Arthur finished eating and then went to his room, bouncing with joy as he imagined himself riding atop a valiant warhorse—ready to charge across battlefields and defend his kingdom.
Little Arthur arrived in his room, placed his two trusty toys on the shelf, selected one of the many fantasy books that lined his collection, and then spent hours completely absorbed in reading until he eventually fell asleep.
The sunlight awakened him, accompanied by the gentle sound of his aunt's voice. Arthur slowly opened his eyes, sweeping away the darkness from his eyelids to see a beautiful woman before him.
Her hair was long—not as blonde as that of her sister or his mother, yet not as dark as Arthur's. Her delicate, relaxed blue eyes looked at him with warmth as she gently caressed his head in her lap.
"Good morning, my little sunshine. It's time to get up and shine again," she said in a melodious, warm tone.
Arthur looked intently at his lovely aunt and returned a smile just as warm.
"Hello, Aunt Sunny. Good morning."
Sonia Bladefield—this beautiful and kind woman—was the only relative brave enough to take Arthur in after his parents passed away.
She always cared for him whenever she could, spending time with him as much as possible even though things had been a bit rough lately; still, she continued to strive to care for and keep the family together.
Arthur loved her too, as much as she loved him. He considered her his second mother, despite the little time they spent together.
She took the little one to the kitchen, carried him in her arms, and seated him in a chair, all the while giving him another gentle, warm smile.
Then she went about preparing breakfast. Arthur watched her chop the ingredients, noticing the types of cuts she used and the order in which she added them to the pan.
He studied the way she stirred the food, when she added the main ingredient, and how she used it to wrap the seasonings and give the dish even more flavor.
With a loud "Thump!" Sunny set a ceramic plate with a rice omelet in front of him. Since she was going to be working late, perhaps Arthur would try making the same dish later that afternoon.
"Hey, woman, serve me too!"
A hoarse, worn voice alerted Arthur to the presence of his uncle, who was sitting on the living room sofa. Although the little one wasn't near him, he could still smell the strong odor of alcohol emanating from the man.
Ever since he'd been fired several weeks ago, his uncle had been down on his luck—and the decline in his appearance and mental health showed no sign of stopping.
"Serve me the food!" he shouted, "this man is hungry!"
"Yes, I'm coming, dear," she replied, as if completely ignoring the state her husband was in.
Quickly, she served the omelet, placing it on the coffee table in front of the sofa where the drunken man lay.
Once Arthur finished breakfast, his aunt got dressed for work.
"I've got to go now, my little sunshine," she said affectionately to Arthur. "I'll be back as early as I can."
It was a promise worn thin by both of them. Arthur knew it was very likely that she would have to stay for extra hours.
Since his uncle lost his job, she had been the one keeping the family together.
"I'm going to see if I can get a job today…" the man said as he got up from the sofa and staggered off.
Arthur watched him pick up his wallet from the dining table, turn his back, and walk with trembling legs toward the front door.
He opened the front door and, with a hearty tug, left the house.
He hadn't changed out of the work uniform he'd been wearing for two weeks, he hadn't bathed to rid himself of the smell of alcohol, nor had he combed his hair or put on any cologne.
It was clear that his uncle was up to other things instead of looking for work—and Arthur, being just a child, could only imagine so much.
Arthur glanced at the clock hanging from the dining room ceiling.
"6:37 a.m." he thought to himself.
It was still early, but he had to hurry. He rushed into the bathroom, where the tub was already filled with hot water. After enjoying a very pleasant bath, he dried himself off and wrapped his towel around his waist so as not to be completely bare.
He then walked over to the sink, grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, and brushed his teeth with vigor. Once they were gleaming and clean, Arthur wandered through the house in his towel, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and changed into his school uniform in his room.
He packed his notebooks and his two treasured toys into his backpack, put on his shoes, and left through the front door with the house keys his aunt had given him.
School was a magical place for Arthur. There, he could use the construction paper provided by his teachers to draw and entertain himself for a while before class started.
Despite not having any friends, Arthur did not seem like an odd or unmotivated child as he really was. In fact, he was a brilliant student—earning good grades in class—and he also enjoyed physical education and the midday lunch.
The teachers still wondered why he didn't have any friends. But since it didn't seem to cause the boy any distress, they didn't press the issue.
Everyone knew Arthur's family was in a difficult situation, and they didn't want to burden his caregiver with problems that might naturally resolve over time.
Even so, the situation was concerning.
Days passed in the same monotonous routine as always. Arthur woke up, spent the little time he had with his aunt; his uncle never seemed to get a job and continued to get drunk, and he went from home to school, from school to playing with his toys in the park, and from the park back home.
Until one day, something happened.
It was early in the morning, nearly at the start of the first class, when the assistant principal—a woman nearing forty—entered the classroom with a man whose appearance and bearing were unusual for the children; in general, he was a stranger.
"Since Mr. Julio retired last week, Mr. Carls will be your new teacher in the classroom. Please welcome Mr. Carls."
"Hello, Mr. Carls," the children said in unison.
"Hello, kids. My name is Carls Kingsfield. I'll be your new Spanish and math teacher. I'll be taking care of you from now on, and I hope you'll like me," he said while giving the children a wide smile.
Over the next few days, Mr. Carls quickly bonded with the students, building warmth and affection in his relationships. There was something about him that made him stand out among other teachers—something that made it easier for the students to open up.
Perhaps it was his gentle demeanor, his calm and relaxed gaze, his kind and broad smile, or the way he expressed himself and cared for his students. Arthur thought that overall, it was because he seemed like a really cool guy—and also because he was younger than the other teachers.
Indeed, Carls was young—he was 21 years old, no more and no less.
Despite his short, stubbly beard and his long hair tied back in a short ponytail—which made him look a bit more worn—Carls acted his age, like a teenager who had just stepped into adulthood.
Unexpectedly, he was also very responsible and warm. His laid-back attitude did not detract from his strong sense of duty and responsibility as a teacher.
As the days went by, Arthur observed the progress of the young adult with his students and his ability to build a healthy, nurturing, and friendly classroom atmosphere.
Arthur respected that about him. It was like witnessing a just leader with his very own eyes, and the child, despite his young age, appreciated it immensely.
One day, Carls approached Arthur while he was sitting in the corner of the emergency stairway—his usual spot for drawing during recess.
"Hey, Art!" he said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
"AAAAAHHHHH!!!" Arthur screamed in surprise and fright. He hadn't expected anyone to approach him—much less in a spot where no one ever came during the day.
"Whoa, whoa," said Carls as he cautiously stepped back, waving his hands to calm the child. "Easy there, kid—I'm not a ghost."
Arthur looked at him anxiously, clinging like a cat to the metal rails of the staircase. Then he realized who was speaking to him and gradually calmed down.
"Mr. Carls—"
"Call me Carls," the young teacher interrupted.
"Mr. Carls, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Did you need something from me?"
Carls raised an eyebrow at the way the little one had addressed him—it was clearly too formal. But he decided not to correct the boy any further, as that might come off as too heavy-handed.
"Nothing…" he said as he sat down next to the child, offering him a gentle look accompanied by his most casual smile. "I just wanted to see what the mysterious student who always sits in the corner of the classroom was doing. I've never seen you talk to anyone, so I was curious."
Arthur continued drawing on his construction paper.
"I don't have any friends," he admitted without shame. "No one has spoken to me in the three years I've been at this school."
Carls shifted his gaze toward the poster board where Arthur was drawing. He saw a drawing of a normal child—with some annotated anatomical details—so it wasn't entirely deformed; it showed the technique of someone who had just begun to learn how to draw seriously.
"Wow. You draw?" he said while carefully examining Arthur's lines.
"Yes. Just to pass the time."
"And who are those you're drawing?" he asked, watching Arthur trace gray on the armor of a valiant knight and sketch the first washes of blue on the dress of a delicate princess.
"They are Sir Ballista and Lady Leiana. One is an ex-knight, and the other is a princess who defeated the dragon that had once held her captive."
"Wow, incredible," Carls said with fascination. "And how did that happen?"
Arthur stopped drawing for a moment. For the first time during their conversation, he looked directly at Carls with his bright blue eyes filled with emotion.
"Are you interested in fantasy?!" he cried out with rising excitement.
"Of course—I used to write a novel when I was in college. Now I'm writing a new one."
Arthur's heart skipped a beat; it seemed to leap with excitement.
"You wrote a fantasy novel?!"
"Yes, I even managed to publish it," said Carls with pride, crossing his arms and snorting lightly.
"Tell me, what is it called?" asked Arthur as he leaned in almost unwittingly close to Carls, his eyes shining with excitement.
Carls raised his hands to request some personal space, and once the young boy stepped back, he offered him a smile.
"Well, if you're that curious, I suppose I'll tell you," he said in a slightly embarrassed tone as he scratched his cheek. "It's called The King of the World."
Arthur almost fainted. He recoiled, leaning back against the stairs, staring dumbfounded up at the sky.
"Hey, kid, are you alright?" Carls asked, concerned.
"The... King... of... the... World," Arthur murmured to himself.
"Arthur?"
"THE KING OF THIS WORLD!!!!" he shouted, almost as if he were going to kill someone, and with a sudden leap, he jumped from the step onto the metal platform before him—bouncing with even more excitement.
Carls first looked startled by the child's reaction, then at him in confusion. He couldn't quite tell what to make of it.
Was it mockery? Anger? Or pure excitement?
It was hard to read, but Carls leaned toward the third option and burst out laughing.
"Ha ha ha ha. Oh, Arthur—what kind of reaction is that? Ha ha ha!"
Arthur quickly closed the gap between them. It was almost shocking to Carls to see that, in the blink of an eye, the little boy was standing right before him, his eyes sparkling with emotion.
But it was inevitable. That was Arthur's favorite novel—the very first one his mother had read to him on those nights he couldn't sleep.
From its plot and characters, he had drawn lessons and values that had defined him as a person, and now the author of that very novel was standing before him.
He felt nothing but deep and profound appreciation and gratitude toward this man, his teacher—Carls Kingsfield.