"Happy birthday, nephew!"

A towering, two-meter-tall man grinned with a bulky frame as he stood before him, a massive sword strapped securely across his back. A jagged scar slashed across his left eye, lending his grin a fierce edge. In his outstretched hand gleamed a small, curved knife.

"Thank you, Uncle," Noah said, reaching out. His small fingers brushed the cold, smooth steel. He traced the gentle arc of the blade, his touch lingering on the subtle grooves and the weighty hilt edged with sharp precision.

He had long since accepted that he now lived in a world entirely different from his own.

“Brother, you can’t do this! He is only three years old!” his mother immediately objected, scowling.

“What do you mean? Every person in our family is a born warrior! This kid, even though he’s just three, is not only sensible but also bigger than some five-year-olds. He is going to be a general and slay those demons and ghosts!”

“But… but handing him a knife…”

“No buts. Time is troubling. If you don’t arm yourself, you could die the next day without even knowing it,” the uncle said firmly, shaking his head.

“Sigh.”

His mother could only lower her head in defeat.

Seeing his mother sad, Noah wanted to console her, but looking at the knife in his hand left him feeling helpless.

He wanted to protect his family to his last breath, and from what he knew about this world—filled with violence and laws that barely protected anyone except the king—he had no interest in being weak.

But…

“Uncle, take it.” He handed the knife back. His mother’s eyes immediately brightened.

“Eh?” The bulky man was stunned for a moment, but after some time, he could only take the knife back helplessly.

“Now let’s blow out the candles for Noah.”

After enjoying a hearty cake, Noah savoured chicken legs to his heart's content. His uncle quietly slipped away after a while without anyone noticing.

Of course, the little figure who was paying attention to everything also slipped out a few moments later.

“Uncle, wait for me!”

“What is it, brat?” His uncle turned around with a chuckle. “I thought you had become a coward, but it seems you still have warrior blood flowing through you, not like those cowardly exorcists.”

After saying this, he handed Noah the knife again and walked away with a laugh. “I shall name you Leon from now on—Leon Finn, not that weak-ass Noah.”

“If I were truly a kid, I wouldn't have accepted this. My uncle is a little crazy in the head.” Noah silently gazed at the simple curved knife with squinted eyes.

“Who hands a knife to a toddler?”

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The corners of his lips couldn't help but curl up.

He was wearing a black robe over a white T-shirt and trousers, he quickly hid the knife in his back pocket while looking around vigilantly.

“Leon Finn, huh…” he muttered, tiptoeing his way back to the house. By the time he arrived, he was already sweating down to his neck.

As he prepared to enter, he suddenly paused.

He still remembered that he had used the excuse of meeting with the fatty to walk out of the house.

“If I go right now, I might be in trouble.” Thinking this, he turned back and approached another horse.

Compared to his house, which was made of bricks, the fatty’s house was made of clay and looked weak, its uneven walls patched with straw and mud, bearing the signs of years of repairs. The earthy smell of wet clay lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of grass from the nearby fields.

A single, low window revealed a dim interior, cluttered with mismatched furniture and the faint clatter of dishes.

When he arrived, he spotted the fatty, who was eating a piece of chicken nuggets while drooling all over himself.

“What are you doing, fatty?” Noah’s voice broke the silence as he approached from behind.

The fatty almost jumped, his body trembling violently.

“Don’t scare me like that!” he exclaimed, heaving a sigh of relief. “And my name is not Fatty.”

“Then what is it?”

Noah’s gaze drifted across the open land, where patches of freshly tilled soil stretched under the golden light of the setting sun. The distant chatter of farmers floated on the breeze, mingling with the sharp clang of a hammer striking metal.

“My name is Marcus, Marcus Leyland,” the fatty said, puffing out his chest with pride.

“I see.” Noah lowered himself onto the ground with a quiet nod.

“What are you here for?” the fatty frowned.

“I just need to rest here for a while,” Noah murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “If my parents ask, let them know I was here.”

“Sigh, fine, fine.”

The fatty shook his head helplessly.

Noah's gaze drifted with a confusing thought in his heart. This fatty's family was actually well-off, owning tens of acres of land and employing these farmers, yet he felt puzzled because he seemed poorer than his own family, who didn’t own any land. In fact, his mother and father stayed at home most of the time.

His father occasionally came home carrying dead animals, but that was about it. Could a hunter truly compare in wealth to a landlord?

After staying in this place for half an hour, Noah quietly left, clutching the fabric of robes tightly. The rough wood of the knife’s hilt dug into his palm as he gripped it tightly, its weight felt oddly comforting to him.

The setting sun bathed the horizon in molten gold, its rays brushing Noah’s pale face with a fleeting warmth.

Shadows lengthened around him, the golden light catching the white strands of his hair, making them glow like threads of moonlight and his crimson pupils against the pale of his skin shone with the reflection of the dawning sun. He has inherited these features from his mother.

“Sigh, why is this Noah always so cold and distant?” The fatty shook his head and continued to eat his chicken nuggets with relish.

“He doesn’t even have friends; our acquaintance isn’t enough for that…”

Noah returned home, settled onto the cushion, and tried to meditate. But today, his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts swirled endlessly, making his heart race.

Countless thoughts flooded his mind, and his heart grew restless.

He opened his eyes, revealing his crimson pupils. “What went wrong?”

“Maybe it’s because of this knife?”

Thinking of this, he used his tiny hand to slowly move the weathered wood on the floor. After applying sufficient strength, he finally managed to create a gap.

He promptly placed the knife carefully inside, hiding it with a piece of woollen cloth wrapped around it, and then replaced the wood, completely covering his tracks.

“Hope this works.”