Kraft’s grandfather—this family’s founding noble—was named Mark Wood, or as most now called him, Old Wood.
Of course, back when Old Wood was as young as Kraft was now, he didn’t yet carry that surname. At the time, he was just a sturdy young man from the countryside, whose main profession was cracking skulls on the battlefield.
Thanks to his natural talent, Old Wood performed remarkably well despite having no formal training. Where others would struggle to take down one enemy, he could bring down four or five without even blinking.
With such stellar performance, he gradually worked his way up from fighting in nothing but trousers, to donning leather armor, and eventually earned the privilege of wearing full plate and swinging a greatsword into people’s heads. Whenever he reminisced about those glory days, Old Wood would slap his knee with pride.
As these tales usually go, after a lifetime of military service, Old Wood caught the attention of an influential figure and was awarded the title of Baron, along with a modest stretch of land back in his hometown.
With fame, honor, and his old knee injury flaring up again, he chose to retire to his birthplace—Wood Town—taking the name of the town as the family surname. He began planning the construction of his family’s castle atop a hill behind the town.
It was as if Old Wood’s glorious youth had used up all of the family’s luck. In the thirty years it took to gradually complete the castle, tragedy struck repeatedly. First, his wife succumbed to a plague—despite the prayers of the priest, her life could not be saved. Then his son, Young Wood, was killed in battle. Kraft’s mother died in childbirth.
By the time the castle stood complete, only Old Wood and his grandson Kraft Wood remained. A gloomy, unseen cloud seemed to hang over the newly built fortress, its chill seeping through every stone and corner like a lingering curse.
Perhaps even the gods of the Church felt this fate was too cruel, for Kraft did not suffer the same misfortune.
Instead, he grew up healthy and safe within the castle’s stone walls, reaching the age of ten without ever encountering danger. Even the swords used during his PE lessons were unsharpened—a compromise that, in Old Wood’s mind, was the peak of safety.
With his hair now fully white, Old Wood exhaled deeply and resolved to reflect on his life. It was time to give his grandson something other than greatsword windmill swings—at least one more skill so he wouldn’t grow up only knowing how to crack skulls.
And so, Mr. Anderson, a scholar from the Wendenport Academy, was personally invited by Old Wood to come teach Kraft the basics of reading and writing the local script, along with what Old Wood considered more "refined" subjects—like calligraphy and poetry.
As it turned out, the old man’s choice was a wise one. Kraft transformed from a boy obsessed with recreating his grandfather’s battlefield glory into someone who could sit still in the study—at least after a few rounds of “traditional motivational techniques” from his grandfather.
Having set Kraft on a new path, Old Wood finally had time to indulge in some hobbies of his own—a reward for his twilight years.
And his hobby? Well, it was a bit unusual.
It really began after the war, slowly gaining traction among a small group of young, educated nobles and a handful of scholars. The field was once called mysticism, now known as anomalous phenomena. The Church branded it as heretical nonsense, while hardline materialist scholars preferred to view it as merely unexplained natural principles.
In simpler terms, it was all the weird, rare, and unexplainable stuff—like fire or light spontaneously appearing from someone’s hands. That sort of thing.
Normally, someone like Old Wood—a semi-literate skull-cracking veteran—would never be part of this crowd.
But unlike others who only chased rumors, Old Wood had seen it with his own eyes.
One night, a bunch of mysterious black-robed figures had appeared out of nowhere, wielding fire and light in their hands, strange symbols on their faces. They could even coat their swords with that light. Old Wood’s team paid a heavy price fighting them, and he himself injured his knee in the process.
According to his account, one of those glowing swords grazed his leg when he kicked one of them down. His knee guard was completely pulverized, and a shard of metal embedded itself into the joint—like some unspeakable part had been stomped by a boot.
As a pragmatist, Old Wood never bought the military chaplain’s explanation that they were just cultist tricksters. Though he obediently burned their bodies and belongings as instructed, his curiosity and fascination couldn’t be so easily extinguished.
From collecting talismans in his youth to now filling the castle with all sorts of bizarre items, Old Wood’s passion for the unknown never faded. After losing so many loved ones, he threw himself even deeper into his collection, perhaps as a way of escaping reality.
As for Mr. Anderson, he was an even more devout fan of the anomalous. Back in his Wendenport Academy days, he was known for his obsession with studying such phenomena. The only issue was the circle was too niche—few people shared his passion.
But when Old Wood came to Wendenport to find a tutor for Kraft, the two hit it off immediately. You could say it was a match made in heaven. In terms the other soul in Kraft’s body might understand, it was like Boya meeting Ziqi—soulmates in scholarship. They formed a deep friendship that transcended age, education level, and social status.
With Anderson’s influence, Old Wood expanded his collection from objects to forbidden and ancient tomes. The castle’s hidden library probably held more banned material than your average heretic sect. Even the Church’s Inquisition might do a double take if they saw it.
But then again, Wood Town was a backwater—even Wendenport was considered rural. The Church’s influence barely extended past the town’s chapel and its seagull-covered square. Keeping the bird droppings cleaned off the steps was already considered diligent work for the local clergy.
Unless someone started praying to a flying tentacle-faced god in broad daylight, nobody cared what you did. Even a heretic feeding seagulls in the square would probably be ignored. That may have been the reason Mr. Firehand came here in the first place.
With no church in town, Old Wood could stroll around with two carved rune eyeballs in his hands like stress balls, and people would still compliment him on his bold taste: “Only Baron Wood could pull off such daring accessories.”
So when rumors spread that a legendary “spellcaster” had appeared in Wendenport, Old Wood was just about to take a stroll there anyway—and Kraft got caught in the whirlwind of excited babble, handed a bunch of vague instructions, and sent off on the town’s fastest horse, utterly confused.
Not that it was the first time something like this had happened. Kraft had long since adopted the mindset: As long as Grandpa’s happy.
And when he later heard the news about Firehand’s spell demonstration going horribly wrong, he was unexpectedly thrilled. Well, that saves me the trouble!
Still, as the saying goes: Since you’re already here, might as well bring something back. It wouldn’t sit right to return empty-handed.
After stopping by one of Anderson’s old colleagues and learning that some village nearby had unearthed “heretic stuff,” Kraft and his cousin decided it’d make the perfect item to bring back—and immediately braved a snowstorm to get there. After all, if they arrived too late, the villagers might hand the artifact over to the Church for “purification.”
Unfortunately, once they got there, they realized things weren’t as simple as they thought.
The object was currently lying in a fallow wheat field outside the village. The unearthed portion alone was taller than a man—some kind of black stone pillar with engraved patterns.
It was certainly strange, but clearly not something you could carry in your pocket and idly examine. Nor was it something two men with two horses could manage on their own.
With no other choice, Kraft decided to have his cousin take the letter home first. Hopefully, on his way back, he could also arrange for a cart from Wendenport to help haul the thing.
(End of Chapter)