My morning is the same old same old. Shower, skincare, makeup, and everything else. The situation with my roommate, much like my routine, is also the same. That is to say, in the span between yesterday and today, nothing has changed. She obviously doesn’t care for me too much. But, since she wears her heart out on her sleeve, it isn’t a pressing issue. Hard as cooperating with Ceylica is, at least the risks she presents are readily apparent.
It’s like the difference between swallowing labelled poison and unlabelled pills. At least, with that former, you know what you’re getting into.
“Hey, Morgana.”
“Hey, Ode’go.”
On the bright side… Her boyfriend/lover/trophy partner catboy is pretty friendly. He’s been coming here since yesternight, and, insofar, has been nothing but nice. That, and while I’m not as visually engaged in men as Ceylica is, I can at least appreciate having a handsome one in my vicinity. A bit like the appeal of having pretty but pointless furniture. God knows how many Lucius bought of those.
----------------------------------------
I’m now in my first class of the day. Homeroom. The place where we all gather and be nice to each other. Out of all the new students, it seems I was the only one to be put there. No Lucius or any of the other people.
Soon, I flow along the wave of expected curiosities. People come and ask questions. I introduce myself. We engage in the tedium of all social encounters, trading smiles and words.
“Morgana.”
It’s not that I hate it.
“Wait, so are you a mage?”
It’s just that.
“Yeah, I grew up in Alpha-One…”
Well, it’s a bit repetitive… And I’m so familiar with it that it’s become more of a procedural effort than a natural one. Still. Seeing as the students are hardly to blame, I do treat them nicely and do everything as one does.
The rest of the class comes without much to comment. I learn that my teacher is the same man who told us new students to fight each other, that his name is Azama Meyos and that he is a man of very unique characteristics. Particularly that he is fluent in the study of math, assassination, and cosplay. Three very unique hobbies I would never have thought to be said in one breath or belong to one man. Though… As to not do him any injustice. It should be mentioned that he named a good number of miscellaneous interests as well. Only that he paid particular emphasis on the three aforementioned.
In the end, homeroom ended as it began. Like expected. Following in the course of what can only be a very, very normal school. As it is, when things follow expectations, the succeeding event very much follows the same vein. That is. Like expected. Following in the course of what can only be a very, very, very normal school.
“Greetings, everyone, today, I will demonstrate the proper procedure for ritualistic suicide!”
As I said… A very, very normal school.
“Teacher, I-I think your neck is bleeding!”
I sigh and plant my face on my desk.
“Eh.”
Why have I bothered to lie to myself?
Only someone truly insane, or of some great unparalleled genius, may think of this school as normal. Even now, as I diligently toil away in history class, our teacher (who also happens to be Azama) has taken it upon himself to impose his usual eccentricities. As it is, such an imposition involved the careful display of him sitting cross-legged, wearing old robes and having his hand on a knife poised to the neck.
“Now, now, students! May one of you indulge me as to which niche, historically insignificant clan committed suicide like so?”
“Indeeeeeed, I may,” says a nasally male voice, erupting from the back.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Do enlighten me!”
“Ahem. The act of ritualistic suicide was employed firstly by the leader of Clan Krätt, who, upon losing in the Fourty Year War between Criland and the United States of Aeol, decided to, well, kill himself. Which, inspirational as it was to people of old sensibilities, led to the rest of his clan following in his footsteps.”
Azama claps twice, the sound carrying itself through the whole of the lecture hall.
“Excellent explanation, Uku! Now, here’s another question for you students, as a microcosm of cultural difference, how does this show Criland’s differing stance on suicide to that of the US of A?”
As is natural, when asked a question, I find myself engaged in thought. When I mull it over, for just short of a second, though, contention comes to mind.
Does Criland differ on suicide in comparison to the USA?
I mean…
Not to seem reductive, but it would seem most if not all, societies are against suicide. So, chances are, from the point previously insinuated, he’s trying to say people in the USA are less receptive to the idea of suicide. But why?
There is a moment of reflection. The whole of the hall seems to be engrossed in this one question, sharing discussion and whispering theories.
“Well…”
Fundamentally, I’d say cultural norms are usually rooted in some manner of safety. During the Demon Age, it was consensus that demon meat was ‘unholy’, and would lead one to evil. Though, the actual reason was that those without Resolve, often more susceptible to attacks on the soul, would be infected by the miasma in demon meat and suffer problems of health.
Hm…
“Teacher, may I offer my own theory?”
The student from before rises to the occasion yet again, seemingly oblivious to the idea of ‘give another student a chance to shine, you talkative nerd!’ It hasn’t even been three seconds yet, so the defence of saving time barely qualifies, either.
“Go ahead, our young and budding genius!”
In place of rebuke, however, our teacher rallies him on. Pointing to him like some charismatic TV host and drawing attention to his being.
“Indeeeed, if the event spoken of may be understood as a microcosm of cultural difference, then we may extrapolate it to the differentiation of power structures and general stances on death between the two cultures. For one, society in the USA is predicated on the founding mage clans, whose powers primarily lie in the continuation of their bloodline. Consider, then, that the implications of suicide would be far more grim, as suicide would denote not only the end of oneself but the end of generations of culture and knowledge. ”
“Encore!”
The sound of his cheer etches a smile on the dark-skinned boy’s face. Going as far as to stand up, the boy I remember as ‘Uku’ then pushes up the bridge of his glasses, not dissimilar to how one would in a film.
“In addition, it was believed amongst the Crilandese that their patron god would grant them safe passage into the afterlife and hence guarantee some safety of mind. But the solace of an afterlife wouldn’t exist for the USA, as…”
There, he ends. His speech trails off into a sudden decrescendo, and his body, though still firm with conviction, seems to betray some innate uncertainty. Our teacher, none the kinder, refuses to offer respite. Instead, his gaze lingers on the boy, and his smile, under the yellow fluorescent light, now seems a tad cruel, no longer pure in its delight.
“Well, seeing as no one is telling me no, I will continue to explain. The reason Aoelians feared death so much was because of Xicarin.”
If a single moment could encapsulate the infinitesimal frame of existence, wherein solid inflammable material converted to a high-pressure gas and exploded, then this would be it. Even with my Alpha-One sensibilities, foreign as they are, I can tell our local speech-giver made a slight lapse in judgement. That is to say, he probably fucked up…
Royally.
“Scum, how dare you use that word? If you’ve any shred of honour, you will prostrate yourself and beg for forgiveness!”
“No.”
“You dare?!”
“Yes.”
Resilience has its price. Upon Uku’s response, the other boy’s eyes narrow in fury. His mouth then parts to give way to speech, and his hands, nimble as they are, reach into his jacket for what I assume to be a weapon. When less than a second passes, the boy has in his hand a thin black stick, imbued with a yellow gem in the centre, thrust towards Uku.
“Līja!”
Then there comes the sound of lightning. Propagating the air with a subtle crack, it erupts from across the lecture hall, sending its high-pitched whirr to all to bear witness.
“Please do not ask me to prostrate myself again.”
In a moment, it’s clear who won. The spellcaster, now with their body limp on his desk, shivers in unconsciousness. Uku, in the meanwhile, unperturbed as he is, only looks onwards. With my gaze on his face, I see that his black eyes indicate neither joy nor anger. Merely the cold satisfaction of one left in peace, and perhaps, if I’m not reaching, the satisfaction of a job well done.
“Bravo.” Our teacher, who was watching the whole time, starts clapping, his lone claps echoing across the now silent lecture hall.
So ends the ‘excitement’ in my morning class, as no one else seems willing to attack someone mid-lecture nor say any other derogatory term. And so, too, persists a strange atmosphere in the air, where hate and appreciation intertwine, both directed at one boy in particular.