Chapter 68: Chapter 68: The Risk of Becoming a Breeding Cow

The season was already winter.

The outdoor garden was undeniably cold, but I didn’t mind.

My skin was thick, and I had grown accustomed to far harsher winters in the Forest of enchantment.

In that place, the air would freeze white the moment you exhaled.

Every breath turned your nostrils into icy traps, and if you sweated while exercising, frost would coat your skin like a second layer.

Having grown up in such an environment, this level of cold was trivial to me.

But sitting outdoors might be difficult for Duke Valther, who was much older.

Thinking this, I prepared to suggest moving indoors, but before I could speak, the Duke reached for a folded blanket nearby.

Tucked within it was a flat, metallic bottle—one used to hold hot water, wrapped in thick fabric to retain warmth.

Such bottles were common for keeping beds warm through the night.

Though the design differed, similar items were used in Endes inns and even my home in the Forest of enchantment.

There, instead of water, we filled them with charcoal.

It impressed me that such details had been prepared in advance. The merchant guild catering to nobles clearly left nothing to chance.

Perhaps this is the level of meticulousness needed to survive in their world, I thought.

While pondering this, I noticed the Duke leaning slightly forward with the blanket in hand.

He placed it on my lap.

“The weather is cold. You might catch a chill if you’re not careful.”

“… Uh, thank you.”

I hadn’t expected him to give it to me.

There was another blanket right next to me that I could use if I felt cold. It had been prepared for everyone to use individually.

Besides, I didn’t need a blanket.

During winters in the Forest of Magic, my father would use three copper pots filled with charcoal to warm his bed each night. I, however, used none.

Those pots could grow oppressively hot, making it hard to sleep comfortably.

Though my mother endured the heat out of sheer determination, I always found it easier to sleep in slightly cooler conditions.

While I wasn’t as resilient to cold as my mother, I certainly wasn’t the type to need a blanket in this weather.

Still, it seemed that, for etiquette’s sake, I was now in a situation where I should return the gesture.

With a slight feeling of awkwardness, I placed my own blanket over the Duke’s lap.

“This… Thank you,” he said with a soft smile.

His smiling eyes bore an uncanny resemblance to my father’s.

While my father and I looked nothing alike, the Duke bore a striking resemblance to him.

In his youth, he must have been quite the handsome man, likely popular as well.

Why did none of those good genes make it to me? I thought with a twinge of sorrow.

“I wonder if Father is alright.”

As winter deepened, the forest would freeze over completely. The Forest of Magic must have been unbearably cold for him.

And Father, despite appearances, didn’t handle solitude well.

My mother would be perfectly content even if stranded alone in the Siberian tundra, as long as Father was there. But for him, the isolation of the forest might be suffocating.

It’s a little worrying.

Lost in thought, I was brought back to the present when the Duke placed his hand over mine.

“Do you know the story of how this kingdom was founded?” he asked.

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“Yes,” I replied.

When I was younger, my father often shared such stories with me.

Myths, the histories of various nations, and tales of the wars that shaped this kingdom were all things he told me.

In the otherwise uneventful forest, those stories were a source of endless fascination.

In fact, it was likely those tales that inspired me—young Rafa—to dream of becoming a warrior.

The grand conspiracies and epic battles for control of vast lands ignited my imagination, blurring the line between fantasy and reality.

At that impressionable age, seeing my mother effortlessly slay beasts and carry wild boars on her back struck me deeply.

As a child, I thought warriors were akin to heroes like Hercules or Odysseus.

I even dreamed of fighting monsters with hundreds of snake-like heads, swinging an axe with unstoppable might.

Over time, my concept of a warrior matured, but my earliest aspirations had been shaped by my father’s stories.

Among them was the tale of Arelon’s founding, which the Duke now referenced.

According to legend, the kingdom of Arelon was established by a divine child—a being with platinum hair and purple eyes sent by the gods to guide humanity.

When I remembered my previous life, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the tale. But as a child, I had believed it wholeheartedly.

“That story was crafted by the royal family,” the Duke said. “But it is not entirely fiction. It wasn’t a god—it was a spirit.”

Is that true?

My expression must have betrayed my disbelief because the Duke chuckled heartily.

“Is it so difficult to believe?”

“….”

Yes. Completely.

In this world, while people were unaware of the concept of genetics, it was clear to me that traits like hair color and eye color were inherited from one’s parents.

Purple eyes fell under the same category—an inherited trait, not some mystical blessing.

Even in a world with magic and strange phenomena, the idea of spirits influencing human genetics was laughable.

As a child, I might have believed him with wide-eyed wonder, but I was no longer so naïve.

“I understand your skepticism,” the Duke said. “But the existence of magic itself is proof of spirits. The wind, water, and fire you wield—these are all born of spirits.”

“….”

“Spirits exist everywhere,” he continued. “It’s just a matter of how strongly they manifest.”

The Duke explained that mages were humans who could communicate with spirits. No one fully understood how this connection worked, but something within these individuals resonated with the spirits, who then granted their wishes.

This was why spirits were often invoked in magical incantations.

Humans, unaware of the truth, relied on invisible spirits for magic and sometimes sought their blessings.

I thought of the lord’s daughter in Endes—a mage whose abilities were so weak they might as well not exist. If even her minuscule magic was a gift from spirits, then…

“Even that arrogant, ill-tempered woman has a spirit who likes her?”

For a moment, I imagined a spirit tolerating her terrible personality, and it left me baffled.

What exactly was the criteria for a spirit’s favor?

“Among the royal family’s hidden stories,” the Duke continued, “there is one about a woman who bore a child without knowing the father.”

At first, people suspected she had secretly consorted with a man. But the child’s unusual hair and eyes, along with their otherworldly abilities, dispelled these doubts.

The child could summon wind with a wave of their hand, and birds and butterflies flocked to their cries. Strange phenomena surrounded them and their mother, making it clear they were no ordinary humans.

That child became the progenitor of this kingdom, and the ducal family was an offshoot of the royal line.

In earlier generations, princes who renounced their claims to the throne would join the ducal family. Even now, marriages between the two families occurred occasionally.

“So naturally, stories from the royal family reached the dukes as well,” the Duke explained.

He went on to describe how the royal family initially dismissed the myth as mere propaganda until something changed.

“Once a lineage loses its purple eyes, it never regains them. Not ever.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if parents with purple eyes fail to pass them on to their child, no descendants of that lineage will ever have purple eyes again.”

“….”

That defied basic genetics. Traits could skip generations and reappear later, but to vanish entirely?

The Duke must have noticed my bewilderment because he smiled at my shifting expressions.

“You wear your thoughts on your face, young one,” he remarked with a chuckle.

His comment reminded me of similar remarks my father had made, and it felt oddly unsettling to hear it from the Duke.

Sensing my unease, the Duke’s tone turned serious.

“From what I’ve told you, you should now understand: we are not ordinary humans. If anything, we are spirits born into human form.”

“….”

With that statement, everything he had said so far began to connect—the purple eyes, the dwindling bloodline, and even my father, who possessed the eyes but couldn’t use magic.

The realization hit me like a cold wind.

Unconsciously, I recoiled, my body tensing in instinctive defense.

The Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“It seems you’ve understood,” he said.

“….”

For a moment, I was wary. But then I realized there was no need for caution. If the Duke had ill intentions, he wouldn’t have bothered explaining any of this.

Instead, he seemed genuinely concerned that I understood the gravity of what he was saying.

“Tell me,” he said, his gaze piercing. “What do you think of my words?”

The question felt like a test—a habit I recognized from my father. He would often ask similar questions after imparting lessons, repeating explanations until I truly understood.

I sighed inwardly.

“Purple eyes aren’t proof of succession,” I said. “They’re just a marker of the bloodline.”

“And in simpler terms?”

“Breeding stock.”

The Duke smiled faintly. I had hit the mark.

Still, why couldn’t he have just been straightforward from the beginning?

Both my father and grandfather shared a frustrating tendency for roundabout explanations.

'They’re both so annoying.'