"I'm telling you, Nephalem, are you sure about this?"
Lindholm had changed into fresh clothes—naturally, once out of prison, he couldn't just keep wearing his inmate's uniform. He slouches lazily behind Nephalem, slightly hunched, yawning now and then, looking like he had not a shred of energy.
"I'm a convict, you know. A man with a record. A record. Someone like me becoming a teacher at a college—no, at the Royal Academy… Isn't that corrupting the youth? Honestly, I'd suggest you just pay me the salary and let me skip the teaching. That way I won't ruin anyone."
"This is a position I personally fought for, from the principal himself, based on Gin's report," Nephalem sighs. "Don't embarrass me. Rest assured, I've made sure your file is spotless."
"That's not something an imperial official should be saying…"
"Stop pretending to be coy when you're the one getting all the benefits."
The Royal Academy—Eryndor Empire's finest university, one of the top institutions in the entire world. It had five departments: Combat, Magic, Alchemy, Arts, and Social Sciences.
Everyone knows the Alchemy Department is the best on the continent, unmatched in faculty, facilities, students, and academic atmosphere. But compared to it, the Department of Combat is kind of… less refined. Its students are notoriously hot-blooded; fighting is a daily occurrence. Nobody could tell whether they are diligent or just troublemakers. What is certain is that recently, two more instructors had resigned, leaving the department head in a frenzy.
And instructors for the Combat Department aren't easy to come by. This is the gathering place of the fiercest university students in the world. To teach them, one have to be truly capable—exceptionally so.
Lindholm, as fate would have it, is among the strongest alive. Perhaps even… the strongest.
Now, Nephalem is leading him on a campus tour. However, He looks around, a bit dazed.
Damn it, it's only been a few years since I graduated. How has the architecture changed so much? Where even is the Combat Department again?
"Don't tell me you're lost," Lindholm suddenly says. "Don't tell me you actually got lost in your own alma mater?"
"The Royal Academy spans over nine thousand acres. The Alchemy Department builds new structures every year, and the architecture changes constantly. Getting lost here is perfectly normal." Nephalem admits without a shred of shame.
Lindholm glares at him with those dead-fish eyes, sighing. "Talking to you is so boring…"
"Funny, I find you rather entertaining." Nephalem glances around and quickly spots someone to ask for directions. "Hey, go ask her."
"Why me?"
"…Because this is your new workplace, not mine. I only came along to make sure you don't demolish the place. If even asking for directions has to be done for you, should I just collect your salary too? Stop whining and get on with it, you useless layabout!"
Nephalem points toward a pavilion nestled in the Academy's maple grove. Inside, a woman sits sipping tea. At this hour, anyone with time to drink tea there have to be more leisurely than the rushing students. Nephalem, like a considerate mother, had even chosen an approachable target for him.
Completely missing the kindness behind this, the useless layabout Lindholm trudges reluctantly toward the pavilion.
The Academy's red maple forest had been specially cultivated to remain crimson for nine months of the year, its beauty both tragic and resolute. Several pavilions had been built for students to enjoy the view.
Lindholm enters the pavilion and looks at the woman within. From afar she was indistinct, but up close—her features becomes clear.
She looks young, but her aura is not that of a student. Graceful figure, slender build, phoenix eyes with a teasing glint, a beauty mark at her left eye corner. Her features are flawless, hair cascading like silk, smooth as milk chocolate.
She wears a black long dress, holding a black-and-white folding fan. One leg crossed over the other—an inelegant pose, yet somehow elevated into something ethereal by her beauty.
She noticed Lindholm, turns slightly, snaps open her fan with a whoosh, and smiles. "What is it?"
Any ordinary virgin would have blushed under the gaze of such a beauty, but Lindholm doesn't bat an eye. He asks, "Do you know the way to the Department of Combat's administration office? This place is ridiculously big…"
The woman tiltes her chin, answering, "To reach that place… raise your eyes to the tower, walk a hundred steps, divide the civil from the martial, follow the golden seal and purple ribbon, walk where the sunlight does not reach, and you will find your way."
"…?"
What the hell did she just say?
I asked for directions. She answered with… what?
Who am I, where am I, what did I say, and what did she just reply?!
Lindholm stands frozen, unable to advance or retreat.
The woman raises her brow at his silence and chuckles. "Could it be you don't understand me?"
Though Lindholm considers himself a useless layabout, he is not like Nephalem—he'd never admit to being lost. Even though he never went to school, he is a rock star in sophistry. Whenever he loses at cards, he'd slam the deck and argue his way out.
At a moment like this, admit he didn't understand the words? Impossible. A real man never admits he can't.
Keeping his lazy tone, with his expression unchanged, Lindholm says, "Of course I understood. It's perfectly clear."
"If so, then go ahead." The woman doesn't care for his flawless act. She simply shakes her fan and turns away, like an NPC that had already delivered its cryptic clue.
Lindholm returns to Nephalem.
He mostly understands what she had done is to give directions… maybe. But the way she tells has definite antisocial tendencies.
All he could do was sigh: The Royal Academy is full of lunatics.
"Judging by your face, you failed to get directions, didn't you?" Nephalem asks.
Lindholm repeats the woman's words verbatim, then spreads his hands. "Do you get it?"
"Somewhat… though not entirely." Nephalem, well-read and familiar with the Academy, thinks for a moment. "Follow me."
"You're kidding me…" Lindholm half-squints. "If you don't know, just admit it. We can ask someone else. Don't be stubborn. Be like me—real men admit their weaknesses."
Nephalem ignores him. "Raise your eyes to the tower, walk a hundred steps… The Academy only has one tower: the Imperial Mage's Spire. You can see it from anywhere on campus. Let's head that way."
He lifts his head, locates the only hundred-meter structure on campus, and leads the way.
After a hundred steps, they reach a fork.
"Divide the civil from the martial, golden seal and purple ribbon," Nephalem murmurs. "The civil-martial split is clear: one side is Arts, the other Combat. As for golden seal and purple ribbon… well, of all the possible meanings, I know of one that fits."
"Don't try to trick me. I didn't study much, but I'd know." Lindholm squints again.
"This has nothing to do with studying…" Nephalem shakes his head. "Left."
They walk on, reach another fork. Nephalem checks the sun's position, nods, and leads them north.
Lindholm, though curious, keeps a façade of knowing, face taut with an "Ah, of course" expression.
At yet another fork, Nephalem turns southeast without hesitation.
"You seem awfully practiced at this," Lindholm finally says.
"I know her. Not well, but I've heard plenty. People say the Academy has three libraries—one that doesn't move, and two that do. She's one of the moving libraries, an Arts instructor. They say she knows every piece of unnecessary knowledge in the world. Loves to speak in riddles."
"If you knew her, why didn't you ask her yourself?" Lindholm grumbles. "And who's the other moving library?"
"The head of Alchemy. Young, but encyclopedic. Knows all necessary knowledge. Cold and proud, words sharp as ice. Like a block of frozen stone."
"A block of ice, huh…"
"Indeed." Nephalem stops. "Here we are. Though it's changed so much, I barely recognize it."
Lindholm looks up. The building resembles a giant bird's nest, with a few plane trees nearby—though he only guessed at the species.
Inside, a map confirms the location of the Combat Department's office.
Walking the corridors, Lindholm glances through a window at the central arena. Students trained in groups by class, occupying separate sections, each honing their skills.
"How's their level?" Nephalem noticed his gaze. "the Royal Academy students represent the empire's top tier of this generation."
"They're impressive," Lindholm admits. "In raw ability, they'd be elite soldiers in South Aureland."
"And compared to you?"
Lindholm says nothing.
Nephalem doesn't press. They continue until they reach the office. Nephalem knocks.
"Old man, I've come back to see you."
"Then get in here already."
The voice is firm and vigorous. Nephalem push the door open. Lindholm looks inside.
An elderly man sits at the desk, vigorous despite his age, perhaps fifty or sixty, his hair still thick and black.
"Empty-handed, I see," the old man grumbles, disappointed. "Back when you were my student, you'd bring me wine every time. Now that you're head of the POA, you've forgotten your old teacher, huh?"
"What are you saying? I've brought you quite the gift this time." Nephalem steps aside. "Say hello. This is the department head, Ford, my former teacher. As for you… I won't bother introducing."
"I've heard from the principal," Ford says after a pause. "I have no objections to his appointment. With midterms coming, I'm short on instructors."
He pauses again, unashamed to voice his thoughts.
"However, let me be direct. The Royal Academy does have standards for Combat Department instructors. The principal's word can overrule most matters—but in this one, I must confirm for myself. He called you 'a mystery combater I'll never guess', though."
Lindholm glances at Nephalem.
Nephalem translates bluntly:
"He says… he wants to take a beating."