A Mother Who Left Home, a Vicious Aunt...

The next day, at dusk.

"I'm heading back."

Inside the Tree of Knowledge, dappled light and shadow filled the air, which carried the distinctive fragrance of books and old paper.

Robin emerged from the grand space of the Tree of Knowledge, redolent with parchment and ink, carrying several heavy books in her arms.

She softly bid farewell to Doctor Clover, whose beard and hair were both white, and several scholars still absorbed in their research. Behind her came the familiar praise for her astonishing knowledge and memory.

The scholars' gazes were gentle and full of expectation, but once that heavy wooden door closed, all that warmth was shut away in another world.

Robin lowered her head and hurried toward her nominal "home"—the residence of the uncle who had almost never shown her any warmth.

Yet this way home was never peaceful. The moment she stepped onto the town's stone-paved road, several half-grown children slipped out from alleyways and corners like hyenas scenting blood, blocking her path.

"Look! It's that monster girl!"

"Monster! Get out of our town!"

"Die, monster!"

Filthy insults, like icy pebbles, were hurled at her along with sharp stones. One rock with a jagged edge grazed her forehead, bringing a stab of pain as a thread of crimson slowly seeped out.

But Robin did not even pause, much less raise a hand to wipe it away. She merely bowed her head lower and continued forward in silence, as she always did, as though the small body enduring those blows did not belong to her.

When the children saw that she was as submissive as usual, neither crying nor resisting, their initial excitement quickly turned into boredom.

The curses and thrown stones gradually grew sparse. In the end, they spat a few times and scattered off in search of new amusement.

Only after those figures had completely vanished from sight did Robin's tense shoulders loosen by the slightest degree.

She quickened her pace and returned to the low house.

"Creak—"

The old wooden door was pushed open, then gently closed. Robin leaned against it, her small chest rising and falling slightly. Dim light streamed in through the window, revealing the simple, even shabby furnishings inside.

She stood quietly for a moment and listened closely. There was no movement in the kitchen, and the living room was empty as well. Her uncle had not returned yet, and that sharp-tongued aunt had probably gone out to gossip with the neighbors again.

After confirming that no one was around, Robin's constantly tense shoulders finally sagged. She hurried to a corner of the room, curled up, and buried her face deep in her knees.

Her thin shoulders began to tremble faintly. Soundless sobs spread through the silent room as tears slipped down her face, soaking the little dress she had worn for five years, washed pale but still neat.

In the end, she was only a seven-year-old child. How could those vicious words and cold stones not make her feel hurt and wronged?

Yet ever since her mother had left, she had essentially lived on her own, and had long been forced to learn a restraint and maturity far deeper than those of children her age.

She knew clearly that in this "home," and in the world outside, showing weakness would only bring even more harm.

After crying for a while, she had vented some of her emotions. Robin suddenly raised her head and fiercely wiped the tearstains from her face with her sleeve.

"Right, I nearly forgot. I still have chores to do, or Aunt will scold me when she gets back."

She stood up and skillfully found a rag, a broom, and a bucket. Fetching water, wiping the furniture, sweeping the floor... Long-term malnutrition made her movements somewhat unsteady, and the spot on her forehead where the stone had cut her still throbbed faintly, but she completed every task with meticulous care.

In this "home," although she was nominally their niece, she was in fact more like an unpaid servant. Her aunt took it for granted that all the housework should be dumped on her. Worse still, in five years, her aunt had never bought her a single new piece of clothing.

By the time she finished cleaning, the sky outside had already darkened. A powerful wave of hunger struck, and Robin's stomach growled traitorously.

She looked around and found a sandwich on the dining table, discarded after someone had taken only one small bite.

She carefully picked up the sandwich and swallowed.

"I can't eat it here, or Aunt will scold me again..."

She murmured softly. Then, as though she had thought of something, a glimmer flashed in her eyes.

"I should go there instead."

She carefully wrapped the sandwich in a handkerchief, tucked it into her clothes, and hurriedly left that cold "home" once more.

More than ten minutes later, on Ohara's northwestern coast.

Robin moved through the lush forest outside town with practiced ease. Her figure nimbly darted between thick trees. When she encountered steep rock faces, she did not even need to use her hands; several arms would quietly sprout from the stone, supporting her ankles or waist and helping her leap upward with ease.

Before long, she arrived at a relatively low rock facing the sea.

This was her secret "shelter." Only when facing this boundless ocean could she feel a rare measure of peace and freedom.

She let out a soft breath, steadied herself, and sat on the rock. Carefully unfolding the handkerchief, she took out the sandwich and began eating it in small bites.

After eating most of it, her hunger eased somewhat. Just then, something unusual on the distant shore caught the corner of her eye.

A large number of broken planks were scattered across the beach, like the wreckage of some unfortunate ship. And on one larger plank, there seemed to be a... person curled up?

"Was someone shipwrecked?"

Her kind instincts made her stand at once. After a brief moment of thought, she wrapped up the remaining sandwich and put it away. Then, using arms that sprouted from the rocks, she made a few light leaps and arrived at the shore strewn with wooden debris.

She cautiously approached the largest plank. Curled up on it was an extraordinarily tall man. Even curled up, his size was clearly far beyond that of an ordinary person.

He had long golden hair that remained dazzling even in the dim light. It hung wetly around him, obscuring part of his face. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to have lost consciousness.

Robin hesitated, then extended a slender finger and gently poked his cheek.

He felt warm. He was alive.

At that moment, the man seemed disturbed by the faint touch. His eyelashes trembled a few times before he groggily opened his eyes.

What entered his view was a little girl in an old dress, with a trace of dried blood on her forehead, black hair, and blue eyes. Her gaze held caution and a faint curiosity that was difficult to detect.

It worked!

Dawn silently counted himself lucky. He had not expected to encounter his target after waiting only one day.

Before falling asleep, he had considered the possibility of being discovered by someone else. Fortunately, that had not happened.

He immediately adjusted his expression, forcing a pained look onto his face as he bared his teeth and sucked in a breath:

"Hiss—ow, ow, ow..."