With his tablet in hand, Edmund was sitting across the street and observing the carpenter doing his work. He was trying to create new equipment to help the workers in the district using his memories, but with the limitation of just observing and not talking to them to get feedback or something, Ruppert helped a lot with this, but doing a finished product was out of the question because he didn’t want to stand out much. Edmund could only do prototypes and his notes; he felt stuck.

All of his hair is now white at the age of fifteen. Compared to before, his strength had significantly increased. Based on his memories, he compared himself to the untrained five-year-old hero. This realization made him nervous, but he reasoned that perhaps people with the rare and short-lived white hair disease, if any, could complement his shortcomings. After thinking for all of these eyes, he came to the obvious conclusion that normal soldiers would need to do the majority of the fighting; he was just too weak to enter a dungeon alone; even if he had ten people just like him, it would be impossible to clear it.

After realizing this, he started to write down everything he remembered from his memories of the other world. It was fragments, but Edmund could piece together ideas of how to train an army, just an introduction, as in the future, real soldiers would improve his ideas. That was the plan.

He thought that everything he was doing might be used in conquest and other things; other than defeating the Demon Lord, he automatically dismissed it as not his problem; only the Demon Lord was his problem.

Edmund saw in the distance a group of soldiers coming in his direction, nothing new, so he just moved to the side like many times before.

‘Hold right there; the king is in the warehouse. Come with us.’ The soldier stopped in front of Edmund; the white hair startled him a little.

Edmund was surprised but followed the soldiers to his house, and as he opened his door, for the first time ever, he saw his father,the king, in person. An old blond-haired man with blue eyes and beautiful blue clothes with golden details all around them. His first reaction was to be on one knee.

‘It’s my honor to meet your majesty; long live the king.’ The boy looked at his father’s shoes.

His name is Rufus Volter. He was well-known throughout the region as a wise and compassionate king for his subjects, but for Edmund, in front of him was a cold man with eyes filled with shame for his son, who was incapable of using magic and now, adding to that, has white hair. He wondered how he was getting painkillers.

‘You are to eat with me in two days; perhaps there you can prove your worth to the kingdom.’ His eyes were fixed on the boy.

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‘Could Your Majesty see what I have done, please? It might even be able to assist the kingdom.’ Edmund looked up, right into the king’s eyes.

‘Hum, fine.' The king smiled.

Rufus sat down in a chair next to him and gave Edmund a curious look. He thought that he could do only this much for the boy; maybe he would show him a toy or a sword trick.

Edmund started to scramble his prototypes and demonstrated a cylinder-chapped device that he had named “Train” that was on a track on the ground and looped around when he turned it on. The young man turned to face the king to see his reaction

‘Can you imagine if you could complete the journey that takes ten days of walking today in just hours?’ Edmund grinned.

Rufus smiled and was intrigued by the toy, but paid no mind to what the boy said; if he showed his sword skills, maybe he could use the boy in the front lines of his army.

‘It is a fun toy, but what you are saying is impossible. Do not waste my time, young man.’ The king rose and began walking to the door.

‘Wait, it is possible; give me a chance to show you; I have more to show you, please.' In desperation, Edmund grabbed Rufus' hand.

The king attempted to free himself from Edmund but was unable to do so due to the boy’s strength. He looked into the boy's eyes, enraged by the act.

‘Boy, release me, or you are dead; look around you.’ Rufus looked at the boy and around him.

‘I am sorry, your majesty; I did not mean to do this; I just needed another chance to show it to you.’ Edmund released the king's hand and looked at the ground.

‘You truly have white hair disease; what ruthless strength! But you will serve the kingdom in a different way, boy.’ The king exited Edmund's home.

‘What exactly am I doing? He simply despises me, and my hair made it worse.’ Edmund reached for his hair as he knelt on the floor, his eyes welling up with tears.

The young man was confused about what to do. If the king has no interest in something so amazing as the train, his best prototype, it could revolutionize everything, and he doesn’t care at all.

‘Why do you hate me for something I can’t change? he screamed.

Edmund tried to calm himself down by lying down on his bed, feeling guilty for not explaining his device correctly or showing him something more flashy to pull his attention.

‘You stupid idiot, you should have shown him the magic gun; he would have loved that, damnit!!!" He shouted.

On the next day, the sun was up in the sky, and Edmund was outside his home,staring out at the street with a depressed look on his face. His thoughts were scattered all over the place, but his eyes were attracted by a girl in a lavish red dress using a fan to cover part of her face. With two other people following her closely, he suddenly stood up and thought of the time he had read a book about the Shafran, a race that resembled bunnies and was even speculated to be descended from monsters.

The girl was looking around and saw the A-Dam boy looking at her, and she was surprised by his white hair. She started walking in his direction, smiling.

‘You! what is your name? what do you do here?’ She shouted.

Edmund could see that she, too, had all white hair, including on her arms, which had a sort of fur covering. Her eyes were bright red. Nothing like her could be found on the books of the libraries; he only knows about people like her because of conversations he picked up in the dining hall over the years; she had a more A-Dam-like face; and her arms had less fur and muscle than the two by her side that were obviously Shafran. She was a Chatzi.

‘Are you deaf, peasant?’ The girl taps his chest with her fan.