In truth, when Du Wei Rolin first drew breath, no one dared brand him an idiot. For a fleeting moment, he was hailed as a potential prodigy of the Rolin lineage.
Three years prior, his emergence from the countess's womb had jolted the attending maids. He didn't cry, didn't fuss, needed no soothing. His routine outshone an adult's: waking, eating, sleeping—all on a clockwork schedule. Beyond feeding, his lips remained sealed tight, his days spent in silent, wide-eyed staring.
Even bed-wetting was rare. He'd learned to jingle the bell by his cradle, and soon enough, its chime summoned maids with a chamber pot. Such precocity won universal praise: a clever child, surely a future luminary of the Rolin name.
Yet the sheen of "genius" tarnished within six months. He wouldn't speak.
Peers his age babbled—"dada," "mama," "pee"—but Du Wei's mouth might as well have been sealed by a master mage's curse. The countess, parched from ceaseless coaxing, drew no sound from him. A mute might grunt, but this boy was stone-silent, signaling cold, heat, hunger, or need with only that bell.
By three, his golden tongue remained shut. Physicians and famed magicians alike—summoned at great expense—unlocked no mystery. No curse, no cure. Even the countess's optimism crumbled, her sighs heavy with grief: her son was an idiot.
At least he walked, toddling like his peers, a small mercy. But a child who wouldn't cry, laugh, or speak, lost in ceaseless staring—what else could explain it but idiocy?
A month ago, a tempest had raged, thunder splitting the sky, rain lashing like a deluge, the capital's grand canal nearly breaching. Amid the storm, the earl's mansion faced its own upheaval. Little Du Wei, taking advantage of the maids' distraction, crawled from his room into the courtyard, standing dumbly beneath the downpour, gazing skyward. Lightning flared, thunder roared, yet he stood fearless—perhaps too dull to know fear.
Clenching tiny fists, he'd suddenly shrieked at the heavens, a voice silent for three years erupting in mad wails against the storm, rain sluicing over his frail frame. When servants found him, he was a drowned wraith—shivering, pale, lips purple from biting.
The countess, rushing to the scene, fainted outright. Servants scrambled to haul both inside. She awoke soon, clutching her unconscious son, weeping as physicians fumbled with potions and two mages chanted healing spells over him. Yet his body chilled, slipping toward death. Driven mad with desperation, she stormed the Temple of the Goddess of Light, securing a black-robed priest's blessing, then knelt a full night before the goddess's statue, praying without cease.
By dawn, warmth returned to him, his life preserved, though he slept another day and night. The countess, sleepless, held him close, her beauty wasting away in vigil. Then, in slumber, he spoke—murmurs, dreamlike syllables no one grasped, dismissed as the gibberish of an idiot yet to learn words.
But the countess, weeping with joy, leaned close, deciphering a thread amid her tears. Turning to the hushed servants, she whispered, "Is there a 'Mad' among those tending him?"
After puzzled glances, a bold one ventured, "Madam, no one named Mad tends the young master…"
A mansion-wide search unearthed a stable hand named Mad, summoned before her. "My son calls your name in his sleep… Mad… I don't know why, but perhaps it's the Goddess's sign. From today, you'll no longer tend horses but serve at his side."
Mad, overjoyed, leaped from lowly groom to the young master's attendant, a glittering future beckoning. Unbeknownst to the sleeping Du Wei, his outburst—raging at the heavens, drenched in rain—had nearly cost his life. Nor did he know that his unconscious curses of "damn it" had unwittingly blessed another with fortune.
His illness lingered a month, his frail frame weakening further, color returning to his face only after weeks of recovery. Yet, as ever, he spoke not a word upon waking, not even to the "Mad" he'd "named" in his delirium. His days resumed their silent vigil—staring, always staring. Only when maids spoke of his sickness, recounting how the countess had held him tirelessly for two days and nights and knelt a full night before the goddess, did a change flicker: his blank gaze softened with a trace of warmth when it fell upon her.