in the twilight of yore, a tale woven with much insight spoke of a village, where shovels, not swords, were the instruments of destiny. the jesters would mock, for the journey of a hero did begin from the start, not with grand battles, but with the humble preexpulsive labor of turning earth. among these tillers was found an illegitimate son, whose spirit and toil reshaped not just the land, but the hearts of all, proving that legitimacy is not a birthright, but earned through deeds and the sweat of one's brow.