“If it is any consolation, know that all your efforts have gone to waste.”
“Teacher, I believe it’s supposed to be the other way around,” Morgana replies.
“Not in this case. I simply judged that those foolish enough to enlist in this academy must be privy to masochistic virtue and hence, enjoy knowing that they’ve worked for nothing.”
“Ah, I see.”
The exchange between Morgana and the teacher ends thusly. What reason or cause that can be given for it is simple. Lunacy. No other word summarises it. How else would our situation be explained? How else could you potentially justify the physical confrontation that ensued earlier? And much less, then go on to say that it was, oh, just a game, and held no actual bearing on our education and that it was all some crazy contrived method of assessing our personalities by some wackoteacherwithashittybowlcu-
“Boy.” A woman’s harsh tone ends my reverie. The pupils in my eyes shift into focus, then set on whoever spoke it. It is the teacher. To be exact, our actual homeroom instructor. Like Harux, she appears to be a pure elf with pointed ears and a beautiful face. Unlike him, however, she does not withhold from Elvish convention. That is to say, that her clothing and image reveal a portent of dignity. Although long enough to reach her neck, her snow-white hair is well-kept and defined by a shiny, smooth gleam. And her attire, well-fit and clean, befits one of her position.
After our previous ordeal, she was the one to inform us that we would be under her guidance, hence taking us to our current location—a medium-sized classroom lined with characteristic wooden desks. Not before I changed into a new suit of course.
“If you must vent your anger, do so out loud.” She continues, “Distaste is a sentiment best shared with words.”
“Am I right to assume that raising objection will not hold any bearing on my treatment here, then?”
“Yes.”
I, looking to meet her eyes, nod.
“The measure by which our abilities are assessed here has been, so far, left to one’s discretion. It is with that that I asser—”
“That you assert how you’d rather be coddled and fed warm milk?”
A condescending voice interjects from my left. Voice aside, the complete lack of social pretence in their words leads to little doubt as to its origin.
“Soliya.” I grit my teeth. “Seeing that you’re ever so pleased, why don’t you explain how you’d like things to go?”
“With due pleasure!” The Crilandese girl churns laughter, letting it loose in hoarse, rough measure. She then turns to meet me, leaning in closer, leaving barely ten centimetres of distance between our eyes. “To summarise my sentiment thusly. A burden born gladly is no burden at all”.
“Langsyati II”. I state.
“How becoming, Lucius. For one capitalist profiteer to recognise another!”
Traces of laughter, now manifesting in chuckles, come through her throat. By a factor of two, my impatience grows in turn. Suppressing my anger becomes an increasingly more strenuous exercise in self-control by the second.
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Sighing, I say, “The pot calls the kettle black.”
“Indeed!” she accepts with a merry glee. “Though, worry not. For the sake of consensus and your mental health alike, I shall refrain from such further objections on your honour.
“It is not a question of honour but a question of sense.”
“Oh?”
I smile to myself. “As you say, a burden born gladly is no burden at all. And to that end, I am in full consensus. However…
The effects of silence grip the atmosphere temporarily.
“However, you were tied up and forced here by Guillaume and me?”
“Morgana, you bitch”.
Quick to rip at my dignity, the Crilandese girl laughs yet again. Meanwhile, a hushed ‘damn’ followed by a ‘that’s rough’ comes from the boy to my left, perhaps the only one to remotely care for my suffering.
Thankfully, this chicanery does not seem poised to last long. The teacher, who looks ready to make her claim with a snap of a finger, soon opens her mouth to speak.
“Let’s go back to the topic at hand.”
Almost unexpectedly, the commotion silences itself. Despite our inclination towards trouble, it would appear adherence to ‘respecting the teacher’ remains a common moral.
“Boy. You said that you have little idea of how the school functions, correct?”
That would be putting it wrongly. Well, in part. It’s true that I’m out of the loop on the specifics. However, I do have a surface-level awareness of how the academy functions. From the website online, I deduced that it was an ‘elite’ academy of sorts, much in line with other nation-standard schools, composed of a largely magical student body and programs for its cultivation.
Not that this isn’t the case here, but…
How do I put this?
There’s an air of ‘unprofessionalism’ to the place. No. ‘Eccentricity’.
Yes.
That’s how I see it.
The place is run as if dependent on whim and impulse. I understand that too rigorous a system may work against itself, but to employ freedom of this extent? While a large part of me is undoubtedly biased on the basis of chagrin, is it really that much of a stretch to say things are weird here?
Even, Rainee, our supposed headmaster, acts with the decorum of a hormonal teenager.
How does that inspire confidence?
And, to that end, am I wrong?
Is a company not judged by the acts of its CEO?
And in the same vein, is a school not judged by the acts of its headmaster?
“If it’s any consolation, this academy is actually pretty well-off.”
It takes a moment, but I register the meaning behind the teacher’s words.
“Pardon?”
Wasn’t she just lambasting this place a while ago?
“When I spoke of masochistic inclination, I may have been speaking from my own heart rather than with the consideration of you students in mind.”
“I see.”
She interposes herself quickly. “What I mean to say is, don’t worry about it. Things are going to be fine.” The teacher bends down by a few degrees: all the while, the distinct sound of a wooden drawer opening rings. “Here”. Her hand flourishes a quick throwing motion. Five cards, unevenly spaced, then appear on the desk before us.
I study the objects with expected curiosity. The keycards appear to be made of metal and furnished in a dark matte colour. They’re about the size of my hand and around five by eight centimetres. Aligned to the left descends our names, birthdates and room numbers in bone-white text, respectively. Seeing my name labelled in fine print on one of them, I reach out and take it.
“These are your keycards. They store money and open the doors to your respective rooms.” the teacher says procedurally. “Try not to lose them. Though it doesn’t really matter if you do.”
Upon finishing her explanation, the teacher sighs and leans back into her chair. Her eyelids then promptly droop, falling like dropped honey, before shutting themselves completely.
“Go and enjoy your youth while you can.”