In truth, when Du Wei Rowling was born, no one dared call him an idiot. Quite the opposite—he was once hailed as a potential genius of the Rowling House.
Three years ago, when Du Wei emerged from the Countess's womb into this world, he startled the midwives attending his birth. He neither cried nor wailed, nor did he ever need soothing. His routine was more disciplined than a grown man's: waking on time, eating on cue, and sleeping as if by clockwork. Beyond opening his mouth to feed, the boy scarcely made a sound. His days were spent in silence, staring blankly with wide, unblinking eyes.
Remarkably, he rarely wet his bed. He'd learned to gently nudge the bell by his cradle, and in time, whenever the faint chime rang from young Master Du Wei's room, a maid would rush to fetch his chamber pot. Such behavior earned universal praise within the household: this boy, so clever from infancy, was surely destined to be the Rowling House's prodigy.
Alas, the luster of "genius" faded in less than half a year. The reason? He would not speak.
While children his age began to babble, mimicking simple sounds like "Papa," "Mama," or "pee-pee," Du Wei's lips remained sealed, as if bound by a master sorcerer's curse. Despite the Countess's tireless efforts to coax words from him, her throat dry from endless lessons, not a single syllable escaped him. Even a born mute might hum or grunt, but this boy was silent as stone. Cold, hot, hungry, or in need of relief—he signaled all with the bell's soft chime.
By the time he reached three, with his golden tongue still unloosed, the Countess summoned countless skilled physicians and even renowned mages to check for curses or enchantments. All efforts proved fruitless. At last, even the most hopeful Countess sighed in sorrow, her heart heavy with the realization: her son was an idiot.
Thankfully, young Du Wei did learn to walk at three, his toddling steps no different from other children his age. Yet, unable to cry, laugh, or speak, he drifted through days in a haze of blank stares. "Idiot" seemed the only fitting explanation.
Then, a month ago, a tempest swept through—a storm of howling winds and torrential rain, with thunderclaps so fierce they nearly breached the Grand Canal outside the Imperial Capital. Amid this chaos, a startling event unfolded at the Earl's estate.
Unnoticed by his distracted maid, young Master Du Wei crawled from his room and stood alone in the courtyard, drenched by the downpour, his small face tilted skyward. As lightning split the heavens and thunder roared, the boy showed no trace of fear—perhaps an idiot knew no such thing. Instead, he clenched his tiny fists and, against the storm's fury, let out a wild, wordless cry.
For the first time in three years, his voice broke free. Standing in the rain, he bellowed at the heavens, his frail frame battered by the deluge. When the servants finally found him, he was soaked through, trembling with cold, his face ghostly pale, lips bitten purple.
The Countess, rushing to the scene, fainted on the spot. Servants scrambled to carry both mother and son indoors. The Countess soon revived, clutching her now-unconscious child and weeping bitterly. Physicians bustled about, pouring potions down his throat, while two mages chanted healing spells of light over him for hours.
Yet the boy's body grew colder by the moment. In desperation, the Countess, half-mad with grief, stormed to the Temple of Light in the Imperial Capital. She summoned a black-robed High Priest, who performed the Goddess's Blessing ritual on the child. The Countess herself knelt before the statue of the Goddess of Light for an entire night, praying ceaselessly for her son's life.
By dawn, warmth crept back into the boy's limbs, and his life was spared. Still, he lay in a fevered slumber for another day and night. The Countess, refusing food or rest, held him close, her once-radiant beauty worn thin by anguish. Then, in his sleep, young Du Wei spoke. Eyes closed, he murmured strange, disjointed syllables—gibberish, most assumed, from a child who'd never learned speech.
But the Countess, tears streaming, listened intently. At last, she turned to the silent servants and whispered, "Among those tending the young master, is there one named Marde?"
The household exchanged baffled glances. A bold servant stepped forward, bowing low. "My lady, there seems to be no Marde among the young master's attendants…"
A search of the estate turned up a horse groom named Marde, who was promptly brought before the Countess.
"My son called your name in his dreams… Marde…" she said softly. "I know not why, but this must be a sign from the Goddess of Light. From this day, you'll no longer tend horses. Serve at the young master's side."
Marde's heart leaped. From a lowly stable hand, he'd vaulted to a place beside the heir—a shimmering path to fortune now lay before him.
Unbeknownst to Du Wei, his outburst—raging at the heavens and catching a chill—had nearly cost him his life. Nor did he know that his fevered mutterings of "damn it" (misheard as "Marde") had changed a man's fate.
The illness lingered for a month, leaving the boy's already frail frame weaker still. Only after weeks did a faint flush of color return to his cheeks. Yet, true to form, he spoke not a word upon waking. Even Marde, the servant "chosen" in his dreams, received no special regard—just the same blank stares.
One difference emerged, however. When maids whispered of his illness—how the Countess had held him sleeplessly for two days and knelt a full night before the Goddess—Du Wei's eyes, once dull and distant, softened with a trace of warmth whenever they fell upon his mother.