He tore at the bindings of the neatly organized books lining the shelves. Left, right; left, right. He pulled volumes with frantic rhythm until they scattered across the table, burying the wood beneath a chaotic spread of open pages.
A dim light glinted off the smooth curves of the wooden centerpiece hanging from the string around his neck.
Where is it?
The stories insisted that the forbidden texts were hidden here, obscured by secret ciphers, waiting for the worthy to decode them.
A week has passed in this library. I haven't attended a single class, yet I've found nothing!
The Academy Requalification Exam was only a week away.
If I don't pass, I'll be expelled before I can accomplish a single thing. But could I do it? Even if I exerted every ounce of my will?
He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the lone book sitting isolated on the table, far from the mess he had created.
A phantom shock pulsed through him. It wasn't a quick strike, but a slow, creeping invasion that saturated every extremity his veins reached. He shuddered as the sensation left him, grounding itself into the floor.
He carried that book everywhere, yet ever since the incident, he could not bring himself to open it. It had taught him everything he knew.
Can I even trust it anymore?
Even now, his mind dissected the dilemma with cold precision: Would the continuance of my obedience to it, or the denial of it, demonstrate a greater level of intelligence?
He arrived at the right answer, though his method was far from intelligent. In the back of his mind, he simply flipped a coin. His terrible luck led the way.
Denial of one's shortcomings is a characteristic of stupidity. I cannot pass the exam as I am. But I can create more time.
He opened the book.
The God of Death grinned its wicked grin. It was a setback, yes, but minor. Death would not have to wait for another vessel to be born. One—this one—had walked willingly into its grasp.
"Cedric Drevayne."
The name hung in the vast, vertical chamber. Two platforms loomed above him, flanked by another two behind them. But it was the platform in the center that dominated the space—shaped like a massive arrowhead, pointed directly at the boy standing below.
Arthur held his head low. On his face, he sculpted a song of sorrow.
"You have received a score of 78 on the second Academy Qualifying Exam," the figure in the center stated.
Who is he?
"It is an insufficient score to maintain your seat in the Honor Class."
Arthur kept his body rigid. Variables had diverted from the plan, but the goal remained within the realm of probability.
"The staff here offer you their condolences," the voice continued, devoid of warmth. "But know that the Academy does not provide special treatment to any student, regardless of circumstance."
In the corner, the righteous lion, Ordain, gnashed his teeth, vibrating with suppressed rage.
"However, as the Head Instructors and… witnesses…" The speaker's eyes flicked toward the lion, acknowledging Ordain's anger for a fleeting second. "…have pointed out, you are hurt. Ahem. From the loss of your brother. And we are partly to blame for that."
Arthur tried to blame them. He felt his blood boil now that he had a clear target, but he withdrew as if he were no more than a spectator in his own life.
Blaming them shifts fault away from me, Arthur reasoned. How pathetic am I, to be unable to take responsibility for my actions? Or is this a false teaching as well?
No. This has to be right. I am to blame.
"The Education Board recognizes how this incident has affected you," the voice intoned. "We will, therefore, grant you an extension before judgment."
Would they do the same if I were not Cedric?
"You will continue with your classes for the coming semester as usual. However, you must retake the Academy Qualifying Test and receive full marks in every category to retain your seat. You have been given more time than anyone else. We expect you to have put that incident behind you by that point. Just like the recent one, blessings will not be a subject of measurement; the time for prospecting potential is long past."
The speaker leaned forward, the arrowhead platform casting a long shadow.
"Further requirements to continue this program include: Attendance in all classes. Unless you are physically injured, you may not miss, or be late, to any class."
"Completion of all assignments, receiving a 95 or above."
"And participation in therapy with your counselor during the evening. Every day."
What?
"That will be all."
The tall wooden doors shut with a careful precision that resulted in a boom of equal volume to a slammed door.
A therapist? I don't need a therapist, Arthur seethed as he walked. There's no way I will ever take the words of someone of lesser intelligence seriously.
He had learned everything about psychology from the book. Attending sessions would only hemorrhage time from his research. He hadn't found any clues yet, but with the extra five months provided by the Board, surely he would make a breakthrough.
I must.
As a group of students approached him in the hall, Arthur applied a gentle smile and executed an immaculate wave of his hand.
Look at how they smile so stupidly, he thought, observing them. They have never treated me like this before. But just because I am a student in the Honor Class, they suddenly see me as human.
What a joke. But I must keep up the image of the Saint—Cedric—to avoid suspicion.
Several others passed. He deceptively offered the exact same greeting, down to the degree of the wave, every single time.
Eventually, for the first time in these false interactions, he felt the slightest release of dopamine and oxytocin. It was a microscopic amount, but for a self-inflicting boy with such limited exposure to happiness, it was enough to stretch his lips into a genuine smile.
Sure enough, it was identical to the fake one he had been using.
But the smile was ineffective against the figure standing ahead. What he received in response was a deadly glare.
It was the glare of an owl staring down the enemy circling it. The glare of a wolf—gone blind—yet still detecting the bear. A glare of disgust and hate that had no regard for manners or civility.
The glare of a man on the brink of insanity.
What is the problem with him? Arthur wondered. Can he not tell me apart from Cedric either?
He had seen Derrick give dirty looks to Honor Class students before, but being on the receiving end was a different data point entirely. It was intense. He was surprised no one had picked a fight with the boy yet.
Could the reason for his anger be because he thinks that I—his friend—died?
Maybe he should reveal his identity. He had taught Derrick all the ways of William Sinclair. Derrick was the only person his age Arthur considered an equal.
I don't think he would betray me, Arthur reasoned.
But what if he does?
He tightened his grip on his strap. I will stay quiet for now. But I swear, Derrick, you will be the first person I tell after I bring Cedric back.