Another week slipped by before Ludger finally set his quill down.

On the desk before him sat a thick stack of papers—his manual. Every line, every smudge of ink, was the result of long nights and half-cooled tea. He’d poured everything he knew about Healing Touch into it: the mana flow patterns, the tactile timing, the differences in pulse, even a few rough diagrams he’d scratched in when words failed him.

His handwriting wasn’t elegant—closer to a tactical report than a teaching text—but it was legible enough. More importantly, it was honest. Two week’s worth of effort distilled into something that might actually let others learn what he’d been forced to master through instinct and repetition.

He flipped through the pages once more, frowning at the uneven script. “Messy,” he muttered, “but it’ll do.”

Tucking the manual under his arm, he left his room. The house was quiet save for the faint clink of porcelain. In the living room, Elaine sat near the window, sipping tea while sunlight traced along her hair. She looked peaceful—until Ludger appeared with a thick sheaf of paper in hand.

“Mother,” he said, tone clipped but serious, “can you read this for me? Study it for a while.”

Elaine blinked, lowering her cup. It had been a long time since one of her son’s ideas had managed to baffle her, and this one did with its title.

“You… wrote a healing manual?” she asked, eyes flicking from his face to the bundle of pages.

Ludger nodded once. “Everything I know about Healing Touch. How it works, how to teach it.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, somewhere between pride and disbelief. “You’re ten,” she said softly, half to herself.

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Someone has to start small.”

Elaine set her cup aside, taking the papers with both hands. “Alright, little teacher,” she said with a faint smile. “Let’s see what you’ve written.”

At the moment, th sunlight spilling through the shutters in soft golden stripes. The twins were still asleep in their cribs, tiny and quiet for once—Elle curled up like a cat, Arash sprawled like he already planned to pick fights someday.

He glanced toward his mother where Elaine was getting ready to read his Healing Touch manual and then looked back at the sleeping pair. “Morning sun’s good for growth,” he muttered. “And maybe you’ll get five minutes of quiet air.”

Carrying both at once would be impossible—especially with his shoulder still tender—so he improvised. Out in the yard, he pressed a hand to the dirt, and the ground responded instantly. A soft rumble, and stone rose and shaped itself under his control—forming a small, sturdy stroller with four thick wheels and gently curved edges. He hollowed the interior, smoothing it out until it looked more like a cradle than a cart.

Then came the comfort. He lined it with spare cushions and one of Elaine’s old blankets, making sure it was warm and soft enough to muffle bumps from the cobblestone paths. 

When he was done, it actually looked… decent. Heavy, sure, but safe.

He carefully placed the twins inside, both of them still sleeping soundly, and adjusted the blanket once more. “Field-tested design,” he said quietly, proud despite himself. “Zero chance of tipping.”

Elaine appeared by the doorway just in time to see him pulling the stone stroller toward the gate. She stared, blinked twice, and then sighed, rubbing her eyebrows with two fingers.

“Of course you made something out of stone,” she murmured. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Ludger just gave a small shrug without looking back. “Durable, weatherproof, doesn’t squeak.”

Then he rolled out into the morning sun, the twins nestled quietly in their stone carriage, and his mother watching from the doorway—half proud, half resigned—to the fact that her eldest son was simply too resourceful for his own good.

Ludger had been hoping for a quiet morning—just the twins, the sun, and the rhythmic crunch of the stone stroller’s wheels on the dirt road. For once, no guild politics, no frost skeletons, no imperial headaches. Just peace.

He should’ve known better.

As he turned down one of the wider streets, he spotted movement ahead—tall, broad-shouldered, and far too loud in presence to mistake for anyone else. Freyra.

She was strolling through Lionfang like a tourist who’d lost her guide, glancing from one merchant stall to the next with a curious grin, occasionally stopping to poke at something shiny or bargain for dried meat. She looked entirely too comfortable for someone who’d nearly been knocked out headbutting her father last week.

Ludger groaned under his breath. “Perfect. Just what I needed.”

He tried to turn the stroller down a side street, hoping she wouldn’t notice him—but he was too slow. The sound of her boots against the cobblestone quickened, followed by that unmistakable voice that carried like a battle horn.

“LUDGER!”

He winced. The twins stirred at the sudden noise.

“Of course,” he muttered, not even bothering to turn yet. “Peace was never an option. At least she learned that she can’t call me pipsqueak while being part of my guild.”

Ludger sighed—long and weary—the kind of sigh that carried the weight of too many early mornings and too little patience. He stopped pushing the stone stroller and turned toward her, expression flat.

“I’m not on working hours,” he said. “So if you’re looking for someone to bother, find another victim.”

Freyra frowned, arms crossing as she eyed the stroller instead. Her gaze dropped to the twins, still sleeping peacefully inside, and a crooked grin tugged at her lips.

“…You’re looking after babies?” she said, voice dripping disbelief. “That’s women’s work, isn’t it?”

Ludger blinked slowly. “If that’s the way of the northerners,” he said dryly, “that explains your daddy issues.”

Her grin faltered. “My what?”

“Daddy issues.”

She tilted her head, brow furrowing. “What are those supposed to be?”

Ludger paused, staring at her for a few seconds before exhaling again. “Too much to explain,” he said, and started pushing the stroller forward.

Freyra followed beside him anyway, muttering something about how southerners always used strange words. Ludger just focused on keeping the twins asleep—and on ignoring the walking headache at his side.

Freyra kept pace beside Ludger, her long strides forcing him to slow the stroller slightly so the twins wouldn’t jostle. She looked around, then leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.

“Hey, I heard a shipment of new gear came in—good ones, froststeel. Think you can help me find a proper weapon? I don’t know how to tell which are worth buying.”

Ludger didn’t even look at her. “For you, anything that lasts more than five seconds in your hand qualifies as a good weapon.”

Freyra scowled. “Very funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” He kept pushing the stroller, eyes half-lidded from the sunlight. “Ask my father. He’s the one who actually knows gear. I just make sure mine doesn’t break before I do.”

Truth was, Ludger wasn’t great at judging weapon quality either. He relied more on balance, feel, and mana response than craftsmanship. Still, as he mulled over her question, a faint blue flicker appeared at the edge of his vision.

[Dissection of Knowledge +10 XP.]

Ludger’s lips twitched upward into a grin before he could stop himself. So it works, he thought. Writing a book to teach others, works.

Freyra blinked. “What’s with that face? You just went from grumpy to creepy in half a second.”

Ludger shrugged. “Just remembered a good joke.”

Freyra raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like someone who tells good jokes.”

He smirked faintly. “Exactly.”

And with that, he pushed the stroller onward, content to let her stew in confusion while the twins napped peacefully under the morning sun.

Freyra folded her arms, glaring ahead as they walked. “I’m not asking your father for help,” she said firmly.

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

She scoffed. “Because he’s the man who defeated my father. That’s reason enough.”

He stayed quiet, letting her continue. She clearly needed to get it out.

Freyra’s tone softened, but her pride still bristled beneath every word. “Where I come from, strength is what defines a person’s worth. My father—Kharnek—he’s the strongest in our land. Or… he was. When he lost that duel, even if it was just a formality, it meant something to everyone who watched. They still respect him, but the whispers never stop.”

Her gaze drifted toward the horizon. “I can’t go to the man who put that mark on him and ask for favors. Not for weapons, not for training. That’d be like admitting we needed help. Like saying my father’s defeat wasn’t enough.”

She clenched her fists. “I want to prove that we’re not broken. That I’m not some soft northerner clinging to another family’s charity. So no—your father’s not helping me.”

Ludger glanced at her, unimpressed. “So you’d rather stay bad at choosing weapons than bruise your pride? Besides, why join his guild, then?”

“Exactly,” she said without hesitation. “This is this and that is that.”

He sighed. “You’re definitely his daughter.”

Freyra frowned. “Whose?”

“Both of them,” Ludger said, pushing the stroller again. “Stubborn like Kharnek, dramatic like you.”

She didn’t answer, but her glare spoke plenty.

Ludger adjusted his pace as the stroller rolled over a bump, keeping his tone casual but firm.

“If you’re too proud to ask my father,” he said, “then go to Lord Torvares.”

Freyra blinked, thrown off. “The old bull?”

“Yeah,” Ludger said. “He understands good weapons better than most. He’s the one who gave me my armguards and shin guards.” He lifted his right arm slightly, letting the sunlight catch the faint marks of the metal. “They’ve survived frost paladins, storms, and more than one explosion. If you want something that lasts, tell him. He’ll find the best craftsmen to make whatever weapon you want.”

Freyra narrowed her eyes. “And what’s the catch?”

Ludger’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smirk. “You just have to be fine with letting someone else make that choice for you.”

It took her a second, but the meaning landed. Freyra groaned, rubbing the back of her neck. “Ugh. So it’s better if I learn how to pick one myself.”

“Exactly,” Ludger said, eyes forward again. “Otherwise, the weapon’s good—but it’s never yours

.”

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an insult in northern dialect, but he didn’t bother asking what it meant. The smirk on his face said enough: she got the message.

[Dissection of Knowledge +10 XP.]

I guess this works as well…

Ludger adjusted his scarf and looked over at Freyra, who was still grumbling under her breath about smiths and pride. “Look,” he said finally, “no sane person would sell trash here. This town’s the main place gathering froststeel. If someone tried to pass off junk, they’d be out of business before sunset.”

Freyra tilted her head. “So you’re saying all the gear here’s good?”

“Decent,” Ludger corrected. “Good enough to survive a labyrinth run, sure. But if you want something above the curve—something that fits you and not just anyone who swings it—you’ll need to commission it.”

He slowed the stroller as they turned a corner, speaking evenly. “Find a blacksmith, give them clear specifications. Weight, reach, edge angle, balance. A weapon made for you—not one made to be sold to anyone or everyone.”

Freyra blinked at him, then frowned. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is,” Ludger said flatly. “So don’t break it in the first five seconds.”

Her glare said she wanted to argue, but the truth in his tone killed the attempt before it started. She folded her arms instead, muttering something about “southerners and their smug advice.”

Ludger just smirked faintly, eyes forward again. “Smug or not,” he said, “it’s the truth.”

Before long, Freyra excused herself, muttering something about proving him wrong, and stalked off toward the nearest weapon stalls. From the corner of his eye, Ludger saw her leaning over displays, actually studying the blades this time instead of just grabbing whatever looked shiny.

He couldn’t help a small shrug. She’s just like Viola, he thought. The same mix of naïveté and raw stubbornness—the belief that every problem in the world could be solved with either a stronger punch or a louder voice.

With her gone, the morning quiet returned, and Ludger steered the stroller down one of the side streets. The main roads were too crowded anyway. As he walked, he pressed a bit of mana into the ground now and then, smoothing the uneven cobbles and filling gaps with compacted earth so the wheels rolled cleanly. It wasn’t hard work—more like absent-minded maintenance—but it made the stroller glide smoother than before.

Eventually, the peace shattered again—not from Freyra this time, but from a pair of familiar wails.

The twins were waking up.

Elle squirmed first, then Arash joined in with the kind of full-lung cry that could rattle a soldier’s discipline. Ludger slowed, trying to rock the stroller gently. “Alright, alright, calm down. You’ve got sunlight, fresh air, soft seats. What’s the problem?”

The cries only got louder.

He frowned, leaned closer—then caught the smell.

“…Oh,” he muttered flatly.

Realization hit like a slap. The twins weren’t angry—they’d pooped. Both of them. Simultaneously.

Ludger exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it with his good hand. “Right,” he said under his breath. “Guess even my brotherly charms has limits.”

For all his mana control, combat experience, and tactical insight, there were still mysteries in life utterly beyond him—and at that moment, they were both sitting in a stone stroller, crying at him through the stink.

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