With the crowd rallying behind him, the long-haired boy grew even more brazen. He pointed at Quelin, who stood below with her back to them all, silent and unmoved, and declared loudly, "I remember now! My father once told me—during the rebellion ten years ago, the Runita family was allegedly involved. Although there was no conclusive evidence linking your family to the betrayal, which allowed you to retain your noble title, your lineage plummeted afterward—stripped of lands, robbed of wealth. A fallen noblewoman like you has no right to instruct elites like us! We demand a replacem—"
Whoosh—
"Teacher! …!"
As his words fell, so too did his cascading locks. No one saw it happen, no one felt a thing—only when the moment had passed did they notice Quelin's raised left hand and the gleaming dagger now embedded in the back of the boy's chair.
Golden strands tumbled to the floor in a soft cascade. The boy's complexion paled, his legs quivered. With a loud thump, he collapsed back into his seat. The icy sensation brushing past his cheek was too much to bear—he wet himself in fright.
"You assumed that just because I come from the Literature Division, you could look down on me?"
Her upraised hand opened slowly. With a gentle tug, the knife lodged in the chairback slid free, drawn back by a thin filament, returning neatly into her palm.
"You little whelps, listen to me—and listen well!"
Quelin turned around. Gone was the sleepy, yawning expression from before. In its place was a face pulled taut with severity, eyes fierce and fearsome—like a demon unmasked.
"You think this is the Royal Academy? Let me correct that assumption. What you've all failed to grasp is the true name of this institution—The Royal Academy of Sacred Grace: Military Division. That is the name it bore at its founding. Here, I am your commanding officer—and you are my soldiers! I can berate you, beat you, dock your credits if I so please. If you refuse to obey and cannot endure discipline, the door is always open. Leave."
She paced forward, her voice rising like a storm.
"Each year, several students are expelled from this academy—many with immense potential. Why? Because they disobey orders, act on whims, indulge themselves without restraint. Better to cast out such soldiers before they graduate and become a menace to the nation. Do I make myself clear?!"
"Her title as the Ghost Queen… she lives up to it," muttered Anmie in awe.
Even the fool—usually numb to nuance—was struck speechless by Quelin's sudden transformation.
The Literature Division might be the least combat-oriented of the four great faculties, but that did not mean it was devoid of fighters. After all, this is a military academy. They would never accept students who only knew how to wield pens and paintbrushes.
What followed was a rather straightforward lesson. A single dagger was all it took to quiet the class. Every student promptly returned to their seats to begin the exam. With the disruption handled, Quelin resumed her gentle smile, picked up her chalk, and turned back to instruct the fool.
…
If someone were to ask the fool whether he was content with his current life—chained daily, working twelve hours straight, squeezing in class time as a teaching assistant, and receiving only meals in return—how might he respond?
Very content.
Compared to his former life—constantly skirting death, lips cracked from cold, not even guaranteed a meal—this was paradise.
The new semester had begun. At first, the shackles made movement difficult, and daily life was a bit of a struggle. But over time, he grew accustomed. His limbs moved more freely, and aside from impeding his ability to sprint, the chains no longer truly hindered him.
Oddly enough, whether it was a lack of instructors for outdoor classes or some other reason, nearly every time the fool followed Principal Kampa's directions, he'd find Quelin as the one in charge. Her teaching style, to put it mildly, was brutal. At the slightest displeasure, a flying dagger would land beside a student's ear, scaring them out of their wits. She yawned constantly during lectures and sometimes wouldn't appear until long after the bell—but at the sound of the dismissal chime, she'd vanish faster than any of the students.
Still, her lessons were undeniably effective. From conversations during class, it seemed she had been teaching incoming students since she was sixteen. By all rights, she was brilliant. Yet whenever anyone complimented her intelligence, she'd wave it off with a smile, saying others were more gifted. When asked who she meant, she'd simply laugh bitterly and say, "The little one from my family."
In October's golden embrace, a warm breeze carried the scent of wheat through the open-air classroom—lulling minds to slumber.
Another exam day. After handing out the test papers, Quelin dragged over her chair, laid her head on the desk, and promptly fell asleep. No one knew why she was always so exhausted. But under such "supervision," one had to wonder—how effective could this exam truly be?
The fool leaned against a corner of the blackboard, cradling a now nine-month-old Mianbao in his arms, who was sleeping soundly in the breeze. A book rested in his hands. After reading its final page, he set it down, closed his eyes…
And opened them again.
All the diagrams and inscriptions regarding the First Blade: Elegy emerged before his mind's eye.
"Hmph, think you can comprehend it?" came Anmie's voice, laced with cold mockery.
The fool studied the images one by one, then cleared away all the fancy variations and footwork, leaving only the most fundamental thrusts and formal descriptions before him.
He had watched this clay figurine's demonstration countless times, and even tried to replicate it to attack Anmie—but never to satisfactory effect. Now, once more, he slowed the figure's motions, comparing each to his own. Then, he turned to the notes, searching for answers in the text.
"…"
"Well?" Anmie asked. "Understand any of it or not? If I could read your mind, maybe I'd offer some help."
"…Not exactly," the fool murmured.
"Oh? How so?"
"It says… 'The moment the blade is thrust is not the moment the result is determined. Relax the entire body. Let the mind remain utterly clear. Strike with no reservation.' That's all."
Anmie cracked open a thin slit of her crimson eye, snorting. "How quaint. Such a simple, laughably shallow principle. That's it? No further elaboration?"
The fool shook his head. But then, new text surfaced beneath the original—annotations, perhaps.
"There's more, but it seems to be commentary. I… can't quite decipher it."
The red eye flickered. "In that case, stop training altogether. If you practice it wrong, it'll do more harm than good. Better wait until you fully understand the writing before trying again."
The fool looked down into that blood-red eye—and recalled something the girl in the cave, who had taught him this very sword technique, once said:
"You might not yet understand the true nature of the blade bound to your hand. In the future, its words and its power will test you over and over again. Let me teach you how to control it—and how to make its strength your own."
In that instant, the fool stood. With a flick of his hand, Anmie was once more in his grasp. The students around him were busy whispering, cheating unnoticed. Quelin still lay fast asleep. No one saw what he was about to do.
He took a deep breath. His right foot slid forward, aligning shoulder and sight, mirroring the stance of the clay figure exactly…
"The moment the blade is thrust… is not the moment the result is determined…" What does that mean?
No matter. Set that aside for now.
"Let the mind remain calm. Strike without the slightest reservation…"
All right. Let's try.
The red eye snapped open. Perhaps it understood the fool's intent. Crimson light flared, reflecting off his face. He shut his eyes, steeling his heart, and replayed the clay figure's movements in his mind. Then, he imagined a savage hound lunging toward him—
Step forward—
Strike!
…
…
…
The blade returned, and the fool's right hand withdrew behind him. The dagger slid back into its chain-sheath. He panted, chest heaving, utterly drained—as if he'd sprinted a hundred meters at full speed.
Silence reigned in the classroom. The cheating students and slumbering teacher remained oblivious.
So—was the fool satisfied with his strike? Had he grasped the essence of the First Blade, mastered the inaugural form of the Six Blades?
Huff… huff… huff… huff…
His labored breath and narrowed eyes told the story—
He had not succeeded.
It was a strange feeling. His movements and footwork matched the clay figure perfectly—or so he believed. He had even slowed the figure to match his own speed exactly. And yet… midway through the strike, something had felt wrong. Somehow, the clay figure completed its attack and withdrew first, while his arm had yet to even bend.