"What do you think you're doing!"
Suddenly, the waters of the pool parted sharply, and a violent fit of coughing erupted from within. The infant girl lay at the bottom, gasping for air. At the sound of the cry, the mocking sneer on Dailao's face vanished, replaced by a look of disgust. He stepped away from the edge of the pool, and the freckled boy and the fat one who had been holding down the fool released their grip as if burned, quickly retreating.
A slender figure, wreathed in wind and snow, darted toward the pool. His eyes still gleamed crimson, and the chain embedded in his right arm remained unsheathed. Yet none of this mattered to him. Without hesitation, he waded in and lifted the infant from the bottom. Upon confirming she was still crying—frail, but alive—the chain embedded in his arm slowly withdrew, and the red in his eyes gradually faded back to their usual obsidian black.
No one noticed these subtle changes. Even the snowflakes—perhaps mere hallucinations—vanished beneath the blazing summer sun. The three boys stood in a row, and not far from them, an old man approached, his face grave. He wore a pale blue robe and bore a long, streaked beard.
"Good afternoon, Headmaster. What wind has brought you here?"
Dailao was the first to speak, his smile more courteous than respectful. After a perfunctory bow, he straightened again without pause.
The man Dailao had addressed as "Headmaster" did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on the fool, lingering on the thick black chains wrapped around the boy's arm. At that moment, those chains lay dormant and subdued. What was it he sought in their silent presence?
"What brings me here?" the headmaster finally spoke, seemingly to Dailao. "I'm here to prevent a death."
Dailao snorted, the sneer returning to his lips. With a slight nod, he turned, gesturing for the other two to follow. But just before departing, he cast a final, mocking remark over his shoulder:
"Yes, had you arrived even a moment later, you would have found corpses here—a beggar and a babe. What a headache that would be for a venerable headmaster like yourself. But don't take it too seriously. I was only jesting. No need to be so concerned."
He then turned to the fat boy. "Give that fool some money. Let him buy himself food. That's all a fool like him needs anyway, isn't it? Haha. Farewell, Headmaster. Until the new semester."
Dailao had reason for pride. His family was a military powerhouse within the Stag Empire, and he himself was hailed as a once-in-a-generation talent of the combat arts. This so-called headmaster was just that—a headmaster. As the heir to the Dukedom of the Goodsay family, Dailao owed no great deference to such a man.
The trio left.
Only after they were gone did the headmaster's gaze shift from the beggar to the backs of the departing boys. He lingered for a moment, then looked again at the chains around the boy's arm.
"Yes… Had I been any later, death would have come. Dear young master Goodsay…"
…
What followed seemed as natural as the turning of the seasons. The fool unwrapped the infant girl from her soaked swaddling, exposing her cold, wet little body to the sun to dry. Once the fabric and cotton had absorbed the warmth, he gently wrapped her again and held her to his chest, quietly soothing her.
The baby had been sobbing, but as she was cradled once more in the warmth of his arms, her cries faded. Nestled in comfort, she drifted into peaceful sleep. Throughout it all, the headmaster stood silently nearby, observing every motion of the fool.
The sun sank westward. The old headmaster turned and walked deeper into the academy. The fool, still silent, followed him while cradling the baby. Neither of them spoke a word, nor did the distance between them change—it remained constant, as though an invisible ruler measured every step.
Bathed in the golden light of sunset, the fool passed through wide courtyards, down vine-draped colonnades, and corridors lined with portraits. The grandeur and majesty of the Divine Grace Royal Academy revealed itself bit by bit, as though offering just a glimpse of its immensity. Any outsider would have long lost their sense of direction amidst such splendor.
Emerging from a tree-shaded path, they came upon a vast plaza. At its center rose a towering spire of white stone, its elegance and dominance undeniable.
The headmaster entered the tower and pressed a hand to a section of the wall. A hidden elevator appeared. He stepped inside, and without waiting for permission, the fool followed. The old man glanced at the plaque outside—Tower of Glory, No Entry for Unauthorized Persons—but said nothing as he pressed the button.
The elevator ascended. In the cramped space, there were only two people and a sleeping infant. Neither the headmaster nor the beggar spoke, as though each had forgotten the other's presence.
Ding.
They reached the top. The door opened onto a corridor shaped like a square loop. The headmaster walked a few paces, opened a door marked Headmaster's Office, and seated himself behind an ornate desk facing the entrance. His sharp eyes, filled with unreadable depth, fixed on the boy standing silently in the center—holding a baby, a chain still wrapped around his right arm.
"You are not from the Stag Empire. What is your purpose?"
His voice was cold, devoid of warmth or welcome.
The boy lowered his head and looked at the infant. She slept soundly, as though believing she would always be protected by the arms that held her.
Silence filled the room. The fool neither answered nor moved. His expressionless eyes remained fixed on the child in his arms. Only the tick-tock of the clock in the corner broke the stillness.
(It's time…)
He stepped forward and looked at the headmaster. "What is your name?"
"Campa. You may call me Mr. Campa. I was once a physician. Now, I am the headmaster of Divine Grace Royal Academy."
(At last, it ends…)
The ten-year-old lowered his head. For the final time, his forehead gently brushed the baby's sleeping face, feeling her warmth. Then, carefully, he placed the child and a dried letter upon the desk.
(My task… is complete…)
"Her parents asked me to bring her to you. Now, I have done so."
(Take care, little one…)
His hands withdrew. The moment they left the swaddling, a faint tremor passed through his fingertips. It wasn't from the cold. It felt… like something had been lost. A sorrow rose from within, unbidden.
The frail beggar turned away and began to walk. He did not look back. A strange impulse warned him: if he stayed a moment longer, his steps would grow heavier, his heart more unwilling to part…
Headmaster Campa watched the boy leave. He did not stop him. Instead, he opened the letter and began to read, all the while keeping the boy in his peripheral vision. Once he confirmed the beggar had exited the room, Campa quietly pinched the baby's arm with the fingernail of his pinky.
The child woke with a startled cry. And at that very moment, the boy who had just stepped outside froze in place, as though spellbound.
Campa let the girl cry. To him, she was a stranger. Once he had finished reading, he gave a cold snort. Opening his hand, the letter turned to ash in his palm.
"Utter nonsense. They were my students—nothing more. Why should I care for their child?"
With the wails of the baby echoing behind him, Headmaster Campa stood and turned his back to the desk. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he gazed out at every corner of the academy.
"Being hunted, seeking vengeance? In this world, being hunted—or being the hunter—is as common as breathing. To make such a grand affair out of so trivial a matter… It seems they learned nothing in their time here. Died for lack of ability. Serves them right."
There was not a trace of sorrow or sympathy in his voice. He neither mourned his former students nor showed any intention of avenging them. After savoring the view, he ignored the crying child and walked over to a nearby cabinet, took a bottle of wine, and poured himself a glass. Then, retrieving a book from the shelf, he returned to his desk. Just before opening it, he glanced toward the doorway and sneered.
"Hey. You trash. That brat you brought is far too noisy. Take her away. If you don't, I'll toss her down the waste chute."
The boy turned back. Even one as cold as he seemed shaken by Campa's words. He returned to the desk, bowed his head, and gently lifted the child, soothing her.
But after a moment, he raised his eyes to meet the headmaster's.
"Her parents entrusted her to you…"
"There's no need to repeat yourself. It's written clearly in the letter," Campa snapped, cutting him off impatiently. "But their trust is one thing—my acceptance, another. I do not like children, nor do I care to raise one. I am a busy man, with no time to care for a baby. Since they entrusted her to you, why not raise her yourself?"