"You should consider skin care, Lucius."

I nod.

"I've told you about it a few times before, remember?"

I nod again.

"How it helps you look younger, brightens up your skin, and makes you better looking in general."

I give her another nod, swerving with slowed intensity.

"Do you enjoy being an asshole?"

That statement catches my interest. In a bid to answer, I lower my sunglasses and take in her expression. That's Morgana, standing just a metre away, a clipboard in hand. Short auburn hair, pointy ears, and a half-smile, half-I'm going to kill you if you don't answer face that I'm more than used to. Roughly my height and roughly different enough to yours truly to incite more than the occasional argument over mildly petty affairs.

"No, Morgana, unlike some people, inflicting pain does not bring any modicum of pleasure to me."

"Unlike some people, you also seem to lack the ability to respond with a simple yes or no".

"Point taken."

I settle down the latest FULGER 3 Pro tablet in my hand and proceed to get up from my Rantasia Deluxe 3000 massage chair. Then, I stare outside, picking up a cool glass of elderberry lemonade from my glass table (of which brand I'm unaware). Through a combination of the increased elevation from my high-rise skyscraper and a massive window stretching from one end to the other, I can inspect the city with a premier view. Remarkable. A scenery too distinct to be anywhere else but here. Tall skyscrapers, billboards the size of giants advertising capitalistic goods, and a street so packed with people you'd think there was some festival going on on a daily basis.

That's Alpha-One. The number one city on the continent. Population of 33.4 million and home to most of the billionaires on the continent of Aoel. Perfect.

"You still haven't answered me about skincare."

She has an expression that's calmer than before, tempered by time and self-control. But still, the frustration leaks through, and knowing her will continue to do so until I give a good reaction─something conclusive, like the moment when a company signals for bankruptcy and the curtains finally come to a close.

"Well, you see, Morgana, while I have nothing against skincare and do understand its applications, I don't particularly find myself attracted to the concept and doubt my ability to include it into my daily regimen. In addition, I'm already quite handsome enough and have you by my side, who takes care of any makeup, both physical and magical. Whatmore, given my half-elf lineage, age is a prospect I'm more or less unafraid of and very well see a near future of me still looking quite dapper."

My rant ends, and my point comes to a close. The edges of my lips curl upwards in due finality. This is the time for celebration. This is when I stand quite smug and when Morgana nods, walks away, and takes my finished lemonade with her. Or, in other words, complete and utter victory.

Speech has always been my strong suit.

Breaking off from the conversation, I glance at my right wrist and check my ROLEK watch. 13:34, it reads, etched in digital blue light. In other words, time for training. My heart rate rises by a few BPM as I walk to a door on the outer perimeter of my room, prepared. I stop, however, when a shadow casts through the frosted glass of the door before me─arousing some instinctual fear that must’ve belonged to my elvish lineage, seeing as the shape cast bears no shortage of resemblance to a very, very tall tree.

"Master Lucius."

The door slides to the right, propelled by mechanical force.

Here, my butler/tutor/mentor/parental figure stands. Great guy. 1.94 metres tall and thick as a tree stump. Short fire-red hair and beard to match, like one of those old-time heroes from stories. But more than the impeccable pigment of his hair, and his equally impeccable sense of duty, is his sense of fashion, which he more than illustrates through his tight-fitted Viccini white suit, BENTON multi-pocket trousers, and a round almost , nerdish KenToni circular spectacles atop his nose.

Presently, I greet, "Yes, Guillaume?" matching his moss-green eyes with my own.

We engage in a staredown as a consequence. No one motions to speak. Neither of us moves. The air hangs still with tension. Then all of a sudden, he lurches forward, arms open. When I realise what will happen, it's already too late─as all I see before my untimely destruction are two massive arms encircling my sides.

"Lucius!" Guillaume exclaims, holding me in the air like a ragdoll.

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"AeGRgHRHJ". The sound of impending death escapes my lungs. I struggle like a limp fish in his grasp. Two-point five seconds. That's the amount of time I have before suffocation.

Argh.

Guillaume smiles and nods. In acknowledgement, he settles my feet on the floor and pats me on the shoulder. Roughly, I inhale four separate breaths and grasp at my waist, simultaneously exaggerating for painstaking effect and simultaneously genuine.

"Oh, Lucius, it can't be that bad," says Morgana, her head peeking from behind my large hunk of a butler.

"It really is," I tell her. "Anyways". I continue, bringing myself against the wall. "What's the occasion? Strangling a minor is hardly your pastime Guillaume."

After chuckling for a good second, my butler takes it upon himself to wink. When it comes to that expression on Guillaume, one of two outcomes proves possible, being that he either has a very good surprise waiting in secret for me or that he thinks it to be the case (originating from the delusions of an elderly mind). For my sanity, I hope the former, but in this particular case, my instincts warn me otherwise.

"You're going to school."

Huh?

I observe his face from below, looking directly into his nostrils. I feel at once lost in their darkness, trapped within a all-encompassing hair of booger, unkempt hair, and nasal walls. And yet, despite all that, that hellish image proves superior, no, a hundred times more preferable to accepting what he has just told me.

Going to school…

Once a second passes, the weight of his words hits me.

This is when I enter into denial.

“Ah.”

My eyes fixate upon Guillaume with a harsh, immovable stare.

All things considered, it truly is a weird thing for him to request.

Someone like me, someone of this calibre, of this responsibility, going to a school of all things?

I find this all very humorous.

But the humour does little to deny me my present reality. My current emotional state wants to produce laughter in response but is unable to, knowing fully well that Guillaume is serious. Despite that, though, I still make an effort to ask, accepting the near-zero possibility I might be wrong.

"You are serious, right?"

He stares at me, nods, and without hesitation, chuckles again.

I don't want to give up yet, though. The prospect of interacting with hormonal idiots on a day-to-day basis compels me to form a desperate counterargument. Teenagers are moronic. Everyone knows that. And I’ll be damned before I let their moronic tendencies rub off me.

"Guillaume". I declare, shrugging my shoulders and pushing up my glasses. "Certainly, you would understand why such a course of action would be idiotic. Statistically speaking, I'm already more intelligent than 99.9% of people. My knowledge of the arts, sciences and language also extends far beyond what a high school can offer, notwithstanding higher education. And I have a company to run. A business worth trillions in market capitalisation. Do you see the problem?"

His eyes do not waver. No reaction. Not even a wink or a lift of a brow. Same old smile as usual. This is how it is with older people. They always place value on having lived longer over actual raw intelligence. Shame. People like Guillaume are why governments fail.

A small chortle emerges from my left, pitched like the wicked giggle of a stereotypical witch.

"Give up, Lucius," Morgana whispers, an evil look in her eyes. "Forfeit with pride or continue, knowing your words have the same value as shit.”

“Some faeces like guano serve as a valuable fertiliser.”

“The only thing you’re fertilising is your own suffering.”

What misfortune.

Can this be the end of Lucius Mortius? Is this how his intellect is doomed to wither, bound in the fetters of a random teenager’s zesty body spray? I mean, slight exaggeration aside, I can only imagine how awful going to school will be. Imagine sharing a room with someone, a toilet, or a wardrobe. Imagine a particularly awful localisation of diarrhoea, with a potential roommate rendering a pristine white bathroom in shit and dung all over while being all to unwilling to even clean it up…

Urgh.

What if my usual shower of thirteen minutes has to be cut down to six because my roommate is an illiterate smelly monkey? What if. And what if the food is awful? And what if this, what if that, what if whatever. The uncertainty of all those what-ifs is what bothers me, all these boundless possibilities for suffering and little to no pledge of any security whatsoever…

I scowl.

“And when do I start?”

“Two days.”

A figurative brick hits me in my solar plexus.

Two days. Two days. Two days…

I repeat those two words several times in my head within the span of a single second.

Once I finish, something clicks. The gears in my brain begin running, and I process a series of maths to rationalise what ‘two days’ amount to. By the end of 1.3 seconds, my calculations are complete.

Sixty hours. 3600 minutes. 21600 Seconds.

“I refuse.”

Turning around, I walk away, grabbing my tablet.

“Oh, and by the way, make sure the car is ready for my meeting with Alstron’s CEO in-”

In a split second, my butler, Guillaume, is within view. Out of the side of my eye, I see a blur of white, and the next second, I understand.

Fuck─

A blunt force impacts my handsome face. I am cut mid-sentence as a fist meets my jaw, throwing me across the room onto my Aodalia MAIDEN HOME sofa. A second later and the pain rushes in, spreading like wildfire beneath my skin. Annoyed, I pull my face backwards out of a pillow and watch my now menace of a butler.