The story of the son of the mercenary in the north enrolling in the magic school in the south

Oh, again.

Also, I have the same dream.

In his dreams, the boy realizes so.

Far ahead of the boy's gaze.

The person stands there.

I'm calling my name in a kind voice, woman.

If something called kindness is going to be a phenomenon of some sort, it's going to be something like this.

That's what the boy believes, the voice of a woman full of love for him.

The voice can be heard clearly.

Yet I don't see that.

As if wrapped in fog, neither face nor body is visible to the boy's eyes as blurry.

Is it tall or low?

Are you thin or fat?

Is your hair long or short?

Are your eyes big or thin?

The colour of the hair, the colour of the skin.

I don't know anything.

Only that gentle voice clearly reaches the boy's ear.

And whenever I hear that voice, it strikes me with so much bitterness that my chest is about to rip open.

Loss of feeling.

The boy still doesn't know such a difficult word, but the pain the boy felt was all he could say if he put it into words.

A pity similar to despair that, in reality, never again will a name be called by this man in such a voice.

Why they never call me again, the reason for which is not clear to the boy either.

But only the fact that they wouldn't call me anymore was clear.

Never available forever, kindness.

It used to be under the boy, but I lost it.

No, they took it.

That's why, the sense of loss.

The boy doesn't even know what to call him.

Mom.

Mother.

Mother.

None of them come tight.

I wonder what I used to call that person.

I just tried to follow my memories from when I couldn't even feel it, and I never get an answer.

In his dreams, the boy runs desperately towards the person.

I want that person to hold me tight.

I want to be wrapped up in the sweet smell of the person.

I want him to talk about how he has no other love.

If that's not going to happen, at least I want to burn the person's face, into these eyes.

But no matter how much a boy moves his legs, he never gets close to the person.

In a dream, a boy never stops.

Always, always, boys don't give up until the end.

Yet the person's voice keeps moving away.

Run, scream, but that voice will never come close.

And when that person's voice breaks, the boy wakes up with a painful sense of loss.

After a long journey, when only one of the boys stepped down to the port of Norc, his face was already equipped with the rigour of leaving the child.

Originally a brilliant boy, the journey further forged all of him.

He's not even old yet.

No matter how peaceful the country was, it couldn't have been, such as such a small child traveling alone.

The boy did not like to be exposed to the gaze of curiosity.

So the boy didn't even stay in the inn.

I didn't even get in the carriage.

With his own feet, he took every step of the earth, and walked.

That didn't matter.

Walk and you'll be as close to your destination as you can walk. If that's a journey, wouldn't you be so happy?

You can't reach it running or running, compared to that hell.

What is the end of this journey?

Tell the guard his name at the main entrance, and the boy begs for guidance.

The still young guard was stunned that the boy had traveled alone.

Guided by the guard, the boy is led to the College Director's Office in the college's large campus.

It's been years since I've seen an old man like the Spirit of that wisdom. I had just met him when I was almost uncomfortable.

When the boy gave his name, the old man glanced at him.

I told you to change your name.

The old man's words had the force not to be allowed to say whether or not.

For a reason.

Noble blood flowing through the boy's body.

The name of the boy, who was once a noble person, was too similar to that of his brother, who is still a noble person.

It was only natural that the old man, who rescued the boy with the shoulder to die, ordered him to change his name for his safety.

"I won't change my name"

The boy's noble blood was not frightened even before the intimidation of that old man, who was said to yield even the great nobility.

"You can change your surnames to your liking."

The boy told the Dean of the Academy.

"I know it's Mozville, but I don't care what it is"

Unwanted circulation. I accept that.

You don't have to have a last name.

But accepting is not the same as yielding.

Who am I?

My name is Wallis.

Memorable, that man's voice.

Wallis.

That's what she called me.

Whatever your last name is.

Binding this country, even if it's that last name.

I don't care if it's this surname that's now unwrought behind my name.

Such things do not represent the important things in me as one.

But what's his name?

I can't just change my name.

A sign that you are who you are.

Wallis.

You'll never get it again, that voice.

The name that guy called.

That's my name.

If this name is going to change, what am I going to live on?

Change your name to live.

That is not to accept.

It's about giving in.

It's about throwing away everything you have.

What's the point in such a raw.

I don't give in.

My name is Wallis.

The boy said it again.

His eyes, staring at the old man, were bright red and congested.

"It's nobody else. I'm Wallis."

The old man, after staring at his face for a while, said he was puffy.

"I see. Is that your form?"

And soothe the expression a little and nod to the boy.

"Okay. Keep your name."

Then, I declared it harshly.

"Wallis Mozville. Welcome to school."

Wallis, nine-year-old spring.

It was around the time Almark decorated his first battlefield in the north.