The world slowed down after that night.
Corvo stopped teasing, stopped suggesting ridiculous names, and stopped showing off his godlike tricks. The farm fell into a gentle rhythm, and for the first time, Ronald felt something close to tranquility.
The mornings began with the soft lowing of the bull and the calm hum of the cow. Dew beaded on the carrot sprouts, and the first rays of sunlight spread across the cornfields like a warm blanket. Ronald stretched, rolled his shoulders, and began his work with a quiet smile.
The bracelet shimmered on his wrist and shifted into a hand-forged axe. The handle gleamed with the faint polish of care, and the edge had been sharpened to a mirror finish. He raised it and split the next log cleanly, watching the wood fibers part like silk.
Corvo sat nearby, in human form again, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his hand. He didn't speak — not at first. Just watched. The crow god's five-colored eyes softened as he watched the mortal boy — still barely fifteen — working with the quiet intensity of a craftsman years older.
When Ronald moved to the cabin frame, he switched tools. A hand plane, its blade shimmering with faint mana. A wooden mallet, a set of Japanese-style chisels, and a kiguchi-nomi for cutting precise joints. Each movement was deliberate, measured — the memory of old videos and his growing proficiency guiding his hands.
He worked the beams together using a kanawa-tsugi joint for the frame, then a shachi-sen lock for the corners. The joints clicked into place with a satisfying sound — no nails, no glue, only the harmony of wood fitted perfectly together.
His system chimed faintly in his head.
> Carpentry Comprehensive skill has increased.
Joinery technique proficiency: +1%
Cutting efficiency: +1%
He ignored the text and kept working, a small smile forming as the sun climbed higher.
Behind him, the animals helped in their own ways. The bull gently dragged heavy logs with calm strength. The cow carried bundles of grass for bedding. The water-squirrel splashed playfully in the pond as the sheep — Aeris — grazed near the fence, humming in her own quiet way. Even the sunshine-colored dog dozed nearby, one ear twitching at every hammer strike.
Corvo watched it all silently. Sometimes, he'd chuckle softly when Ronald dropped a piece of wood or muttered under his breath, but he never interfered. Instead, he'd wander the fields, talking quietly with the creatures, occasionally sitting under the maple tree to feed crumbs to the land-fish that had learned to flop up for treats.
In the evenings, they'd sit by the fire. No lessons, no divine advice — just food, faint laughter, and the sounds of the night. Corvo, normally so proud and theatrical, would simply listen. He seemed lighter somehow — as if this small, quiet life reminded him of something long forgotten.
One evening, as Ronald smoothed the surface of a new table, Corvo spoke at last.
"You know," he said quietly, "you've got a gift. You don't force things. You let the world breathe around you."
Ronald glanced up from his work, half-smiling. "I just do what feels right." The work gives me a zen like feeling.
Corvo nodded slowly. "That's rarer than you think."
"Not many can be one with nature," He thought to himself.
The crow god leaned back, staring at the stars. No divine aura, no glowing feathers — just a traveler enjoying a calm night.
The bull snorted gently from the barn. The cow stirred and settled again. Aeris's wool shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
And in the corner of the field, the wooden totem stood silent — leaf wings rustling faintly in the night breeze, as if listening to the quiet laughter drifting from the farmhouse.