The restaurant instantly fell silent, not even a whisper heard. Everyone seemed to realize that the unfortunate diner had just uttered something that should not have been said. In unspoken agreement, they all lowered their heads and resumed eating in hushed haste. Just as the tension appeared to dissipate, another guest seemed to recall something and abruptly raised his head.
"Trait? Trait??? Wait a second, didn't the Imperial Army recently crush a rebel force? I think their leader was called Trait."
"What...?!"
Queline, who had only just calmed down, suddenly lit up like lightning in the dark! She yanked back her throwing knife, darted to the speaker in one swift bound, and exclaimed, "What did you just say? That man... his name is Trait?!"
"Y-Yes! It was in the papers not long ago. I believe he was even captured alive and brought back to Windblown Sands three days ago. They locked him in the death row prison, awaiting trial."
The tension in Queline's eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by an uncontrollable excitement. She dashed back to the idiot's table in two quick strides, snatched up her bag containing lecture notes and textbooks, and flung down two sulas. Pointing at the table, she shouted, "Waiter! Another bowl of cold noodles for this young gentleman! My apologies, sir—I've urgent matters and can't accompany you any longer. Once you're done eating, go straight home, understood? Goodbye!"
Was it excitement, or pure impulse? Queline suddenly reached out, pulled the idiot's head into a gentle embrace, and placed a soft kiss on his forehead before hurrying out at a run. The other diners burst into laughter at the sight, then quickly returned to their meals, thankful that the demon queen had taken her leave. As for the idiot...
He simply stayed seated, patiently waiting for that bowl of cold noodles to arrive.
...
From that day on, the idiot never saw Miss Queline again. More accurately, she never returned to class. After spending over a month together, the idiot found it difficult to believe that the teacher, who seemed even poorer than he was, would actually give up her job. It must have truly shaken her to learn that her family's enemy had been captured.
But this had little to do with the idiot. He still wore his heavy shackles and chains, and still swept the streets with his broom day after day. Occasionally, he would receive orders from Headmaster Campa to audit other teachers' classes, diligently studying the written language in hopes of learning to read on his own.
Yet whether by design or mistake, as December arrived and the scorching desert kingdom slipped into winter, he was sent—per instruction—to the central square's martial platform, where he encountered a scene unlike any he had seen before.
"Huh? That brain-damaged prisoner who sweeps the grounds? What's he doing here?"
Until now, the idiot had only observed classes teaching the fundamentals to lower-grade students. But before him now were children of eleven or twelve, learning the art of combat. Each gripped a weapon of some kind, sparring with one another. Upon noticing the idiot, arms wrapped around a loaf of bread, they all stopped and stared in confusion.
"Young Master Dailor, why is he here?"
Dailor, along with Filte and Inslton, were attending this class. Unlike the others, Dailor wore an ornate ancestral sword at his waist and sat with effortless grace upon a chair, observing the training session like a noble at court. As the idiot entered, Filte muttered under his breath.
The idiot glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, confirming the location once more... No mistake. This was the place. Then perhaps, he was to serve as the assistant to that teacher who looked like a walking skeleton?
He tucked the note into his clothes and, under the gaze of everyone present, walked step by step to the teacher's side and stood silently.
Dracula's skin-stretched face twisted into a frown of obvious disdain. He snorted, ignoring the vagrant beside him and instead ordered the students to form two orderly lines. Dailor smirked coldly, rose with languid confidence, and assumed his place at the front of the left line.
"Gentlemen, your warm-up should be complete by now. I am your combat instructor. Today, I shall teach you advanced techniques in warfare. You are the future pillars of our nation, the pride of the Empire. You must grow strong—so strong that no one can ever bring you to your knees!"
He raised his crimson cane high, then slammed it against the ground with a resounding thud. At his command, the students sat down in place, ready to listen.
"You—get away from me."
He jabbed the idiot's shoulder with the gem-encrusted cane, looking down at him with eyes full of scorn.
"Heh heh heh, that idiot really doesn't know his place. Teacher Dracula is a notorious aristocrat. He scoffs at barons and viscounts alike—what chance does a beggar stand?" someone snickered among the students.
The idiot bowed his head in silence and stepped back, standing outside the group. Overhead, the sky had turned a dull gray. Thin snowflakes began to dance on the wind, drifting gently to the ground.
Dracula withdrew his cane and never spared the idiot another glance. After a soft cough, he began his lecture: "Gentlemen, are you familiar with the names of the strength levels?"
His question gave the students pause. Many knew the answer, but under Dracula's gaze, no one dared speak hastily.
Dailor sneered faintly. He extended his hand, allowing a delicate snowflake to settle on his palm, and replied in a clear voice—
"Forging the Body. Igniting the Skill. Tempering the Heart. Refining the Spirit. Grinding the Bone. Sharpening the Intent. Burning the Soul. These are the seven tiers."
Dracula nodded—not for the knowledge itself, but for the youth's courage in speaking out before the group, a quality of leadership he respected.
"Very well. Then tell me, Mr. Goodse—what stage have you reached?"
From afar, the idiot caught every word. Cradling his sleeping loaf, he lowered his head as snowflakes settled quietly upon his hair and shoulders.
Dailor rose to his feet, lips curled in a proud sneer. "I have attained mid-level Igniting the Skill."
"Impressive. Now tell the class—if one begins training at the age of five, how long does it usually take to reach mid-level Igniting?"
"With royal tutelage and excellent instructors, one might reach it by age fourteen. For the duller among us, it may take over twenty years. And the truly hopeless may never advance beyond that."
"And you? How long did it take you?"
Hands clasped behind his back, Dailor looked down on his peers with arrogance in his eyes. "I began fencing at seven. It's been only four years."
Gasps echoed among the students. The idiot slowly raised his head, and by sheer coincidence, his gaze met Dailor's.
"Hmph."
Dailor scoffed once more and turned back to Dracula.
Dracula drove his cane into the ground and motioned for two students to retrieve an iron crate from the edge of the square. The boys rushed over, only to recoil in surprise at the contents. Together they heaved it back with great effort, their faces strained.
From within the crate, Dracula pulled out a clinking, heavy object. Upon seeing it, not only the students but even the idiot was startled. The chains, linked by iron cuffs, were unmistakable—exact replicas of the ones he wore himself.
"As soldiers, you must always be ready to fight at a moment's notice. But the world is rarely that simple. You will face obstacles that hinder your strength. Overcoming them to seize victory—that is today's lesson."
With a casual flick, Dracula tossed the chains toward Dailor. To others, the action might have seemed insignificant—but to the idiot, it was jaw-dropping. Having borne those very chains, he knew their terrible weight. Though they no longer hindered his movement, he was acutely aware of the strength needed to hold them apart.
And yet... Dracula had flung them as though they were feathers... toward someone only a year older than him?
What happened next stunned him even further. Dailor did not flinch. With a relaxed gesture, he raised his left hand—and caught the shackles effortlessly.
So strong. His raw strength alone was likely ten times that of the idiot.
Dailor sneered as he clasped the shackles around his own wrists. Dracula began distributing the restraints to every student, instructing them to bind both hands and feet. Some fumbled, their movements hindered—but none collapsed beneath the weight, as the idiot had when he first wore them.
...Campa was right. Everyone here could do it... It wasn't just talk...
The idiot bowed his head in shame, mortified that he had once dared boast of killing Queline's enemy. That had been sheer madness. Just look—if even someone at the "Igniting the Skill" level could possess such overwhelming strength... then how terrifying must a man at "Refining the Spirit" be?
Trait... How powerful are you really?