Continue On, Struggler | Chapter Six, Bump in the Road.

…

More than half a year had passed since the party. Over the course of which, Guts continued to have lessons with Paul and Roxy.

A decent amount had changed over that time.

The day after he turned five, Paul stepped up the intensity of his training regiment. Only by a notch, nothing too extreme, but still noticeably harder. It amounted to everything he had been doing prior, but more. More jogging, more push-ups, more sit-ups, more squats. More supervision when he practiced his swings, paired with a lot more scrutiny on them. His footwork, hip rotation, edge alignment—they all needed more work, according to his father. More power when hitting the training dummy, more focus when spoken to, more balance when attacking. More, more, more… More everything.

Guts didn't complain, wasn't ever going to. He's been through this song and dance before. Knew that, to improve, he needed to grind himself into dust. Understood that, by doing so, everything he practiced would get ground up alongside him. Then, when it was time to build himself back up, it'd be embedded in his bones.

That's just what it took to improve. And he was improving, Paul said so himself. Nowhere near where he wanted to be, of course, but he'd get there. That's all that mattered to him.

…

If Guts was going to complain about anything, it'd be the fact that Paul was teaching him exclusively Sword-God and Water-God style. Decided all on his own that North-God was better left for later. Wouldn't elaborate as to why, either.

Whatever his reason, his father's voice filled with venom when he talked about it. Not at him, but at something else. Something that wasn't there with them.

Guts decided to leave it at that.

…

In the meantime, Guts's lessons with Roxy were going better. He figured it was the wand she'd given him, but the Migurd was adamant that the wand could only do so much. That his progress was due to his own improvement. He decided to take her word for it.

At the very least, he could follow through with more of the spells he could cast, instead of just having them hover in his hand uselessly. Most of them were fire spells, with a couple of wind spells mixed in. Still all Beginner-level stuff.

It'd just have to do.

…

Recently, both of his teachers have said that they could see him surpassing Beginner-rank in a year or two if things continued to go well.

According to Paul, he was close to reaching Intermediate in Water-God.

And, according to Roxy, he seemed on the cusp of being able to cast Intermediate-tier Fire spells.

That felt like an awfully long time to him, especially when all either meant was that he'd be average at both, but then again, of course, it did. He'd only been alive in this world five years, going on six in a month or two.

More and more, it felt like he's spent most of this life waiting.

…

Every once in a while, circumstances broke up the usual routine. Urgent village business, usually. The kind that was too important to ignore, but too mundane for Guts to take any interest in himself. For his father, it was monster sightings and escort requests. For Roxy, it was all the little calamities that a farmer could face and only a magician could fix: bugs attacking crops, sudden injuries to work animals, and so on and so forth.

In either case, they'd have him doing something to make that time productive.

His magic tutor tended towards more structured exercises. Reading, writing, and casting. Boring stuff, but productive enough to feel like he wasn't wasting time.

His father favored the opposite approach. Told Guts he was free to spend their usual time as he wished. "Go enjoy your youth," Paul would say with a big smile, probably figuring he'd spend it all training anyways.

Being predicted so easily always made Guts frown and his father laugh.

Today would be Paul's turn to be away. Investigating monster sightings near the outskirts of the village, apparently. He received the message that morning, told Zenith he'd be back around sundown, then left—leaving Guts without plans for the afternoon.

Guts hated doing it, but when Roxy finished with her lessons, his mind immediately went and proved his father right. Much to his own chagrin.

…

Hmph! Guts shook his head, reset his stance. No, it was more like a 'hah!' and then a 'ho!'

He was working on a Water-God technique his father showed him, called Crashing Wave. A real fancy name for a relatively simple technique, basically boiling down to an upwards slash from the hip, a hop back, and a turn of the wrists with the intent to parry.

That seemed to be the case for a majority of Beginner-level swordplay techniques. Basics, fundamentals given strange amounts of distinction. For example, there was a Sword-God technique called Arm Chop, where all it entailed was chopping at someone's arm. No real moves were tied to it either, according to Paul. Just aim for the arm, instead of any other part of the enemy's body.

Regardless, Guts figured that there was never a bad time to review the basics, especially when his body wasn't used to them yet.

Hah! Hop. Hoh!

He cursed to himself as he reset. Too much force in the hop there. Messed up my balance.

Hah! H—

"We don't need no demons in the village!"

—Hm? A kid?

Guts clicked his tongue in annoyance. He couldn't help it. This spot—the hill where Roxy had offered to teach him to read—had become his go-to spot for practicing because of its distance from the village. Kept snot-nosed kids from bothering him, basically.

Today, unfortunately, seemed to be the exception.

Griping aside, Guts went to investigate, wooden sword in hand, ready to scare them off.

"Get the hell out of here!"

"Take this!"

"Ha, nice! Direct hit, man!"

Two other voices joined the first. Some sort of fight had broken out, that much was clear. That or, and this seemed much more likely as he grew closer, some other kid was getting ganged up on.

Guts's pace slowed upon realizing. It reminded him of a lecture Paul had given him a few days prior. One that involved his station as a knight's son and what that entailed: honor, a higher standard of conducting himself, and a moral obligation to help the weak.

What a load of bullshit, was his initial reaction—knowing better.

Guts had been around knights before. Spent plenty of time around them, actually, back in his old life. They tended to hang around the mercenaries they hired to fight their battles. Never amongst, he noticed. Always around. Always on the outskirts, usually from someplace above or far away. Separate. Looking down on them and talking down to them. As if they were somehow better. As if they weren't the same in the end. Men. Flesh and blood. Mortal: able to be cut down. Vain: violent and dishonorable as the rest of them. Without all of their posturing, all that ever separated a knight from a commoner was the fancier armor.

He kept all that in mind as he crested over to the other side of the hill and the kids came into view.

There were four kids in total. Three bullies and one victim. Boys, from the looks of it, all standing in a field ruined by yesterday's rainfall. They had mud up to their ankles. The mud was important to note since the bullies were weaponizing it; grabbing it up off the ground, forming them into balls, and hurling it at the one kid who had curled up into a ball.

"Ten points for any headshots!"

"Hngh!" The one boy grunted as a mudball impacted the side of his head.

"Haha, boom! Didja see that?! Headshot!"

They're really getting into it, huh? Then again…. Guts thought back to how one of the boys had said the word "demon." It wasn't just any old kid insult. There was playfulness there, but the kind that dripped with venom. Actual hatred, definitely, but the blunted kind that signaled to it being taught, instead of developed.

"Hey, wait, look! He's holding onto something!"

"I bet it's his demon treasure!"

"Treasure? A demon like him? Nah, I bet he stole it!"

"Hey, let's see if we can hit it! Hundred points if you do!"

"Let's do it! C'mon, let's get that treasure!"

Guts snorted. A disgusted one. Not aimed at the bullies, but at the boy curled up in a ball. The sight made him want to turn heel and leave. Right then and there. Let the kid defend himself, he thought. Then, Paul's lecture replayed itself in his mind and he felt even more tempted to go.

According to his father, a knight would march down there and save the kid, meaning that Guts, as a son of a knight, should do the same. But that was just it.

He wasn't a knight. Had no intention of becoming one either. He was just the son of one. Let this kid get bullied—what the hell did it have to do with him? Not a damn thing. Plain and simple. It's what the kid deserved. If that's all he could do to defend himself, then he wasn't even worth feeling bad about.

"Huh? Hey, what the hell do you think you're looking at?"

However, true as that might be, something else was true too…

"Did you not hear me or something? I asked you a question!"

"Speak when you're spoken to!"

"You scared? Is that why you haven't said anything?"

These three idiots were annoying as hell too.

"Yeah, I bet he's scared!" The biggest of the three started towards him. "I mean, look at him, he's—"

"—Leave," Guts said. His voice was firm. Unimpressed. Challenging. In the way that got men three times these kids' age pissed enough to try and do something about it.

"What'd you just say?!"

"Leave." Guts repeated himself without hesitation. He leaned to one side, to look past the lead dumbass, and met eyes with one of the two hiding behind him. He flinched. Typical. "You're all annoying as shit. Leave. I won't tell you again."

"Yeah? And who's gonna make us?" The lead one kept on yapping. "You, you little baby?"

Guts watched as the three made their way to the foot of the hill, looking more pissed than when they started.

"The hell are you supposed to be, anyway? Acting all high and mighty and shit." The big one demanded, stopping right where the hill began to incline. "I ain't see you around the village."

"Wait, I know him!" One of his cronies, Guts didn't bother distinguishing the two, chimed in with the answer. "He's that one knight's son."

The answer seemed to further incense the boy. "Oh, I get it now! You're looking down on us 'cuz you're the son of some fancy knight!"

"He probably thinks we can't touch him or something!"

"Yeah, I bet if we do, he'll go crying to his daddy!"

Guts batted away their insults with indifference. The kind only possible for a grown man. A younger version of him might've blown up by now—marched up to them, bashed their heads in—but he wasn't going to stoop to their level now. They were still just kids, after all, and he wasn't going to beat up on a kid just because.

"What? Little baby can't talk all of a sudden?" The lead one tested his luck, took a step up the hill. "C'mon, say something!"

Now, if they actually did try and start something….

"Screw this!"

There was a yell. It came from one of the boys. Not the one up front, but the ones behind him. Then, Guts noticed it. The one taking up the rear. Bent over, he balled up some mud, stood upright, and then reared back his arm. Chambering it. A cheap shot. Hmph, 'course.

The boy let loose. Guts watched as it flew. It was lazy. A dying bird, floating on a high arc. Easy to avoid, even if he hadn't seen it coming. A step to the side, his left, and it landed a little behind him. Harmlessly.

The boy who threw it let out a growl.

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"Why, you little…!" The big one spoke for him. He turned to them, started barking orders. "You two! Get to throwing! Any headshots are a thousand points!"

The mud came flying a few moments later. It came in waves. Sloppy, unorganized waves. Over and over again, it was: bend over, ball up, and throw.

All just to miss.

Watching them, weaving around the falling mud, a single truth became painfully obvious to Guts but didn't surprise him: these boys have never had to hit a moving target before. At that moment, the reality of the situation dawned on him. Disappointed him a little. He was going up against actual children. This wasn't a fight. Far from it.

As Guts thought that, he noticed something flying toward him that wasn't mud. A rock, a sizable one at that, aimed right for his head. One that would do damage if it landed. Right then, instinct forced a single word into his mind, propelled his body into action: retaliate.

Guts snatched the rock out of the air, cocked his arm back, and sent it right back between the lead boy's eyes. All in a single, smooth motion.

The bully's head reeled back upon impact. His feet followed, taking him right in between his two cronies. Altogether, it wasn't enough to put the kid on his ass, but it did stop the others from throwing mud.

Soon, their eyes all turned to him. They stared at him. Eyes wide, fear evident. Like what he did was some sort of grand crime.

Guts rolled his eyes. Sick of their stupor, he took a step forward, and, collectively, they all took a step back.

"W-W-Why would you…?"

"Y-You'll pay for that, got it?!"

"Y-Y-Yeah, you're not gonna get away with this just because you're a knight's son!"

Their words were big, but their faces were scrunched. Not quite to the point of tears, but close. And then, without another word, they all turned and ran.

Guts huffed and watched them disappear into the distance. 'Course.

"…Um, excuse me?" A voice called out to him. Sudden, high-pitched, and shaky. Coming from his right.

Guts followed it. Found the kid who had been getting bullied. "Hm?"

The kid's voice confused him. It was a lot higher pitched than he expected. And there was a distinct lack of boyishness in it too. Given how they were dressed—in a ragged, hooded tunic and a pair of shorts—he for sure thought the kid was a boy, but now, Guts was sure they were a girl.

"You're still here?" he asked.

Guts couldn't really see her reaction. Not when her red eyes were busy making more eye contact with the ground than him. That being said, her entire being seemed to radiate the same nervous energy. She was pressing the tips of her pointer fingers together, her legs were so turned inward that her knees were almost touching, and she was shaking. Like a newborn fawn.

He snorted. If she weren't a child, he would've called her pathetic. "Don't thank me."

She was lucky, though. Lucky that he could guess as to why she was talking to him in the first place. And that he'd put her out of her misery. She wouldn't have to flounder there in silence for long.

"I didn't mean to help you or anything. Those guys were just annoying, is all." Resting his sword on his shoulder, he waved the girl off. "Now, buzz off. I've got training to get to."

The girl let out a squeak. She took a step back, straightened, and startled. Then, a moment later, she started off in the opposite direction the boys ran off in.

Guts huffed before starting back towards the tree.

Buzz off, huh? He wanted to laugh at his own word choice. It reminded him of a certain bug he knew.

Standing back under the tree, Guts readied himself to swing. Alright, where was I?

…

By the time Guts got back home, the Sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon. Left the land somewhere in between night and day, covering certain objects in shadow. It just so happened that the front door was one of those things. And, by extension, so was Paul. He stood in front of it. Furious.

Hands pressed to hips and jaw locked—tight with tension. He blocked the doorway with his entire body. Possessed with a sternness that couldn't—wouldn't be ignored. It forced Guts to stop in his tracks, meet it head-on.

"I'm back," Guts said.

The reason was obvious. He fully expected it. For those kids to run back to their parents, in tears, and tell they got attacked. Twist the story to benefit them. That's just what pests did. Started things and, when faced with the slightest opposition, ran back to the safety of numbers.

"I'm really upset right now," Paul began, his frown deepening. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

Guts didn't answer, chose not to. The man was clearly pissed. Anything he could say right now would've only made him madder. Maybe he could try saying "sorry," but that wasn't going to happen.

Paul, probably confused by his silence, squinted. Then asked, "Mr. Eto's wife came over a little while ago. Told me you threw a rock and hit their boy, Somal. That true?"

He nodded. The names weren't at all familiar, but it didn't take a genius to guess who his father was talking about.

"Not even going to deny it?" Despite his words, Paul visibly relaxed at Guts's admittance. His entire upper body seemed to slump forward as he spoke. In the way where a knight, tight with nerves over a coming battle, would be happy to avoid it entirely. Even his tone, while still disapproving, lightened up. "Do you remember what I said when I first started training you?"

"…Something about not getting strong just to brag about it?"

His father hummed approvingly. "To be exact, 'Men don't get strong just to brag about it.' So, tell me, why are you using what I taught you to push other kids around?"

Guts felt something sting him, a pang that made his brow twitch. Then, he felt it. A heat, a slow boil that simmered in the depths of his chest. It took him a moment to recognize it. He hadn't felt it in the longest time, at least not in response to someone else's words. Not to this extent. Not since his time with Gambino, or maybe when Casca—her mind addled from the sacrifice—rejected him. No. Definitely less than those times, but it pushed him to move just the same.

"What was I supposed to do then?" Guts refused to let Paul think he threw that rock for no reason. "That Somal kid wasn't alone. He had two other kids with him. And they were the ones who picked a fight with me, threw the rock at me. Was I supposed to just stand there and let it hit me—?"

"—What? Of course, I don't mean that you should let them walk all over you. A man's got to defend themselves, I get that, but you have to pick and choose who you make enemies out of. Those boys are just normal kids, Rudy. They were born to normal families, with normal abilities. They weren't born with all you have; they aren't special like you. Think about it like this, if you ever fought someone and got hurt, you could cast healing magic on yourself or get your mother to heal you. They can't."

"Maybe they shouldn't be picking fights then." Guts didn't budge. In fact, he was ready to dig his heels in on this. If Paul was so hellbent on convincing Guts otherwise, that was his problem. Fuck all that noise about privilege and honor and moral high grounds, that was his problem. Paul's. The Knight. Guts wasn't a knight and he never asked to be held to the standard of one, that wasn't his problem. He wasn't going to bow down and do as he was told just because. Been there, done that, and he was never going back.

"You're not even trying to see where I'm coming from," Paul said, pinching the bridge of his nose. As if this was all some grand annoyance. "Look, I'm not trying to say that you're in the wrong here. I get it. You're young, you're boys. Fights are gonna happen, but they don't happen for no reason."

"Yeah. Them. They're the ones who started—"

"—Would you stop saying that?! They may have started things, but you didn't do anything to stop it either!" Ah, great. Paul was yelling. Looks like this argument was over. "I don't care whether you like it or not, you're just as much at fault here as they were! That means you're not going anywhere until you agree to apologize! To the boys and their families!"

His father was glaring daggers into him. Guts kept his feet rooted and glared right back. He could see it. The beginnings of something familiar. Bubbling and boiling in the green of his eyes, in the tension of his clenched jaw, and in the tightness of his balled fists. Guts knew what that was.

"Well?" Paul was the first to say anything, his voice expectant. "Saying something."

Paul was going to hit him.

Yeah, like I give a shit. "Because I didn't do anything wrong—"

"—E-Excuse-me, Paul?" Another voice interrupted the eventual clash.

Paul was the first to break eye contact. His focus found purchase somewhere above and behind Guts. "Laws?"

Following his father's lead, Guts found a blonde man standing at their front gate. Young and lithe-looking with red eyes, a bow slung over his shoulder, and… pointed ears?

"What're you…?" Paul began but trailed off.

The man—Laws, as his father called him—wasn't familiar to Guts, but the figure hiding behind his leg was. It was her clothes that gave her away, the kid who was getting bullied earlier. Her hood was down this time around, so he could actually see her face. Pointed ears and red eyes, like her father, but she had light green hair that was cut short. To the point where he might've assumed she was a boy if he hadn't already known better.

"Sorry, looks like I came at a bad time." Laws raised a hand in greeting as his eyes darted between Guts and Paul. "…Oh, and nice to finally meet you, Rudeus. My name is Laws. I work with your father."

Guts mimicked the greeting lazily, baffled by the man being there at all. "Hey."

"Oh, um, sorry if you heard any of that." Free from his stupor, Paul moved in for damage control. "Rudy and I…" He let out an awkward chuckle. "You caught us in the middle of a little disagreement. You know how it is with kids. So, what brings you? Something about work? Oh, and you brought your daughter?"

"I did!" Laws's eyes widened, making it seem like he had forgotten all about her. But then again, the man might've just been so focused on the familial bullshit playing out in front of him that it slipped his mind. "Actually, my daughter is the reason I'm here." He moved, making sure that she was out in the open, and then knelt down next to her. One hand on her shoulder, the other gesturing over towards Guts, he told her in the most reassuring of tones, "C'mon, Phi, tell Rudeus what you wanted to say."

The little girl glanced at her father warily, then at Guts, then at Paul, and then back at Guts before nodding. She took one shaky step forward, then another, and eventually, she stood right in front of him. Her expression bled with fear and uncertainty.

"Be sure to look him in the eye when you thank him!" Laws called out, startling the girl.

"Thank him?" Guts narrowed his eyes, fighting back the urge to sigh. Oh. This again.

The girl failed to heed her father's words and her eyes stayed glued to the ground. Her eyes stayed that way for a few moments, squirming and fidgeting, before suddenly rising to meet his own.

"Th-Thank you… for helping me earlier. I was bringing father his lunch, so… if you hadn't come when you did…."

Guts wanted to deny the idea outright. He told her the truth back then. He never stepped in with the intention of helping her. She just so happened to be there, just so happened to benefit from it. He opened his mouth to do just that, but before he could…

"Hold on, 'helping…'?" Paul spoke up. "Oh. I get it now." There was the sound of footsteps and, from out of nowhere, a hand clasped itself around Guts's shoulder. Looking back, he found his father knelt next to him. He looked right at him, his face no longer holding any of the anger it once had. In its stead was a simple, proud grin. "Geez, Rudy, why couldn't you have said that from the start?"

Honestly, Guts felt even more insulted than before.

"Don't mention it."

But Guts wasn't an idiot. No matter how much he wanted to deny the notion, he was just as sick of this conversation. Maybe even more so. If it helped them sleep better at night, then he figured that it was best to not say anything at all. It was just easier. For him and for them.

"Oh, um, o-okay." The girl nodded and went running back to her father.

When she reached him, Laws chided her gently, "Phi, you forgot to introduce yourself."

The girl jumped and came running right back.

"S-Sorry! My name is Sylphiette."

"Rudeus."

"T-Thank you, Rudeus. For saving me."

Guts hummed, not wanting to say anything and give away his displeasure.

…

The two fathers shared another round of goodbyes before Laws and Sylphiette left. The latter gave one last tentative wave before turning onto the road and disappearing behind the brick fence.

"Man, my son sure does love withholding important information." For whatever reason, Paul seemed awfully pleased with himself. Guts couldn't say the feeling was mutual. "I'm sorry, Rudy." His face suddenly fell. "About what we were talking about earlier." The grip he had on Guts's shoulder tightened as he spoke. "That was a good thing you did. It was my fault for assuming the worst."

Guts didn't know what to say. He could hear the regret in his father's words, and it wasn't just for show either. He could tell. It was real. The genuine article. That's why it left Guts speechless, unable to respond in any way more than a simple nod.

To him, it was something novel. Something he's never experienced before. A father who was willing to admit to their mistake and apologize in earnest.

It was strange to think about. The feelings it inspired even more so. His own regret being first and foremost.

It ate him. Made him think. And, at the end of the night, he honestly would've preferred getting hit to whatever the hell this was.

…

Zenith.

…

Paul and Rudy had a fight.

"C'mon, cut me some slack, will you?" Paul had been the one who started it, of course. "If he was just trying to help that Sylphie girl, then he should've just said so."

Zenith continued to ignore her husband. He could beg for her forgiveness all he wanted. All night, for all she cared. Getting these dishes cleaned was much more important to her than his excuses. They didn't matter to her. Nor did his pleading. His actions afterward definitely didn't matter to her either. What did she care if he slid up behind her, put his hands on her hips, and nuzzled her nape just the way she liked? None of that mattered to her!

…Okay, maybe it mattered just a little. Not enough to keep her from being angry, though.

Truthfully, she knew her husband wasn't the only one at fault. A fair amount of fault lay with Rudy as well. He had gotten into a fight, one he admitted to participating in openly. Justified or not, that much was true. In her mind, Mrs. Eto was partially to blame as well. She hadn't given Paul the whole story about what happened between their children. Intentionally or not, she completely failed to mention that her boy had his friends with him or that he had been bullying another child. Her son had been in a fight. Her husband had been led astray. These sorts of things happened.

In the end, though, Zenith couldn't help being mad at her husband. Excuses aside, he was supposed to be the adult between the two. The adult. The parent. Patient, pragmatic, and understanding above all—all that he had promised he'd be when she was pregnant with Rudy. He hadn't been any of that tonight. Tonight, he had just been his usual self. Quick-tempered and just as quick to prove himself. He was just Paul. And he was just lucky that Laws stepped in before he did anything he'd regret.

She brushed his hands off her. "Just to be clear, I'm not mad at you for that."

Zenith really wasn't. Paul was allowed to be angry and disappointed with their son. She reacted the same way in the moment, although with a healthy level of disbelief. Her son attacked an innocent boy? Rudy did? The same boy whose lack of emotions worried them to no end when he was first born? It was pretty hard to believe. Yet, before stomping out there to defend him, she reminded herself that her son wasn't perfect.

Rudy was still a young boy and not the most social one at that. She wouldn't go as far as thinking him a recluse, but he never took kindly to strangers. Always treated them ruder than she'd prefer. Always batted away any physical contact that wasn't from her or his father. Even if the Etos had altered their story to make Rudy look bad, something like this was probably bound to happen. Kids were going to be kids, she thought. They'd fight for good reasons, and for bad ones. She felt bad about it, but until she learned more, she couldn't give him the benefit of the doubt then.

Nonetheless, it didn't seem that big an issue. It was still just a fight between kids. If Rudy was just standing up for himself, all they needed to do was teach him that violence didn't solve all the world's problems. Paul agreed. Said that he'd do the talking since he was the one who taught him to fight in the first place. Take responsibility, basically.

That turned out to be a mistake. A light scolding turned into a verbal confrontation. Rudy hadn't made things easy on him, granted, but he was supposed to be an adult! He should have been able to handle it without losing his cool. But he did. Awfully.

By his own admission, Paul was a few seconds away from hitting their son.

"If that's not it, then what are you mad at me for?" Paul asked. He leaned back on the washbasin next to her and caused the water inside to slosh a bit. The way he asked made her pause. It didn't sound like her husband at all. "I get I could've handled things better, but…" One look was all it took for her to forgive him. A little, at least. In her head. "What exactly was I supposed to do?"

Her husband was a lot of things. Crass, impulsive, and horribly stubborn to boot. A boar. Immature for his age and prone to making bad decisions at key times. Frankly, outside of fighting, he was a bit of an idiot at everything.

She loved him, despite all that. He was energetic, passionate, and had a charisma that could leave a woman hanging off every single word he said. But, most importantly to her, he knew that he wasn't perfect. Understood that no one could be, but also understood he could always do better. So, when he did make a mistake, he did everything in his power to rectify it.

Especially when it came to being a father.

"I'm mad because you were being a stubborn idiot," Zenith said, trying to be as gentle as possible.

"Hey, give me more credit than that, I already figured out that much myself." Of course, he chuckled and brushed the insult off like it was nothing. "Still, that's not really much to go off, y'know?"

Zenith sighed. I'm just going to have to spell it out for him, aren't I?

"At some point, you stopped trying to be a father and just wanted to win the argument," she said. "When you're Rudy's age, if you think you're right in the right, then you're right and no one's going to convince you otherwise. I mean, you should know that better than anyone."

Her husband winced at the mention. Zenith's knowledge of her husband's childhood only extended to what he told her. However, arguments like this seemed to be a regular occurrence for him and his own father. To the point where it escalated into the complete fracture of their relationship. Eventually, one told the other to leave and never return, and that's exactly what Paul did. When she saw him wince, she knew he got the point.

"Remember, Rudy's our son. That means he's probably a lot more like us than we'd like to admit—faults and all." She set a dish off to the side for later drying. "So, next time, try to remember how you always wanted your father to treat you."

"Treat him how I always wanted to be treated, huh?" Paul surmised and scowled.

Good, she thought and smiled. That meant the gears in his head were definitely turning.

It's just like how she said, her husband was a stubborn idiot, but she could be one too in her own right. That meant their son was probably one as well. Still, she was confident things would work out for the best.

As long as they kept trying to be better, then Zenith had all the confidence in the world in that.

…

Chapter End.