"Yal!""Yal!"
Robert called again and again, but still there was no reply. It was as though that otherworldly maiden had never truly existed at all—as though she were nothing more than a figment of his own imagination.
Unwilling to accept it, Robert pulled off his glove and studied carefully the hand that had fused with Yal. His left hand… was extraordinary.
The fingers were long and elegant, the bones distinct, the skin at the wrist and fingertips translucent and pale as milk—hands that could almost rival the delicate jade of the Yalan Goddess's statue. Yet the palm was broader, imbued with a certain masculine strength. Someone had once jested with him: gazing only at his wrist and knuckles, one could divine from them an ancient omen—
"Within the palm lies the firmament; with a single thought, one holds the fate of heaven and earth."
But that saying could only hold if one looked at the wrist and fingers alone. Once the palm and back of the hand were revealed, no praise could possibly follow.
For the palm and dorsum of Robert's left hand were a ruin—charred and twisted, with skin blistered and scar tissue rolling over itself, as if seared again and again with a brand of red-hot iron. At first glance it stirred both sorrow and a pang of pity, for the agony of such a wound was beyond the measure of ordinary flesh.
In truth, Robert was fortunate—the injury had been dealt to him as an infant, and he no longer remembered its torment. His father would often recount how, in his mischief, the child had one night crawled from his crib while the servants slept, babbling happily until his tiny hand found the iron stove in the corner. Thus was his left hand burnt into this ghastly claw.
Ever since, ashamed of its appearance, Robert had worn a black fingerless gauntlet to conceal the deformity.
Now, as he turned the hand over and over, his vision began to blur. From morning till now, misfortune had struck him one after another. Outside, he could summon his will and force his spirit to endure, but the moment he returned to the sanctuary of his own bed, weariness surged like the tide, drowning him wave upon wave.
His head lolled, and soon Robert sank into the down of his great feather bed, slipping into dream.
And there, once more, he beheld the enchanting maiden Yal, and again drifted through the starry seas of dream. But the vision soon soured, as hateful images arose: the Accursed Seminary of Emisel—the nightmare itself, that Seminary of Emisel!
When Robert awoke, the world outside was black, and the clock already tolled the small hours of the next day.
A chill struck him. D*mn it! How could I have fallen asleep? He hurried to inspect his left hand again. Yet no matter how he examined it, it was the same ruined claw as ever—scarred and unsightly, showing no trace of fusion with an intelligence divine.
Suddenly a tremor of dread welled within him. Could it be… that the Starry Sea had been but a dream? That Yal herself was nothing more than a vision conjured in his half-conscious delirium—a phantom of beauty who had never truly been?
But if all was illusion, how then had he come to know words like genetic mapping?
Puzzled and confounded, Robert at last struck his forehead with self-mockery. "D*mn it! Yal said it herself—in fusion, my body would manifest changes unlike any mortal's. What am I dithering for? I must examine my body! If changes exist, then she is real. If not, then all was but a dream!"
With that, he leapt from his bed, threw on his cloak, and slipped into the silent training ground in the rear courtyard.
Before a row of heavy stone-weights, Robert drew a deep breath, set his stance, and grasped one by the handle with his left hand. His father, a soldier by trade, had trained him since childhood with military rigor. His body was far from ordinary—ordinarily, Robert could raise a hundred and fifty pounds with one arm.
Tonight, seeking proof of newfound strength, he chose a stone of two hundred pounds, well beyond his usual limit. With a low growl, he strained his arm—and the massive stone slowly rose from the earth.
His heart pounded in his chest, the thrum of a body pushed past its threshold. Unwilling to yield, he bit down, lifted it higher—but then his strength faltered, his arm gave way, and with a heavy crash the weight fell to the ground.
"D*mn it! Not a shred stronger! Was it truly all a dream?" Robert muttered with a bitter laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow.
And as he thought of Yal—peerless in grace, beauty beyond measure, perhaps nothing more than fantasy—an ache of quiet sorrow welled within him, as though he had lost something irreplaceable.
Just then, guards of the lord's estate, roused by the echo of stone upon stone, hurried to the training yard. Seeing Robert at his exercises, one of the household retainers stepped forward quickly.
"My lord, you are finally awake. There is a matter most urgent I must report." The man shifted uneasily, voice faltering. "It concerns your studies. Last night, the Seminary sent your examination results. And… well… they are, as always, the same. You did not pass."
Robert waved him off impatiently. "I know. It isn't the first time I've failed!"
The servant grew more hesitant still. "But, my lord, this time is different. Lord Donald, the Headmaster of Emisel Seminary, appended a message to your record. He… he declared that you no longer possess the qualifications to continue at the Seminary. He urges you to withdraw of your own accord."
"What!? That fossil Donald dares expel me!?"
Robert sprang to his feet, pacing the yard with bitter laughter. "Is it truly so serious? Over this?"
The servant watched him circle, thinking to himself, How is it not serious? My poor master—six years you have been enrolled, and those who entered with you are now instructors, while you remain in the first year. And always, always, your report reads the same: Failed.
To expel such a student—was it not only just?
He sighed inwardly, though pity stirred in his heart. To spend six years 'abroad' in the first year—it sounded like a childish jest, yet in truth it was no laughing matter. As one philosopher once said, Robert's plight was the inescapable fate of nobility, the inevitable burden of a society ruled by divine right. That same philosopher was the one who had once read Robert's left hand.
Robert's failures were not for lack of diligence, nor for want of effort, but for a far crueler reason: he was simply born without the gift to wield the power bestowed by the gods.