had been fashionable approximately thirty years ago. The preference for wilderness paintings, framed animal illustrations, and rustic imagery belonged to an older period of interior design. Contemporary tastes had moved on. The colors were no longer particularly fashionable, and the arrangements were hardly innovative.

He understood all of that. What he did not understand was why his uncle had chosen to decorate the house this way.

It made little sense to him.

Still, the question did not bother him enough to ask.

Curiosity, as most people experienced it, was largely absent from the little child’s daily life. He did not feel a persistent urge to know why.

"Myles, come here."

The little child’s head turned slowly toward the voice.

His uncle was seated at the dining table. Before him sat a dish filled with sardines and herring.

The child climbed down the sofa with calmness. He did not hurry, nor did he hesitate. Once his feet touched the floor, he crossed the remaining distance to the table, pulled himself onto a chair, and settled into place.

"After lunch, we’ll start training."

The little child nodded.

He picked up his fork and began eating.

For a four-year-old, his handling of the utensil was impeccable. His fingers held it correctly, his wrist remained steady, and he moved the food to his mouth without spilling anything. There was no awkward fumbling, no childish impatience, no struggle to coordinate his movements.

His uncle watched him for a moment before returning his attention to his own meal.

***

"Remember what I told you, Myles."

CRASH!

The wall broke beneath the little child’s fist.

Fragments of plaster and masonry scattered across the floor, leaving a jagged opening where a solid surface had stood moments before. Dust rose into the air. Before it had settled, the child had already moved again.

He jumped.

His small body shot upward, reaching a height of three metres with an ease that should have been impossible. He twisted in midair, shifted his weight, and landed with remarkable precision.

The little child performed each movement as instructed.

His uncle stood several metres away, watching closely.

"The key to your strength lies here."

The man placed his palm against his own chest.

"Your energy. So now, try using it while moving just like you did before."

The little child nodded.

He understood the instruction.

Understanding it, however, did not mean that he cared about it.

Listening to his uncle explain the same principles over and over was boring. The first thing he ever felt in his life was boredom.

The demonstrations were repetitive, the instructions predictable, and the expected results easy to anticipate. He had already heard much of this before. He knew what he was supposed to do, what his uncle expected to see, and what he would be told if he failed.

There was very little in the process that could surprise him.

Yet he continued.

He had no particular preference for training over resting. He did not dread the exercises, but neither did he look forward to them. The distinction mattered to other people. To the little child, it was simply another part of the day.

After all, boredom was not particularly different from how he usually lived.

The man spoke gently, corrected mistakes without raising his voice, and maintained the patient demeanor of someone teaching a young child. He provided meals, arranged lessons, and guided the little child’s development with meticulous consistency.

To an outside observer, he might have appeared devoted.

The little child knew better, though not because he understood the man particularly well.

Ba-dump...

Ba-dump...

The subtle rhythm of a pulse, the faint shifts in breathing, the minute irregularities produced by a change in emotional state, these things were as accessible to him as the words spoken directly into his ears.

Beneath the calm voice and measured movements there was regret and grief.

The little child could recognize these emotional disturbances without truly comprehending their significance.

He knew that his uncle was troubled.

He did not know why.

More importantly, he did not particularly care.

The man called himself his uncle. The man fed him, taught him, and trained him. The man sometimes looked at him with a peculiar expression that lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.

These were observable facts.

Whatever connected them, whatever history had brought them into this house, and whatever burden the man carried whenever he looked at the child, none of it had become important enough for the little child to investigate.

Perhaps, if he had possessed a more ordinary emotional life, he might have wondered whether his uncle was sad because of him.

There was no sense of deprivation, because deprivation required some awareness of what ought to have been there.

"Now, try it again," his uncle said.

The little child turned toward the remaining section of wall.

He bent his knees and sprang forward.

His body surged through the air, and energy gathered in his hand.

Then something shifted.

His balance was wrong.

The little child’s body tilted as the energy discharged. The force struck the wall, but his momentum carried him backward instead of forward. His feet failed to find the ground beneath him, and he fell.

The impact was abrupt.

For a moment, he remained where he had landed, his pitch-black eyes staring at the ceiling.

A few seconds passed, then he sat up and looked at his hands.

His fingers opened and closed once.

The movement had been incorrect.

He had failed to maintain his balance while releasing the energy. The conclusion was straightforward, and he could already identify several adjustments that might prevent the same mistake from happening again.

He should have been able to correct it. He had performed similar movements successfully before.

There was no obvious reason for the failure.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump!

BA-DUMP!!

BA-DUMP!!!

The heartbeat came from behind him.

It was so rapid that the individual beats seemed to collide with one another, overwhelming the quieter sounds around them. The little child turned his head toward the man.

His uncle was no longer standing where he had been.

"Myles."

The man’s voice had changed.

The little child looked at him.

Before he could respond, his uncle seized his arm and shook him violently.

"What do you think you’re doing?!"

The question rang through the room.

The little child’s body moved with the force of the man’s grip. His head shifted from side to side, but his expression barely changed. His eyes remained fixed on his uncle’s face, taking in the tightened jaw, the strained features, and the unmistakable agitation that had shattered the man’s usual composure.

His heartbeat was frantic, and the little child did not understand the reaction.

He had fallen, that was all.

His balance had failed, and his attempt had been unsuccessful. Neither outcome was unprecedented. Mistakes occurred during training. His uncle had explained this many times.

The child looked down at the hand holding him. Then he looked back up.

"Uncle?"

The man’s expression faltered.

For one brief moment, the little child saw something in his eyes that did not belong to anger alone.

It was impatience.