"A maggot, huh…"
A tear slipped down Noc's face.
Slowly.
Almost imperceptibly.
Almost meaningless.
But to Noc, it felt wrong.
Strange.
Unsettling.
His brows tightened faintly.
"...Damn it."
The words came out low, barely more than a whisper.
He did not like it.
Did not understand it.
"Why am I feeling this again?"
His gaze dimmed.
"Emotions like this…"
"Are useless."
"They do not help."
"They do not save anyone."
"They should have disappeared long ago."
"They should have died long ago."
Yet something in his chest tightened.
Deep.
Painful.
Like a wound he had never properly allowed to heal.
"Something I buried a long time ago."
The mist around him seemed to shift.
Not physically.
But within his awareness.
The forest.
The silence.
The damp air.
All of it began to overlap with something else.
Colder.
Heavier.
More suffocating.
Darkness.
Not the darkness of night.
But a darkness that closed in from all sides.
Walls.
Narrow.
Too close.
The smell of iron.
Damp earth.
Dried blood.
And then the sound.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Teta watched Noc's expression.
Blank.
Tired.
Yet tears still kept falling.
Noc did not move.
But his gaze slowly lost focus.
He stood there for a while longer, then turned and began walking back toward the hut.
"A child from a place that was never meant to exist," he muttered.
He had been born in the southern outskirts of the Kingdom of Batrein, in a small village called Drelsh, near the border of Solvenhart.
A place where people did not truly live.
They merely endured.
Dilapidated houses stood shoulder to shoulder, their wood rotting, their roofs leaking. Muddy roads stretched between them, marked by horse tracks and years of neglect. The air always carried the same smell—sweat, smoke, and hunger.
There were no dreams in that place.
Only exhaustion.
Only the habit of not hoping.
His mother, Aneth, was a thread spinner.
Her hands were always moving.
Always working.
Her skin was marked with small wounds, her fingers rough and cracked from years of labor.
But when she held Noc, her hands were always warm.
His father, Torkan, had once been an infantry soldier.
A meaningless war had taken his left leg.
After that, he was no longer a soldier.
No longer anyone.
Just a crippled man trying to survive in a world that had no place for the weak.
They were poor.
Extremely poor.
And yet, despite the harshness of their lives, they loved their only child.
They loved Noc in a simple way.
In a way that was perhaps not enough to protect him from the world.
Because love, no matter how real, was never enough to fight reality.
Noc had been weak since birth.
He was born too early.
Too small.
Too fragile.
His body often burned with fever. His breath came short. His hands trembled even when holding the lightest thing.
When other children ran, he stumbled.
When they laughed, he stayed silent.
And when they played, he became the target.
"You can't even stand properly."
"What are your bones made of? Straw?"
"Why are you even alive?"
Those words never stopped.
Not from children.
Not from adults.
In that place, weakness was treated like a sin.
To see someone weaker than yourself was entertainment.
And Noc was the easiest to laugh at.
He was pushed.
Hit.
Thrown into the mud.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He never fought back.
Not because he did not want to.
But because he could not.
Still, he always prayed.
"God… if being weak is a sin…"
"I promise that when I grow up, I will become strong…"
"So please protect me…"
"Protect my family…"
"Give my mother and father health…"
He whispered those prayers after each beating, curled in the mud with blood in his mouth and tears on his face.
But what no one knew was that Noc had a dream.
A dream that kept him going.
A dream that never left his heart.
"Papa… when I grow up, I'll become a soldier like you."
He would say it at night while his father treated his wounds.
"I'll become strong, Papa."
"Yes… my son."
His father would smile, though sadness always hid in his eyes.
"I believe you will."
"And make sure you become stronger than me, alright?"
He would gently pat Noc's head, careful around the bruises and swelling.
"Papa, will I really be able to?"
Little Noc would ask, trying to hold back his tears.
His father would pause, then smile again.
"You will become strong, my son."
"Maybe when you're a little older, your father can teach you the sword," his mother would add while sewing nearby.
"Of course I will," his father said confidently.
"Papa, Mama… I promise I'll become strong one day."
"Yes, you will," both of them would answer.
And for a little while, Noc believed it.
There was one winter evening, before everything broke, when his mother made him something with her own hands.
The wind outside had turned sharp enough to leak through the cracks in the walls. Noc sat near the small hearth, hugging his knees, while his mother worked by the light of a dim oil lamp.
Needle in.
Thread through.
Pull.
Repeat.
The yarn in her hands was red.
Bright against the grayness of the room.
A color too warm for a house like theirs.
Noc stared at it quietly before asking, "Ma… what are you making?"
His mother looked up and smiled.
"A scarf."
"For me?"
"For who else?" she said softly.
Noc blinked.
His gaze fixed on the yarn with a look he did not know how to hide.
It was not just curiosity.
It was hope.
The fragile kind.
The kind he rarely allowed himself to feel.
His mother noticed it immediately. Her expression softened.
"It's red," she said. "Do you like it?"
Noc nodded so quickly it almost seemed like he was afraid the answer might disappear.
"Yes."
"Why red?"
He stared at the scarf for a long moment before answering.
"Because… it looks warm."
The room fell quiet.
His mother said nothing at first.
She only looked at him.
At the child who had been too weak for this world.
Too small.
Too often hurt.
And still capable of saying something so simple that it nearly broke her heart.
She lowered her gaze and continued knitting.
"Then I'll make it warm for you," she said.
Noc stood and moved closer, sitting beside her with careful, eager movements.
He did not touch the scarf.
He only watched.
His face had changed. The emptiness that often lingered in his eyes was gone, replaced by a shy excitement he had not intended to show.
His mother noticed and smiled to herself.
"Do you know," she said, "this scarf will be strong. It will keep the cold away."
Noc looked up.
"Really?"
"Mm."
She nodded.
"And if the wind tries to bite you, this scarf will bite back."
That made him quiet for a moment.
Then, unexpectedly, a small laugh escaped him.
Soft.
Brief.
Almost shy.
But real.
His mother froze.
Then she turned to look at him in surprise.
He was smiling.
Not the polite kind.
Not the forced kind.
A tiny, innocent smile that seemed to come from somewhere untouched by the cruelty outside.
She stared at him as though trying to memorize the expression.
Noc realized she was watching him and quickly lowered his head.
His ears turned red.
"...What?"
His mother's eyes warmed.
"Nothing," she said gently. "It just suits you."
He looked up again.
"Really?"
She reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead.
Her hand was rough from work.
Cracked.
A little cold.
But to Noc, it was the warmest thing in the world.
"When you wear it," she said, "remember this."
He listened in silence.
"That no matter how cold the world becomes, you are still my son."
Noc went still.
For a long time, he could not speak.
The fire crackled softly between them.
The thread moved through his mother's fingers.
And in that small room, with the wind pressing against the walls and the world outside remaining as cruel as ever, Noc felt something he had never known how to name.
Not safety.
Not happiness.
Something smaller.
Something gentler.
Something that hurt because it was precious.
When she finally finished, she stood and wrapped the scarf around his neck.
The red cloth was a little too long.
A little uneven.
But it wrapped around him like a promise.
Noc touched it with both hands, almost afraid it would vanish if he held it too tightly.
It was soft.
Warm from her hands.
And it smelled faintly of thread, smoke, and home.
He looked up at her, his eyes bright in a way they rarely were.
"Can I wear it tomorrow too?"
His mother laughed softly.
"You can wear it every day if you want."
Noc hugged the scarf to his chest.
For that moment, the world outside did not matter.
The hunger did not matter.
The cold did not matter.
The insults, the mud, the cruelty—none of it reached him there.
All that existed was the scarf around his neck.
And the mother who had made it.
A child's treasure.
A mother's quiet love.
Something simple.
Something small.
Something that, in a place like theirs, felt almost miraculous.
But that peace did not last.
One day, when Noc was ten years old, the door was kicked open.
Hard.
The old wood nearly tore from its hinges.
Noc flinched.
His mother froze.
And his father merely stared, silent, as if he had already known this day would come.
"Your time is up, Torkan."
The voice was cold.
Empty of empathy.
One of the men stepped inside, boots striking the fragile wooden floor.
Creaking.
Mocking.
"I… need more time," his father said quietly.
He was not begging.
Only trying.
"Time?" the man chuckled. "You think time is free?"
Without warning, the first punch landed.
Hard.
Torkan's body was thrown aside.
Noc froze, eyes wide.
"P-Papa…!"
He tried to move.
But his legs would not answer.
Second punch.
Third.
Fourth.
No pause.
No restraint.
Only violence, raw and merciless.
His father's body hit the floor again and again, battered as though he were no longer human.
"Stop!!"
Noc's voice cracked.
High.
Panicked.
No one listened.
Or rather, no one cared.
His mother tried to step forward, but she was shoved down at once.
"Don't interfere."
And then it happened.
A sound.
A crack.
Bone.
Once.
And that was enough.
Torkan's bloodied body stopped moving.
Silence fell.
No more blows.
No more shouting.
Only stillness.
Noc crawled forward, hands shaking.
"Papa…?"
No answer.
He touched his father's shoulder with trembling fingers.
"...Pa?"
Still nothing.
Blood slowly gathered at the corner of his father's mouth. His eyes were half-open, but empty.
And in that moment, Noc understood.
Without words.
Without explanation.
Something was gone.
Forever.
His father had died in front of him.
But they were not done.
One of the men spat on the floor.
"A corpse can't pay debts."
Another laughed softly.
"Which means…"
Their eyes shifted.
Toward his mother.
That day did not end there.
And the days after it became worse.
They came again.
And again.
And again.
Always for the same reason.
Debt.
Always debt.
But what they took was no longer money.
It was his mother.
She did not fight back.
She could not.
Yet every time, she told Noc the same thing.
"Don't look."
Her voice would tremble, but she forced it to stay calm.
"Go inside."
"No matter what you hear… don't come out."
Noc would grip the door with both hands, shaking violently, tears streaming down his face.
But he never moved.
Could not move.
And behind that thin wall, the sounds came.
Muted.
Suppressed.
Still reaching him.
Day after day.
His mother endured.
For him.
Always for him.
Each night, she still stroked his head.
Still smiled.
Even with empty eyes.
"Noc… you must be strong, okay?"
"Don't be like me."
"Don't be like your father…"
"Become something more."
Noc only nodded.
Silent.
But inside him, something began to crack.
Time passed.
Yet nothing changed.
His mother became different.
Sometimes she spoke to herself.
Sometimes she laughed for no reason.
Sometimes she sat for hours staring into nothing, as though her soul had already left.
But in front of Noc, she still tried.
She still smiled.
She still became "mother."
Until one night, the house was too quiet.
No footsteps.
No knocking.
No voices.
Noc woke slowly.
"Ma…?"
No answer.
He stepped out of bed.
His movements were small.
Hesitant.
And then he saw her.
His mother.
Hanging still in the darkness.
The rope swayed gently.
The wood creaked.
Slowly.
Repeatedly.
She looked almost peaceful.
As if all the pain had finally stopped.
Noc stood there without moving.
Without screaming.
Just staring.
His eyes were empty.
But tears poured down his face.
His hands slowly dropped to his sides.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then, in a flat voice that sounded broken even to himself, he whispered, "God…"
His lips trembled.
"Did You really curse me to be weak?"
Silence.
"Did You really curse our family?"
His voice shook now.
"What sin did we commit?"
Then the anger came.
And the grief.
And the helplessness that had been building inside him for years.
"We just wanted to live!"
"Are we really that worthless?!"
"Why did You never answer our prayers?!"
"Are we really that disgusting?!"
"Then why… why did You let us live?!"
"Why did You make us feel all of this?!"
That night, exhaustion and the ugliness of reality carved themselves into him permanently.
With his small body, Noc carried his mother toward the church.
He stumbled.
Fell.
Shook.
But he kept going.
His goal was simple.
A small church.
A burial.
The road was not far.
But to a child as weak as him, with a corpse on his back and tears blurring his vision, it took hours.
By the time he reached the church, a thin mist still clung to the air.
The building was simple.
Old.
Yet it stood with quiet dignity, as if time itself hesitated to erode it completely.
Several nuns rushed forward when they saw him.
Their faces changed the moment they understood what he was carrying.
A child.
Trembling.
Dragging his dead mother to a place of burial.
"Oh God…"
One of them covered her mouth.
"Quick, help him!"
Footsteps hurried toward him.
But before they reached him, the church door opened slowly.
An old man stepped out.
His robe was plain, faded white.
His eyes were deep.
Calm.
And burdened by something difficult to name.
Priest Alric Vaelthorn.
He stopped.
Stared.
Not in shock.
Not in panic.
Only in understanding.
Noc staggered.
His legs gave out.
But he stayed upright.
His eyes were empty.
His tears would not stop.
"...Please…"
His voice was hoarse.
Barely audible.
"...Please bury my mother..."
The priest walked closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He stopped in front of Noc and lowered himself slightly, meeting the child's gaze.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Only silence.
But it was not an empty silence.
"What is your name, child?" the priest asked gently.
"...Noc."
The answer came like a whisper.
The priest nodded once.
Then he raised a hand.
"Help him."
His voice was soft.
But absolute.
The nuns moved at once, carefully lifting his mother from his back.
When the weight left him, Noc swayed.
Almost fell.
But the priest held him up with one steady hand.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
"For today… that is enough."
Noc did not answer.
He only stared at the ground.
Empty.
The burial was simple.
No grand ceremony.
No crowd.
Only earth.
A gray sky.
And a few silent figures standing around two graves.
His mother was buried beside his father.
As if, at last, they were together again.
Priest Alric stood before the graves with his hands folded.
Eyes closed.
"Every soul that returns…" he said softly, "is never truly gone."
A gentle wind moved across the churchyard.
"Because what they leave behind…"
"...will remain in this world."
He opened his eyes and looked at Noc.
"...within you."
Noc said nothing.
Did not nod.
Did not react.
He simply stood there.
Still.
That day, Noc did not return home.
Because there was no longer any place he could call home.
He stayed at the church.
At the small orphanage connected to it.
Days passed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Orderly.
Noc ate.
Slept.
Did light work.
Never argued.
Never fought.
Never asked for anything.
Other children sometimes spoke to him, but he rarely answered.
Not out of arrogance.
But because there was nothing left he wanted to say.
One afternoon, Priest Alric sat on a wooden bench inside the church.
Sunlight streamed through stained glass, casting soft colors across the floor.
Noc sat a few meters away.
Silent, as always.
The priest spoke without forcing the boy to respond.
"Sometimes… the world feels unfair."
Silence.
"Sometimes… prayers feel like they are never heard."
Noc did not move.
But his fingers tightened slightly.
The priest continued.
"But that does not mean no one is listening."
Silence.
"It does not mean everything is meaningless."
He turned his head slightly.
"...You're angry, aren't you?"
The question was simple.
But precise.
Noc did not answer.
Yet that silence was answer enough.
The priest exhaled softly.
"That is alright."
His voice remained gentle.
"God is not afraid of human anger."
"And faith does not mean you cannot question."
He looked ahead, eyes distant.
"Faith is continuing to walk… even when you do not understand."
After a long moment, Noc finally spoke.
"...If He exists…"
His voice was flat.
"...why did He let all of that happen?"
The question carried no heat.
And because of that, it felt heavier.
The priest did not answer at once.
He remained silent for a long time, as if truly considering the question.
"...I don't know," he said at last.
Honest.
Unadorned.
"And perhaps… I never will."
Noc looked at him.
Just slightly.
For the first time, the priest smiled faintly.
"But I believe…"
He said, "...that what happened is not the end of everything."
Silence.
"And as long as you are alive…"
"...it means there is still something you can do."
Noc turned his gaze forward again.
Empty.
"...Alive…"
He repeated the word softly.
But it held no meaning for him.
That night, he lay on his small bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Soft prayers drifted from another room.
The children prayed.
The nuns prayed.
The priest likely prayed as well.
But Noc did not.
He only stared.
And deep inside him, one truth settled like cold iron.
I do not believe.
He never said the words aloud.
But they were carved into him all the same.
Still, in the morning, he woke up.
Still worked.
Still listened.
Still sat quietly as the priest spoke of hope.
Of light.
Of God.
And every time, he only nodded slightly.
As if he understood.
As if he accepted.
One afternoon, the sky turned dim and heavy with clouds. They gathered low over the fields beyond the church, pressing down on the earth.
Noc had been sent to carry water.
A simple task.
A quiet one.
The kind no one noticed.
And that was exactly why he preferred it.
Then he saw a group of children standing near the dirt path.
Some laughed.
Some covered their noses.
Some threw small stones.
"Disgusting…"
"Don't get close!"
"It's full of them… ugh!"
Noc slowed.
Not out of curiosity.
Out of habit.
Observation came naturally to him now.
Silently, he moved closer.
Careful.
Unnoticed.
And then he saw it.
A dead animal.
A deer, perhaps.
Or what remained of one.
Its body was half-rotten.
The flesh darkened.
The skin torn.
And across it, crawling through every hollow and wound, were white, writhing maggots.
Dozens.
No.
Hundreds.
The children recoiled in disgust.
One of them gagged.
"Why are they even alive…?"
"They're so gross…"
"Just burn it already…"
Another threw a stone.
It struck the carcass, and several maggots fell to the dirt below, wriggling helplessly.
The children laughed.
Then one by one, they left.
As if nothing there had ever mattered.
Silence returned.
Only the faint movement remained.
Soft.
Wet.
Endless.
Noc stood there watching.
Not moving.
Not reacting.
Only observing.
His gaze lowered to the maggots twisting through the decay.
"They're still alive…"
He muttered quietly.
No disgust.
No pity.
Only recognition.
"They live in it."
"In something no one wants."
"In something everyone throws away."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And they do not leave."
The wind passed gently through the field.
The smell was rotten.
Heavy.
Unpleasant.
But Noc did not step back.
Did not cover his nose.
Did not turn away.
Instead, he crouched lower and watched more carefully.
"They survive like this…"
His voice was low, almost thoughtful.
"No strength."
"No protection."
"No value."
His fingers tightened around the water bucket.
"...And yet they are still alive."
A pause.
Long.
Quiet.
Then he said it.
Very softly.
"...Just like me."
There was no self-pity in the words.
No anger.
No shame.
Only a conclusion.
"They are called disgusting."
"They are stepped on."
"They are thrown away."
His gaze stayed fixed.
Unblinking.
"...But they do not die."
The maggots kept moving.
Unaware.
Uncaring.
Unstoppable.
"...They endure."
Silence.
Then slowly, Noc stood.
His expression had not changed.
Empty.
Calm.
But somewhere deeper than thought, something had settled.
Something quiet.
Something firm.
"...If this is the kind of world I was born into..."
He turned away.
Without hesitation.
"...then this is how I will live."
No pride.
No shame.
No hesitation.
Just acceptance.
"...Like a maggot."
And without another glance, Noc walked away.
Leaving the carcass behind.
Leaving the laughter behind.
Leaving everything behind.
Except the truth he had just understood.
Even if, deep inside, he was already tired of it.
He did not show that.
Because he had already learned one thing long ago.
In this world, the ones who survive are not always the honest ones.
Not always the righteous ones.
But those who know when to stay silent.
And when to pretend.