The Father Who Hates Me -4-

In the dim office, Rowen Histania rubbed his temples, lost in deepening thought.

"Annoying...."

Hanna's defiance was one thing. That insolent redhead was another. No one was telling him his choices were right.

Rowen, who had raised three children without ever doubting his parenting methods, found himself unusually tangled in complex thoughts this time.

"Haa..."

Sitting at his desk in the office, Rowen poured liquor into an empty glass and let out a deep sigh. His mind was racing. Could it be that he, who had only ever chased the sword, was lacking as a father? He thought he'd done his best. But every time the image of his wounded youngest daughter's face surfaced in his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that his upbringing had been wrong.

He felt frustrated with Hanna for not following his efforts to guide her to a better path. If she just gave up the sword, he could do anything for her. Funding for a business. Connections for politics. The empire's finest bachelor for romance. But Hanna stared only at the sword.

Rowen posed a question to himself. Am I truly a good father?

Malik, successful as a swordsman. His second child, holding the top academy spot for three years with exceptional talent. By those two alone, he considered himself an unqualified success as a father. But Hanna... she'd achieved everything on her own. Before the academy, her talent had been negligible compared to Malik and her sibling. Even if he went back in time, he'd tell her the same thing: put down the sword. Her swordsmanship had stagnated, and no amount of blood, sweat, and tears could reach beyond the level of a third-rate adventurer.

For Hanna, whose only gift was a strong spirit, pushing her toward a career doomed to failure felt impossible as a parent. His own father had done the same. The father who had forged him into the empire's sword through cold-blooded education. Rowen believed that father would say the exact same thing to Hanna.

The father who had raised him with harsh words and discrimination, all for his sake. Rowen had hated that merciless man too. But as an adult, looking at his successful brothers in various fields and his own life, he knew his father hadn't been wrong. Knowing the futile efforts of his brothers, raised under a sword-obsessed father, Rowen had no choice but to be cold to Hanna. Half-hearted success was no path to happiness—only certain success ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was.

For Malik's success. For the Histania glory. And hoping Hanna would quickly find her own path, Rowen had been ruthlessly firm—and he stood by that proudly. He'd knocked down the brother who comforted him after their father's scoldings. He'd disowned the little sister who shared hidden snacks while calling him her proud big brother, all because she lacked sword talent—and he'd thought it natural. So, he saw no fault in telling Hanna to abandon the sword back then. That's how he'd been raised. That's what his father had taught him.

Of course, he hadn't thought highly of his father either. A rogue who ignored family, shouting only "sword, sword." He'd vowed, upon inheriting the family headship, not to become such a patriarch. But now, as a father himself, he was treading the same path. Softer than his father, who cut off all family support for the untalented—but up close, his education wasn't so different.

"I hated it so much back then, yet here I am, doing the exact same thing."

I'm the mad one too.

Unlike his father, he'd poured some affection into raising his children. Unlike the man who severed all aid for the talentless, he'd offered alternatives: learn finance to become a scribe, diplomacy for envoy work, politics for high office. He hadn't said it gently, but Rowen believed he hadn't made wrong choices as a father. Guiding children to true success was a parent's duty and wish. It was just... a bit harsh in the process.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Rowen didn't think he was wrong. He'd been raised rigidly, and his life proved it. For anyone to criticize him, they'd need equal status and achievements—empty words from untried philosophers were just arrogance.

But.

"Father..."

After witnessing his daughter's death, cracks formed in Rowen's heart. Holding Hanna's cold body, unable to speak—he'd seen his own face then. An indescribable deep regret washed over him. He'd thought regret useless... but for the first time, it terrified him.

Thud...!

Rowen slammed the glass onto the desk. The shattered cup in his hand. His swordmaster's flesh ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unscathed, he calmly wiped the fragments with a handkerchief.

"Hanna's puberty is lasting too long... I should have scolded her more harshly."

Rowen still wanted Hanna to abandon the sword. Even with her youngest-ever aura awakening, he feared her risky challenges. He could no longer nitpick her talent—she'd proven his eyes wrong and was illuminating the Histania name across the empire.

But.

"Please... save me..."

The hallucination haunted him, fueling his resolve to make her drop the sword. Thoughts swirled. After the vision, anxiety to stop her reckless pursuits clashed with selfless support for her growth as a father. Either way, the terrified heart that saw her death concluded: she must quit the sword. For her sake. For her safety.

Hallucination or nightmare, he just had to prevent it. Push his stubbornness. Hanna's youthful vigor would keep her charging ahead, risking everything for quick growth, reenacting his nightmare—Rowen was certain. So he hardened his heart even more.

Rowen loved Hanna. Compared to the others, her shortcomings demanded more attention he hadn't given—but he wasn't the heartless parent who'd let her die.

Nodding awkwardly at his desk, he muttered, "Yeah, it's all for Hanna. She'll realize it in time."

Like he had as an adult. With recent academy unrest, now might be perfect timing. Better to compromise with himself than worry endlessly.

Just then—

Creeeak.

A handsome man with refined features opened the office door. Brown hair like Rowen's. Hanna's brother, his son Malik.

Frowning, Rowen said, "Who taught you to barge in without knocking? I certainly didn't."

Malik, entering, gave an awkward smile. "Sorry. I did knock... Didn't realize you didn't hear."

Rowen admitted his lapse. "Must've been focused on work. My apologies."

"No, Father. I'll be more careful."

Malik's face was stiff. Visiting his father felt awkward, private talks unfamiliar. Rowen knew, so he said nothing more.

Exhaling deeply, Malik held up the bottle in his hand. "Father, I brought some fine liquor. Spare a moment?"

It was familiar. Golden brandy in an intricately crafted glass bottle. A label common among nobles. From that famous restaurant—he remembered the name. Forest Friend, with its unique moniker.

Rowen was quietly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pleased by his son's gift. Malik pulled up a chair and sat naturally before him.