“You’re growing up so fast, my son.”

  A deep, steady voice filled the room as a towering man stepped forward. He reached into the baby pen, lifting me up with ease. As he held me, I took the chance to analyze his features features that Noboru had clearly inherited to a tea.

  My father, Volker Takeda, stood at an imposing 190 cm (6’3"). His sharp features showed authority. His white hair was cut short but well kept, with strands falling neatly into place. His eyes, were a mix of black and gray, and a piercing intensity that made it hard to read his thoughts. His jawline was defined, his cheekbones prominent. He was dressed in a simple yet elegant buttoned shirt, I could tell from the way the fabric clung to his frame that he was incredibly muscular. His pale skin, smooth yet lined with faint scars.

  I found myself wondering: why did we all take so much after him? Not a single one of us had inherited Mother’s red hair or vibrant crimson eyes. Instead, we were pale, white haired children with sharp gray or black eyes it was like looking at mirrors of myself

  “I apologize for not being able to spend more time with you as you’ve grown,” he said, his voice softer now.

  Before I could process his words, Mother stepped aside, and he turned, heading for the door. The moment he stepped into the hallway, a synchronized chorus rang out from the maids waiting there.

  “Welcome back, Master Volker!”

  Every single one of them stood in perfect formation, their postures upright, their expressions reverent.

  I blinked. Just how important was my father?

  Before I could think more about it, my two brothers appeared from another room, their small figures rushing toward him.

  “Dada!”

  “Papa!”

  Their bright, excited voices made me roll my eyes. Show offs.

  Father let out a deep chuckle before effortlessly hoisting both Noboru and Yasuo into each arm, balancing their weight as if they were nothing. Then, with a swift motion, he lifted me onto his back.

  “Thank you for the greeting, everyone. You may continue with your duties,” he said, his tone calm.

  As I watched the maids bow and return to their work, a thought struck me. They truly respected him. Not out of fear, but admiration. If he were some cruel, figure, would they really treat him this way?

  For the first time, my father took us outside the mansion, beyond the massive estate I had only seen through the windows.

  The moment we stepped out, I realized something.

  This was no ordinary town. It was a grand city.

  Towering stone buildings lined the streets, their structures elegant yet sturdy. Countless food stalls spilled onto the walkways, their owners calling out to potential customers. Carriages clattered down the cobblestone roads, pulled by well-groomed horses in decorative armor. The streets were bustling, crowds of well dressed people moving in waves, their conversations blending.

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  And yet… even among the wealth, our carriage stood out the most.

  A masterpiece of craftsmanship, it gleamed under the sun its gold plated frame polished to perfection. The white finish contrasted elegantly against the intricate silver embroidery that adorned its sides. Even the horses were in matching armor.

  The driver, an older man dressed in fine, well tailored clothing, guided us through the streets. But I noticed something off.

  One day, as we traveled through the city, his face was unusually grim.

  “What’s wrong?” Father asked, his voice steady.

  The driver hesitated before answering. “I… I received news that my son died in the war, my lord.”

  The moment he spoke those words, his face crumpled, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

  I sat in stunned silence, my tiny hands clenching the fabric of my clothes. War. Even in this world, war existed.

  Without hesitation, my father stepped down from the carriage and wrapped the grieving man in a firm embrace. “Take the next few days off,” he said.

  The driver shook his head, still crying. “No, my lord. I cannot.”

  “Then take them off, with pay,” Father insisted.

  The man still refused.

  It was then that I truly understood the kind of person my father was. A man respected not just because of his status, but because of his honor.

  As we continued our journey, countless civilians greeted us with bows, their words echoing the same sentiment.

  “We thank your family for your service, Lord Takeda.”

  “Your sons will grow up strong, just like their father.”

  I didn’t understand it at the time, but I felt those words would one day shape my fate.

  I am now three, almost four. And the older I get, the slower time seems to move.

  It’s late at night, though I have no way of knowing the exact time. Sneaking out of my crib to explore the mansion has become a routine for me. But things were different now.

  My brothers were gone.

  Noboru had turned six, Yasuo five, and both of them now had their own rooms. They could no longer help me climb out.

  But there was no way I was staying trapped in here all night. I’d die of boredom.

  I began my escape attempt, gripping the wooden bars of the baby pen with my tiny hands. The crib was tall and sturdy, made of polished oak, reinforced with elegant carvings of lotus flowers along the posts. The bars were thick, spaced just enough for me to slip my arms through but not wide enough for an escape.

  Using the bars for support, I slowly climbed up, taking short breaks in between. My muscles burned, my tiny limbs trembling, but I was determined. One final pull, and

  I flipped my body over, tumbling down.

  Thud!

  Pain shot through my back, but I bit back a cry. I did it. I was free.

  I stood up, rubbing the sore spot. Now that I could walk properly, I didn’t have to crawl everywhere like before. Moving around the mansion would be so much easier.

  I tiptoed out of my room, padding through the dark corridors toward the grand staircase. The twin staircases curved gracefully from either side of the hall, their golden railings gleaming even under the dim moonlight. The steps were lined with a deep red carpet, soft under my small feet.

  As I was about to descend, something caught my eye.

  A glow from upstairs. Light was coming from my parent's bedroom.

  Curiosity burned in me, and despite my better judgment, I climbed the stairs instead.

  By the time I reached the top, my legs felt like jelly, my breathing ragged. But I pressed on, creeping toward their room, pressing myself against the wall.

  Through the slightly cracked door, I could see my father standing near the bed, his scar covered torso bare. Muscles toned and defined, scars of countless battles crisscrossing his skin. But what caught my attention most was the black emblem burned into his back, two crossed swords with the name “Takeda” carved above them.

  “Kohaku,” my father said, his voice low. “They’re old enough now. I honored your wish and didn’t show them war early, but that time has passed. Noboru and Yasuo will begin training this week. When they turn ten, they’ll enlist in the academy. Hajime will follow after them, Hajime will be the one to continue our legacy.”

  Mother’s voice was laced with bitterness.

  “Is that all we are to you? Swords to continue your family's legacy?”

  Silence.

  “You knew what you were getting into,” Father finally replied.

  I didn’t understand then, but I would soon.

  Before I could slip away, warm arms suddenly scooped me up.

  “Natsumi…”

  She whispered, “I went to check on you, and you were gone. You had me worried sick.”

  And just like that, I was carried back to my crib, drifting into sleep under her watchful gaze.