Firearms in a Fantasy World

Chapter 119: Dream

Translator: Cinder Translations

...

"Alan... Alan... It's time to get up..."

A gentle voice echoed in the boy's ears.

"You lazy bones, the sun is already shining on your butt..."

Twelve-year-old Alan rolled over, murmuring, "Mom, let me sleep a little longer..."

"Sigh! I can't do anything with you. Being so fond of sleeping in, no girl will like you in the future."

"Yeah... I know... Mom, just a little longer..." The boy drowsily drifted back into his dreams.

After a while, he felt his mother gently nudging his body, saying with a slightly stern tone, "You really must get up this time!"

Alan reluctantly bid farewell to his dream, opening his eyes to see his mother standing with hands on her hips, a slightly annoyed expression on her face.

He sat up in bed, yawning, "Ah—" covering his mouth with his right hand.

"I know, I know, I'll get up now."

He started dressing slowly, clearly unwilling.

His mother sighed, complaining, "Really, look at little Tom next door, up helping his mom cook as soon as it's light out. How come you love sleeping in so much... wait, what are those bruises?"

Alan suddenly woke up, hurriedly saying, "It's nothing... I accidentally fell down."

But without a word, his mother grabbed his arm, rolling up his undershirt to reveal several bruises on his body.

Her face quickly changed to one of concern, anxiously asking, "What happened... how did you get like this?"

The boy tried to sound indifferent, "Really, it's nothing, Mom. Yesterday, I accidentally tripped and tumbled downhill, and got these bruises."

But his mother could tell if he was lying. She stared into his eyes and asked seriously, "Did you get into another fight?"

"I didn't..." The boy hastily retorted, but meeting his mother's eyes, his voice quickly faded.

He lowered his head, softly admitting, "I'm sorry... Mom, I won't do it again."

His mother looked at Alan, sadness evident in her eyes, not pressing further on why he fought. She knew the reason.

Alan was not only warm-hearted and kind, but also unusually tolerant for his age, rarely getting into conflicts.

Only one thing had ever provoked him to violence—a situation where someone mocked his only close family, his mother standing before him now.

His father had passed away before Alan was born, making him a posthumous child. His mother chose not to remarry, single-handedly raising him despite the gossip that inevitably spread in their small village.

The adults, mindful of neighborly relations, would only whisper such things behind her back, never saying them in front of Alan's mother.

But children playing together had no such reservations. They often shared the "secrets" they overheard from adults.

Not only in secret-sharing moments, but also when children occasionally clashed, they would come up with all sorts of nicknames for each other. When it happened to Alan, names like "illegitimate child" were among the milder ones.

All of this fueled the young boy's anger.

"Didn't you promise me that next time something like this happens, you'll just ignore it and not let yourself get hurt again?" Her eyes moistened, she pleaded once again with her son.