Kalen (01) 001 – The Name Bestowed by His Benefactor
The name Kalen had been given to him by an old man—his benefactor and master. An illegitimate child born from a fleeting dalliance between a prostitute and a middling noble who wasn't anything special. The fate of a bastard from such a twisted union was all too predictable. The abandoned always wandered in search of some way to survive, and the boy now called Kalen was no exception. Day after day of grueling hardship. If he got lucky and salvaged a decent hunk of bread, that was cause for gratitude. The world wore two faces—warm in one moment, ice-cold in the next. Some passersby might offer a scrap of kindness to a grubby little boy, while others glared as if he were refuse littering the street.
They say if you want to meet people, head to the city. The boy knew nothing but begging, so he eked out a living in Felts, one of the Claire Empire's grandest cities. One day, curiosity pulled him toward a rare gathering crowd. Gruff, or perhaps just peculiar—the old man scowled fiercely and bellowed, yet he didn't shove away those who approached. From the murmurs of onlookers, the boy pieced it together: the man was a mage. Not just any mage, but a Grand Archmage, one of the handful who stood above all others in the world, beyond even the Claire Empire's borders. The boy couldn't have cared less. All he wondered was how to score a piece of bread—or maybe a handful of pity. Titles like "Grand Archmage" meant nothing when your stomach was gnawing itself raw.
As the crowd dispersed, the boy stepped forward. "Elder... please, just help me once..."
Blamia Dranus eyed the boy who had suddenly appeared before him. Sudden wasn't the right word, though. A man who could sense a neighboring kingdom's king from this very spot wouldn't have missed the boy lurking nearby all along. What piqued Blamia's interest wasn't anything grand. It was simply that this milk-toothed brat stood boldly before him without flinching. Beggars were a dime a dozen in a world where magic widened the gulf between rich and poor. But none matched this boy's detachment. Their desperation showed in cringing servility that tugged at the heartstrings. To a Grand Archmage like Blamia, who saw through to the core, it was just a mask. No primal quiver in the voice, no sloppy pleading for pity. Too neat, almost like an act. The kid knew his place and how to play it. Unnatural for his age.
"Interesting."
"Pardon...?"
"How old are you, brat?"
"Nine..."
"Lie, and you're gone."
"Eleven."
Eleven. Not bad. His precious granddaughter had been whining about wanting a friend, and the ages matched. Trying to fool him was cheeky, but kids that age drew sympathy easier, so he'd let it slide.
"Fine then. That wild girl's been griping about every noble kid under the sun, giving me headaches. Serve under me, brat. I'll see you fed and sheltered proper."
Hiring a roadside urchin on a whim looked odd, no doubt. Blamia didn't care. He'd met every sort in his time—from beggars to imperial kin—and they were all the same. He just hoped this one would click with his granddaughter.
"Brat. What's your name?"
"..."
No answer. He'd forgotten to ask properly.
"...I don't have one."
"None?"
"I think I did once, but no one's ever called me by it. Forgot it all when Mother abandoned me."
"Hm..."
The boy hurried to trail Blamia at a beckoning gesture. Blamia stroked his grizzled beard, scratching his chin.
"Kalen."
He felt no pity for the boy's tale, but everyone needed a name to be called by. That was Blamia's thought on it.
"From now on, you're Kalen."
"Yes."
And so, the boy met his benefactor on that street corner.
A Grand Archmage. Even scraping to survive, Kalen knew the weight of that title. Their inner worlds so vast they sometimes wielded more power than kings in war-torn lands. Only three in the entire world. One holed up researching magic, another vanished without a trace. Blamia alone was a familiar name to the public. People pictured such figures in opulent mansions, waited on by hordes of servants, breakfasts costing a common family's monthly wage. Kalen had imagined the same—until Blamia led him to a sturdy cabin in a quiet spot and called it home.
"Grandpa!"
"Aye."
Just the old man and his granddaughter in the cabin. Modest, even shabby, for a man of Blamia's renown.
"Who's that?"
"Watch your mouth, brat. 'Who's that' to a person? I went and fetched you a friend."
"Oh."
The girl with blue hair neatly braided to one side jumped in surprise, pointing past Blamia. Kalen stood frozen, awkwardly self-conscious. She approached him cautiously and apologized.
"Sorry..."
"...It's fine."
"Huh? Pfft! Friends don't use formal speech. Dummy."
She covered her mouth, giggling exaggeratedly. Something about her felt detached from reality, a touch otherworldly.
"Ugh... you stink..."
Her nose wrinkled as she pinched it and shook her head. Only then did Kalen take stock of his filthy state.
"Wash up first. Bathroom's that way."
Blamia pointed, urging him along. For the first time, a pretty girl his age. Kalen, who'd never felt shame in his reflection, ducked his head and hurried off.
Taken on as a servant, he naturally did servant's work. But Kalen had no formal training. Folding sheets, laundry, odd chores. He even learned some from Blamia's granddaughter. Quick on the uptake, though—he mastered anything after one go. Once settled into the routine, he had time to observe his surroundings.
"So... it's like, wham! From there."
"Grandpa..."
"Aigoo, frustrating!"
Blamia taught magic to his granddaughter, Sinat. Their talk flew over Kalen's head with unfamiliar terms, illusions blooming in every color from their hands. But it didn't click for her. Sinat strained with effort, yet Blamia thumped his chest in exasperation.
"I didn't tell you to conjure a Mental Image! Months on basic spells—what's the holdup, you brat? And you're my blood!"
"Hmph... Grandpa's explanations are too hard! Always 'wham! Wham! Pffft~!' So abstract!"
"That's the precise way to put it..."
"Don't care! Gonna play with Kal!"
Always the same. Exhausted from lessons, Sinat fled to Kalen; Blamia tsked in disapproval and called it quits. Watching, Kalen couldn't help thinking: talent and teaching were separate beasts. Even he, clueless about magic, sensed Blamia's lessons skewed abstract. Realizing it himself? That'd be tougher for the old man.
"Kal~!"
"...Yes, miss."
"Argh, seriously. Fix that formal talk. How long you gonna stay so stiff?"
"I'll... try later."
Kal was Sinat's nickname for him. She said nicknames built affection faster. And sure enough, she warmed to him quick. From her side, at least. To Kalen, Blamia was a savior who'd plucked a nameless beggar from the gutters, fed and sheltered him. Natural to treat his granddaughter as "miss." Her casual approaches always left him flustered. A name was just a name since he'd had none—but this closeness after barely a week? He wondered sometimes.
"Hmph... complains about every noble I fetch, but clings to this one."
Blamia's offhand mutter drew Sinat's instant retort.
"I hate the ones who lord it up 'cause they're nobles. All the same, every one. Bragging about their amazing parents, scheming how to butter up Grandpa through me."
Kalen listened quietly beside her.
"Hate it all. Like I care about parents when I got none. If you're my friend, focus on me, not Grandpa."
Sinat lived alone with Blamia. She adored him, sure, but Kalen had been here a week now. An eleven-year-old girl wouldn't miss her parents. Even if Grandpa played father well, he wasn't Mom and Dad.
Kalen was sharp, quick to learn jobs—and people. He could guess why she loathed those boastful noble kids.
"Like Kal."
As he pondered her family's tragedy, a fresh girlish scent tickled his nose.
"Right?"
"...Yes."
"Ugh, boring!"
Always formal, never chiming in enthusiastically. Just listening to her vent. What fit her ideal? Kalen couldn't fathom it.