The Half-Elf

Cold, damp air blew from the north, carrying the clarion call of winter to every corner of the Eastern Kingdoms. A low, solemn wind whistled through the birch forest, causing the leaves of the tall trees to rustle in unison. Vast swathes of withered yellow leaves drifted away on the breeze. A few plump field mice were busy hauling wild wheat across the ground; their round bellies were full of fat, yet that was not enough to face the coming winter. They only wanted to secure more grain, seal their burrows before the first snow fell, and lie comfortably atop their granaries in the underground tunnels, munching away at the fruits of their labor.

A pair of clean deerskin boots stepped onto the withered grass. Their owner did not walk on the main road; these dirt paths were passable in summer, but the autumn rains had turned them into a muddy mess. Walking on them would allow the cold, damp mud to easily seep through the gaps in the deerskin boots and reach the warmth of one's feet, letting one feel the chill of winter ahead of schedule. It was better to walk on the dry grass along the sides of the road.

The middle-aged man walking ahead of the owner of the deerskin boots had no such concerns. A faint blue magical glow shimmered over his boots; the weeds could only touch his soles, while the cold mud could never reach him. It could only look up at his nostrils as it watched this strange little procession slowly depart.

The owner of the deerskin boots was a young, black-haired boy. He was a foundling, abandoned on a snowy day in front of the home of an elderly farming couple in Fleck Village. They had prayed to the Holy Light for years without being blessed with a child, so they were overjoyed to find even a foundling, taking him inside to raise with great care.

As time passed, the little one's appearance grew increasingly beautiful. Beneath his soft black hair sat a pair of firm eyebrows, and his small nose resembled a healthy pumpkin from the fields, a sight one could never tire of. His lips were thin, which often led the little fellow to bite down on them. Most praiseworthy of all were his black eyes, as tranquil as a lake in the dead of night. Any impolite movement seemed as if it would shatter the fragility of his gaze. Just one look into those eyes made people feel at ease; everyone felt too embarrassed to speak loudly in his presence. Who would intentionally throw a stone into a midnight lake? Unless he blinked—and every blink sent ripples dancing under the moonlight, making the adorable little fellow all the more endearing.

As for his only flaw, or perhaps his only difference, it was that he possessed ears unlike those of a human—pointed ears. Before this, only Sir Fleck knew what this signified. He would watch the child playing with other human children of his age with worry, and he had even considered driving the boy away after the old couple passed. Yet, for some reason, his heart always softened. What was worse, he had acted as if possessed, bringing the boy into his own manor to teach him knightly combat and how to read and write, just as he did his own children. Sigh, Fleck, you really are a fool. By the time your own grandson dies, this little guy will still be alive and well. Why did you have to get involved with him?

But now, with the arrival of this mage, the entire village knew what the pointed ears meant. The little fellow was a half-elf. Perhaps his mother or father had abandoned him due to concerns over their reputation, but what did that matter? Little Lister had grown up here. In everyone's eyes, he was a member of Fleck Village, a child of the community. Why worry about that irresponsible pair?

Even Lister himself felt nothing for his parents. His memories from these past few years were filled with the smiles of the elderly farming couple, the stern guidance of Sir Fleck, and the fragrant, soft bread baked by Aunt Sasha, rather than parents who were worlds away. Yet, it was precisely this elven bloodline that had led the mage to take Lister in. Sir Fleck had been mentally prepared; he had seen elves before. Elves were the darlings of magic, and those with elven blood were natural-born mage candidates. He could only have his wife fetch the clothes and hat she had prepared long ago, dress little Lister up handsomely, and send him off to follow the mage into a completely unfamiliar world. It was for his own good.

It was also for his own good.

Lister was followed by other children, not all of whom were from Fleck Village; some came from Park Village to the east, and others from Greenwood Town to the west. In this group, the only ones he knew were Little Fleck and his sister, with whom he spent every day. The sister had inherited Mrs. Fleck's golden hair and emerald eyes, while the brother had gained his father's robust physique. Both were eight years old, but the boy was five centimeters taller than Lister and a size larger in build.

The middle-aged mage was also observing Lister, though not with his eyes, but with the elements—with the eyes of his soul. The little fellow was tucking his chubby hands into his pockets in a well-behaved manner, his leather cap bobbing up and down with his stride like a proud soldier. The mage couldn't help but curl the corners of his mouth.

This middle-aged mage was a man with shoulder-length hair. He was sturdily built, filling out his mage robes quite fully. Beneath his slightly disheveled brownish-yellow hair were a pair of azure eyes, and his chiseled face was as stern and intimidating as a stone sculpture, much like his high, prominent nose.

He is just a child. He will like Dalaran, the middle-aged mage thought, recalling his own pilgrimage to Dalaran. He had been just like these little ones—ignorant and excited. When he first arrived in Dalaran, he hadn't been able to sleep for days. Good heavens, just think of those pavilions floating in the air, the various strange elements, the exotic lifeforms from all over the world and even the outer planes. These bizarre and whimsical things filled Dalaran. Who wouldn't be dizzy and overwhelmed upon first encountering them?

In fact, being an apprentice in Dalaran was a grueling profession. They not only had to shoulder heavy academic loads—failing to complete them within the allotted time meant forced expulsion—but they also had to serve as assistants to their teachers, helping to process complex and dangerous magical materials. They were also obligated to assist the academy in investigating magical incidents across various regions. Even worse, some extremely cruel teachers used their apprentices as test subjects. Of course, they wouldn't do so openly; they would simply sign various agreements, tricking ignorant, impoverished students into "assisting with research." If something went wrong, they could only blame the apprentices for being careless with their experiments!

Octas sighed. There was no helping it; the deeper one delved into magic, the more one's humanity withered away. Compared to the infinite world of magic, the short lives of humans were so brief and insignificant. In the 6,800 years of human magical study, many mages were stripped of their right to use the elements every year for violating taboos. The dangerous creatures locked in the underground prisons of Dalaran included humans, and among them, mages were the most numerous.

But what could be done? This was the tragedy and the greatness of humanity. He believed these fledglings would soon understand this. Octas took a deep breath of the icy air; the cold wind could not touch him in the slightest. The little ones behind him had caught a few unlucky field mice with their slingshots and were chatting as they walked, skewering them on sticks, seemingly intending to have them for dinner.

Well, perhaps I am overthinking it. These little ones are quite resilient.