System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 1
“Did you hear? Old Mole’s boy got run down by a horse.”
“Poor kid. If I remember right, he’s only fourteen. He’ll probably be bedridden for life.”
“You’re talking about what happened a few days ago. The new word is, that Roy kid woke up, but his head’s gone funny. Stands out in the yard all day, staring into space.”
A few farmers whispered on the ridge between the fields. Behind them, a broad-shouldered man quietly set down his hoe and clenched his fists, anger and helplessness darkening his face.
He was the Old Mole they were talking about, a lowly dirt farmer like the rest. Half his life spent keeping his head down, tending the land, plain-faced, unskilled, and poor. He was twenty-three when a woman finally agreed to marry him despite everything.
They didn’t have children until he was twenty-five, which in this world was considered late; plenty of people were parents by fifteen or sixteen. Naturally, they doted on the boy, never letting him lift a finger.
Their son, Roy, was gentle and obedient, soft-spoken, always wearing a shy little smile. He was nothing like the rowdy boys who tore around the village all day.
“What a good child...”
At that thought, Old Mole’s heart ached. Good fortune never lasted long. Four days ago, a woman had galloped through the village on horseback and brushed against poor Roy. The boy had collapsed on the spot.
The village’s clumsy herbal doctor found no external wounds. Stranger still, after a day of unconsciousness, the boy woke up naturally—but like a different person. His eyes were blank, his mouth silent. He wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t move, only stood there staring up at the sky.
Like a fool.
Worry gnawed at Old Mole’s chest. Realizing it was getting late, he picked up his hoe and hurried home.
The village houses were all thatch and timber, fragile and crooked, as if one strong gust could tear them apart. The entire place barely had a hundred families. Old Mole’s home stood at the far west edge. It was noon, the sun blazing overhead, and a small figure stood in the yard, gazing straight into that blinding light without blinking—like a puppet stripped of its soul.
In the courtyard, a rough-handed woman was bent over, feeding the chickens.
“Staring at the sun like that, you’ll ruin your eyes! Susan! Didn’t I tell you to watch him? Look at what he’s doing!”
Old Mole burst through the overgrown gate, rushed to his son, and lifted him from the ground, setting him gently on the threshold. He brushed the boy’s cropped hair, and a touch of tenderness softened his sun-baked face.
“Little Roy, listen to your old man. Don’t do anything that foolish again.”
“Hm? Old man...”
Earlier, since waking, Roy hadn’t responded to a single word. But now, a flicker crossed his face, confusion giving way to clarity. His lips parted, forming the faintest murmur.
“Ray ... Roy ... right, my name now is Roy.”
“Did he just talk?”
The father leaned in, heart pounding, as if afraid to believe it.
Finally, he was sure—the son who hadn’t spoken for three days and nights wasn’t mute after all.
“Susan, come quick! He’s talking! Forget the animals, come here!”
At his shout, the woman hurried inside.
They flanked Roy, one on each side, and when they heard him call their names, tears welled up in their eyes.
Roy studied the couple carefully—Old Mole and Susan. Their faces were plain, their clothes woven from coarse linen long past its prime. Their skin was rough, their bodies thin from years of toil. Everything about them spoke of the simple, grounded life of peasants.
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