Arttu stared at Reid in shock.

  He hadn’t expected that. Not even a little.

  Build a house together?

  Where did that even come from?

  He didn’t understand why—but he wanted to do it.

  Arttu went silent, eyes drifting downward as if weighing the idea with great seriousness. After a moment of what looked like intense internal debate, he finally nodded.

  With excitement.

  Reid grinned, confidence returning instantly.

  “Good. Then I know exactly where to build it.”

  They walked to a spot right beside Promia.

  Reid spread his arms slightly, inspecting the area like a seasoned architect.

  “This place seems perfect,” he said confidently.

  Arttu’s excitement faded.

  Slowly, he turned his head and stared at a wooden sign planted firmly into the ground.

  DO NOT BUILD HERE

  He tried to catch Reid’s attention, gesturing subtly toward it.

  Reid didn’t notice.

  “Yep. Definitely here.”

  Arttu cleared his throat.

  Nothing.

  He cleared it louder.

  Reid turned around—and froze.

  “…Oh.”

  Disappointment hit him instantly.

  Arttu walked over and patted Reid’s back in quiet consolation.

  After a moment of sulking, Reid straightened.

  “Okay. Okay. Trust me this time,” he said. “I really know the place.”

  They walked again—this time to a spot between Aquilonis and Promia.

  The location was perfect. Central. Convenient.

  Reid nodded proudly.

  “…But.”

  They were standing in the middle of a farm.

  A man appeared, arms crossed.

  “Hey,” he said flatly. “You can’t build here.”

  Reid and Arttu ran.

  Fast.

  They didn’t stop until they reached another place—this one looked promising.

  A forest. A clear lake. Birds chirping. Peaceful.

  Reid inhaled deeply.

  “Phew. Now this is perfect,” he said.

  “Trees for wood. A village nearby. Close to Aquilonis. And look—”

  He pointed at the lake.

  “That fish right there. I heard fish like that only live in safe la—”

  The fish was eaten.

  Reid blinked.

  “…Oh.”

  He quickly pointed at a larger fish.

  “That’s fine. That one’s not dangerous. If it lived this long, it must be the biggest thing in the la—”

  A crocodile surfaced.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  Then two more.

  Five crocodiles fought violently over the fish.

  Reid stared.

  “…Those crocodiles must be pretty hungry,” he said slowly. “All that over such a small fish.”

  The crocodiles turned.

  They looked at Reid.

  Then Arttu.

  Hungry.

  They ran.

  By the time they stopped, both of them were gasping for breath.

  Reid bent over, hands on his knees.

  “…I think,” he said between breaths, “I might be a terrible spot picker.”

  Arttu didn’t respond.

  Instead, he raised a hand and pointed behind Reid.

  Reid turned.

  And there it was.

  Aquilonis nearby.

  The village within reach.

  A vast, clear forest below.

  Wide green grass stretching peacefully around it all.

  Perfect.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Reid stared.

  Then smiled.

  Reid sighed and rolled his shoulders.

  “Alright,” he said. “Let’s start working then.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, his face broke into a wide grin.

  “Oh. Right,” he added, scratching the back of his head.

  “I don’t know how to build a house.”

  Arttu pressed his palm to his face in disbelief, silently reconsidering every life decision that had led him here—despite being only eight years old.

  They walked to the nearest village, about an hour down the road. Arttu still held Reid’s hand, though not as tightly as before. The journey had helped him. His brother had helped him.

  He couldn’t remember what had happened in Priscilla. Not clearly. Only fragments remained—fainting, and the face of the man he saw before everything went dark. But Reid had said he beat him.

  So Arttu believed him.

  Even so, Arttu struggled to endure the sheer embarrassment of what came next.

  Reid began asking every single person in the village if they knew how to build a house.

  Farmers. Merchants. A baker. A woman who was very clearly just trying to buy bread.

  Each one stared at him in silence, expressions ranging from confusion to quiet concern.

  Then—finally—a voice called out from behind them.

  “I can help you.”

  The voice was deep. Charismatic. Broad.

  Reid’s eyes lit up.

  This must be a famous builder, he thought.

  He turned around.

  The man was bald, with a deep butt chin, crooked teeth, tired eyes, and a smell that suggested he had been losing fights with water for years.

  Reid turned back immediately.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Wait,” the man said quickly.

  “I really can help you.”

  Despite his appearance, the man spoke with complete confidence.

  “My name is Bob Truck. But people call me Bob the Builder.”

  Reid turned back slowly, awe filling his eyes.

  “…The famous Bob the Builder?”

  Bob puffed his chest.

  “Yes. I am the ma—”

  Reid cut him off, face suddenly serious.

  “Yeah. I don’t know you.”

  Something inside Bob died.

  But he pushed on.

  “Listen, young man. If you truly wish to build a house, you must show respect.”

  Reid tilted his head.

  “Oh. You’re actually a builder? I thought you were a scammer trying to steal my money.”

  Bob laughed loudly.

  “No, no. I’m the real deal. I can help you build a house for ten thousand rout.”

  Reid turned away.

  “No thanks.”

  “Wait.”

  Reid turned back.

  “Five thousand rout.”

  Reid turned away again.

  “Wait.”

  He turned back.

  “Four thousand.”

  He turned away.

  “Wait.”

  He turned back.

  This repeated ten more times.

  Finally, Bob sighed.

  “Alright. One hundred rout. But I won’t build the house—only teach you.”

  Reid blinked.

  “…I never wanted you to build it,” he said honestly.

  “I just wanted you to teach me.”

  Bob stared at him.

  “You could’ve said that.”

  They followed Bob into his office.

  The moment Reid stepped inside, he stopped.

  The room was… spotless.

  Flower pots of every color lined the windowsill, each one carefully watered. The desk was polished smooth, the walls clean and unmarked, not a single stain anywhere. Everything was ordered. Calm.

  It contradicted every single thing about Bob.

  Arttu looked around slowly, eyes wide, as if he had stepped into the wrong building.

  Bob cleared his throat and leaned against the heavy oak table at the center of the room. His tunic was still too small, his hair still unfortunate, and he kept adjusting a pair of spectacles that didn’t seem to help him see any better. But when he unrolled an old, cracked sheet of parchment, something changed.

  The room went quiet.

  Bob pressed the parchment flat and began speaking, not loud, not dramatic—just certain.

  “We don’t build houses by stacking wood and praying,” he said, tapping the drawing with a thick finger. “We follow steps. Miss one, and the whole thing falls apart.”

  Reid leaned forward without realizing it.

  Arttu climbed onto a nearby chair to see better.

  Bob pointed to the lines on the parchment—circles intersecting, angles measured with care.

  “First comes the shape. The ground decides everything. We stake the corners with a knotted cord—old trick. If the corners aren’t true, the walls won’t forgive you later.”

  He dragged his finger along the perimeter.

  “Once that’s set, we dig. Two feet down. Rubble packed tight at the bottom. A house with weak feet leans, and a leaning house kills people in their sleep.”

  Reid swallowed.

  Bob moved on, rolling the parchment slightly.

  “The frame comes next. Heart-oak for the base and the corners. Strong wood. Stubborn wood. You don’t cut it sloppy.”

  He mimed the motion of an axe, sharp and practiced.

  “We square the beams. Take the round off until the wood listens. And we don’t use iron.”

  Reid blinked. “No nails?”

  Bob shot him a look.

  “Iron rusts. Wood remembers.”

  He traced small markings on the drawing.

  “We cut the joints. Holes and tongues. Fit them together like they were born that way. Lock them with wooden pegs. If you do it right, the house will outlive you. Maybe your children too.”

  Arttu stared at the parchment, imagining it all coming together.

  Bob continued, pacing slowly now.

  “Walls come after. We weave thin branches between the frame—tight like a basket. Then we pack it with clay and straw. Messy work. Heavy. Smells awful.”

  A faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “But it keeps the cold out.”

  He stopped at the top of the parchment and tapped the roof.

  “Last is the roof. Straw layered thick. Sloped just right. Rain won’t soak in—it slides away. If the roof is done properly, you’ll never hear the storm above you. Only feel safe beneath it.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Reid hadn’t blinked in a while.

  Arttu gripped the edge of the table, eyes shining, taking in every word as if Bob were telling a story meant only for them.

  Bob rolled the parchment back up and rested it under his arm.

  That was it.

  No flourish.

  No questions.

  Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

  They stared at Bob in silence.

  Awe lingered in both of their eyes.

  For a brief, shining moment, Reid and Arttu were absolutely convinced they had stumbled upon a hidden genius—a master builder in disguise, quietly shaping the world one house at a time.

  Then—

  “HEY BOB! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY OFFICE?! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU NOT TO USE IT?!”

  The door slammed open.

  Both Reid and Arttu slowly turned their heads toward Bob.

  Disappointment settled in immediately.

  Bob shrank.

  His boss stood there, arms crossed, veins bulging, face red with fury.

  “I—I’m sorry, boss,” Bob said quickly, bowing his head. “There were clients, and I just… wanted them to talk at a clean desk.”

  The boss froze.

  His expression melted in an instant, anger vanishing as if it had never existed.

  “Oh! Customers?” he said warmly, his voice suddenly soft and welcoming. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

  He straightened his coat and smiled.

  “Well then,” he continued, “where would our clients like us to build their house?”

  Reid answered without thinking.

  “Oh, we’re not here to pay you to build it. We’re here to learn how to build one.”

  The room went dead silent.

  The boss stared.

  One second passed.

  Two.

  Then—

  “GET OUT!!”

  They were already halfway to the door when Bob rushed after them, hands raised.

  “I’m really sorry about all this,” he said hurriedly. “But—if you still want—I can draw you an outline for the house. For a thousand routs.”

  “No,” Reid replied flatly.

  Bob sighed deeply.

  “…Alright. Three hundred.”

  Reid stopped.

  They shook hands.

  “I’ll finish it in two days,” Bob said. “Come back then and I’ll give you the outline. Until that—stay safe.”

  They parted ways with small waves.

  Reid and Arttu walked on together, the road stretching quietly ahead of them.

  No home yet.

  But for the first time in a long while—

  They were building toward one.

  At the southern edge of Aquilonis—

  beneath the shattered stone spires that marked the base of the Cult of Hatred—Lucius stood still.

  Before him drifted a mist-like presence, formless yet immense. It did not touch the ground, nor did it obey the wind. The air around it felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

  The Curse of Hatred.

  Lucius broke the silence.

  “I could have won that fight,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  The mist rippled.

  Then it laughed.

  A low, distorted sound—neither cruel nor kind, but certain.

  “No,” Hatred replied. “You couldn’t have.”

  Lucius clenched his jaw. His fingers twitched at his side, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to argue. Wanted to shout.

  But he didn’t.

  Because he knew.

  Hatred was stronger than him. Stronger than Reid. Stronger than anyone Lucius had ever seen.

  The mist drifted closer, its presence pressing against his chest, against his thoughts.

  “But,” Hatred continued, its voice softening, “you know how to beat him.”

  Lucius’ breath hitched.

  “How to beat everyone,” the voice whispered.

  “How to take back everything you lost.”

  “How to do what you’ve always wanted to do.”

  A chill ran down Lucius’ spine.

  Memories surfaced—unwanted, vivid.

  Fire. Screams. Ruins.

  Reid’s back as he walked away.

  Hatred loomed before him now, endless and patient.

  “Accept me, Lucius.”

  The words did not echo.

  They sank.

  And the world waited for his answer.