The Island Lant

This is likely the most pleasant day of the year on Lant Island.

The early summer sun dyes the distant sea surface into a golden hue like wheat waves, and the humid sea breeze ruffles the boy's black hair, carrying a faint scent of brine mixed with the smell of soil from the nearby grass. Taking a deep breath, all the insignificant joys of the past ten years seem to pounce from his memory. The boy, named Donald, rolls over and sits up.

Ten years. The mother buried in the inconspicuous mound of earth beside him has been gone for ten years.

Ten years of time is enough to make memories blur and become indistinguishable, but in the boy's heart, that day remains as clear as if it were yesterday.

At that time, Donald was six years old, standing among the crowd at the funeral as if watching the most absurd play being performed. He was like a clumsy extra, detached from the emotions of the crowd, his heart shocked and his hands and feet cold.

Only afterwards did he learn that it was his mother's funeral; the child wailing beside him was his younger brother Richard, two years his junior, and the trembling back in front of him belonged to his father, Tom, a blacksmith.

Yes, ten years ago that day, he transmigrated. There was no sudden space-time tunnel, no accidents like car crashes, electrocution, or jumping from buildings. He, a modern Earthling, had suddenly transmigrated into the body of a child on this mysterious continent. Everything seemed calm on the surface, but no one knew that the inner world of the young Donald was like a raging storm.

From that day on, he lived cautiously, hiding himself and adapting to the identity of a six-year-old child. He could not understand the language here, so he simply stopped speaking. People just assumed he had become silent due to the trauma of losing his mother at a young age.

He would work hard at the bellows in his father's sweltering smithy, wring out a towel to wipe his father's face when the man was drenched in sweat and unable to spare a hand, dress and feed his younger brother, and take his brother to the market to buy bread and vegetables. The kind-hearted aunties at the market would secretly slip an extra small piece of black bread to this pitiful child. The blacksmith's income was meager, and Donald would always give more of the limited food to his brother. Every time his father saw this, he would turn away and sigh softly.

Donald sympathized with this father and son; they had lost two family members in one day, so he tried his best to share the burden of life for his father and give his brother more warmth.

At first, he thought he had transmigrated to some southern island in medieval Italy. A few months later, as he slowly began to understand the language here, he realized the reality was even more astonishing: this was definitely not Earth, but a world he had never heard of.

He was on a small island called Lant, adjacent to Hells Continent. When the weather was good, standing on the cliff at the northernmost tip of the island and looking north, one could occasionally see the winding coastline of the continent opposite.

Lant Island was very small, and most of the residents lived in Lant Town. Both the island and the town were named after the only local nobility, the Lant Family. Legend had it that the ancestors of the Lant Family were officers in the Feymont Empire six hundred years ago and had rendered great service in the founding wars, so the Empire granted them this small island. Considering the size of the island, Donald couldn't help but wonder if the Lant Family was bragging or if the King was truly too stingy. This was really not a question a six-year-old child should be considering.

The strangeness and panic gradually disappeared, and smiles slowly returned to Donald's face. He accepted his father and brother from the bottom of his heart, and sympathy slowly turned into family affection. His father's hard labor brought gray hair to his temples, but also black bread to the table.

This home without a mistress could hardly be called complete, and the old blacksmith was a man of few words, but it was the first time Donald had felt the warmth of a home. He cherished this warmth, but every time he thought about how the soul of the real Donald had passed away with his mother ten years ago, and that he was merely an impostor, he could not feel at ease. As time went on, he even felt like a thief, having stolen a life that did not belong to him.

Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye, ten years had passed. Richard had grown into a sturdy young man. Although Donald was still taller than his brother, he was thin and fair-skinned, and he didn't look like a blacksmith's son at all. During these ten years, he had never spoken a word, and people privately called him the blacksmith's mute son.

Fourteen-year-old Richard was becoming more and more like his blacksmith father. With his sturdy build, he could easily swing his father's intimidating iron hammer. His face, tanned to a beautiful bronze by the island's abundant sunshine, always wore the honest, simple smile that was a trademark of Lant Island residents.

In the aesthetic view of the islanders, however, Donald was a bit frail and his skin was too fair. He was always lost in thought, and only when someone greeted him would he return a faint smile.

"The poor child, he looks so much like his late mother," the neighbors would sigh, and some would even say, "Tom, your Donald looks just like a noble."

Hearing such words, Tom the Blacksmith would only smile sheepishly. Donald was certainly not a noble, nor would he ever become one; he was just his somewhat frail, mute son. In fact, the simple islanders rarely had the chance to see a noble. Baron Lant did not live on Lant Island; there was only an administrator here who helped him manage the island and collect taxes.

Donald did not think he was pitiful. Compared to the orphanage of his previous life, Lant Island was like heaven. The seasons were warm, the people were simple and enthusiastic, and the aunties at the market would always make Donald blush and his heart race when they hugged him and pressed their large bosoms against him.

The beautiful and calm beach was a paradise for children. In the distant sea, beautiful white sailboats would pass by from time to time, and occasionally a ship docking at the small port of Lant would bring sailors full of stories.

In the evening at the market or outside the small tavern, down-and-out sailors would talk about how they had once served as attendants to some noble lord and had seen heroic knights. They wore shining armor and could fight off hundreds of bandits single-handedly, while mysterious mages could turn such a knight into ashes with a casual wave of a fireball. The sailors' stories were rough and direct, often failing to hold together. It was rare for a wandering bard to come to the island; the stories they told were more magnificent and mysterious. When they reached the emotional parts, they would play their worn-out lutes and sing in low voices. Their voices, raspy from too much wine, were like a docked sailboat creaking in the night wind—those were the sounds from afar. At such times, even the loudest sailors would quiet down, their eyes revealing a rare sense of longing.

Compared to mysterious mages, the image of knights, who always appeared alongside beautiful princesses and epic wars, was more to the taste of the boys on Lant Island. Thus, almost every boy had a wooden sword, and when they swung it, they looked as if they truly had the mission of rescuing a princess.

According to the laws of the Empire, boys could carry swords at fourteen. In the families of nobles or the wealthy in large cities, children of this age could go to a Knight School for training. Besides that, throughout the Empire, children of commoners had the chance to participate in a special selection held every season once they turned sixteen, and those selected could enter the Knight Academy for free. Of course, this selection was more like entertainment, as the probability of passing was extremely slim.

Two groups of boys the same age as Donald on the island had already gone to Dorn City, the capital of Tris Province, to participate in the spring and summer knight selections. As expected, no one passed. No one felt disappointed by this, because for the children of Lant Island, going to Dorn City together at sixteen was more like a coming-of-age trip. In this isolated island, no one could remember the last time a child had passed the selection.

As spring was coming to an end, Tom the Blacksmith tried to ask Donald if he wanted to go to Dorn City with the other boys his age. Donald just smiled and didn't answer. From that day on, after his father finished work, he didn't rush to put out the furnace fire. Instead, he would take the hammer and start beating a piece of wrought iron by himself. He was naturally frail, so he would have to pant and rest after three or four strikes, but he wouldn't stop. Once he caught his breath, he would continue beating, insisting on doing this for two hours every day.

He didn't speak, but Old Tom understood that Donald wanted to put his mind at ease, showing that the smithy would have a successor.

"This child, I'm just asking you to go out and see the world, not to leave for good. Your old man is still strong enough; it's not your turn to take over yet." The old blacksmith reached out and ruffled Donald's black hair as usual, complaining in his mouth but with a gratified smile on his face. "Dorn City, it wouldn't be bad to go and see it."

Just like that, Donald would beat his piece of wrought iron every day. When it became thin, he would roll it into a ball or simply fold it and continue beating. Customers found it strange and asked Old Tom what his son was making, but he couldn't answer either, only saying he was playing around and treating it as strength training.

The blacksmith's mute son was learning to forge. After a few days, the neighbors got used to it.

"When you've mastered the craft, you must make a set of horseshoes for me first. We'll have two blacksmiths in Lant Town now, Tom. Someone will be stealing your business later, haha." This was Uncle Jim, who drove the horse-drawn carts in town.

Richard, while helping his brother fan the furnace fire, accidentally got coal dust on his forehead while wiping his sweat, and answered for his brother: "Uncle Jim, your skinny horse doesn't even wear out a set of horseshoes in half a year. My brother must make me a sword first, a real sword."

For the past few months, Richard had been pestering his father to make him a sword. At fourteen, his physique was already close to that of an adult man, and the wooden sword at his waist was starting to look a bit out of place.

No matter what everyone said, Donald just smiled and continued to lower his head, seriously beating his lump of iron. After a few months, he had gained some skill. The wrought iron that was misshapen at first was now beaten into a large, evenly thick sheet every few days. In Aunt Mary's words, a few more strikes and it would be a decent iron basin. It was just a pity that the nearly finished iron basin would be hammered back into a lump by Donald after a few more strikes.

On a day when midsummer was about to pass, Donald signaled his brother to stoke the furnace to its hottest, then beat the iron lump that had been ravaged a hundred times more seriously than any other day. Richard, who was fanning the fire desperately on the side, heard the sound of the hammer strikes almost merge into one, then suddenly stop. Then he saw his brother sit down on the ground, large drops of sweat dripping from his proud, smiling face. What was stuck in the charcoal furnace was... a sword?

Donald calculated the time and extinguished the charcoal furnace without any intention of taking the sword out. Old Tom pointed to the water bucket, signaling Donald to quench the sword, but Donald shook his head and refused.

"Just go and play with your brother," Old Tom said with a smile, taking a sip of the rough rum produced on the island. "You brat, without a few years of experience, who would dare to forge a sword?"

"Old Dad, I've grown up this big and I've never seen you forge a sword either." Richard had been pestering his father for months without success and had already visited the sword shop in town countless times. They only sold one kind of sword there, the most common standard longsword of the Empire. Turner, the tavern owner's son, had replaced Richard as the idol of the children on the island by relying on one such sword. Every time he carefully drew that sword, his expression was as solemn as a knight being knighted by the King.

And now, Richard was also going to get a sword, a longsword forged by his brother's own hands.