“A few words on your academic journey,” Professor Couren carried on with the lecture, and the students did their best to jot down the main points of his speech.

  “Your curriculum consists of mandatory classes and free electives, the latter of which will be up to your personal choice. The share of electives grows each year as you master the basics and orient towards your future career. In your third year, you will need to choose a topic for your thesis, and your fourth year will be dedicated solely to completing said thesis, alongside workplace training. I would recommend that you start thinking about a suitable focus too early, rather than too late.”

  We had to write up a damn thesis too? What a pain.

  “That said, the importance of your freshman year cannot be overstated. It is expected that you already have a solid grasp of the fundamentals, since you passed the entrance exam and were admitted. The early lectures will cover basic topics that are familiar to most of you, to ensure everyone is on the same page, but the pace will be cruelly fast. Failure to pay attention at the beginning may leave you in great trouble in your senior years. If there’s anything you don’t understand, be sure to ask for clarification. You are not expected to know everything on your first year. However, from the second year on, a solid grasp of the essentials will be demanded, and you may find your questions are not so readily answered anymore.”

  The man who had taught me that silence was golden now encouraged a room full of clueless youths to bravely speak up? It was so surreal I thought my brain would cramp.

  Of course, nobody could express themselves freely at work. No organization could function effectively unless all its members were committed to their role, army as the most extreme example. But how much of the High Mage Couren I used to know was his real self, and how much was just a role? Or was his Professor alter ego here the act, and the merciless war machine had been his truest self? Who was fooled? Me or these novices?

  No, what did it matter? Now was not the time to be lost in the past.

  “Your class activity will also be scored,” the man continued. “Constructive participation will earn you points and improve your grade, whereas being inactive, absent, or causing disruptions will take it down. If your cumulative point total for a course drops to minus thirty or below, you will fail the course. Fail two courses and you will be expelled. Belmesion is an elite academy, and students who show no appropriate motivation have no place here.”

  Now that sounded more like him.

  “Be punctual. If you arrive in class after your teacher, you will be marked as late and lose five points. If you arrive more than ten minutes late, you will be marked as absent and lose ten points. If you exceed three absences without a valid reason, you will be expelled.”

  “Three absences for that one course?” someone asked.

  “No, in total over four years.”

  The sound of the pens turned sharper as everyone tightened their grips. Class B was starting to feel the pressure.

  By 11.45, the dense introductory lecture was done and everyone could breathe again, having survived their first contact to academic life.

  “Before you go, take your electives registration form,” the Professor told us. “Choose your courses only for the coming term and return the form to me by the end of September. Preferably earlier than that. Most elective courses have a capacity limit and work under the ‘first come, first served’-principle. You may not be able to enroll in your preferred course if you’re late to apply. Study the course catalog and select the ones that best benefit your focus. If you wish to learn more about the course contents, consult the organizing staff member directly. That’s all for today. If you have questions about the lectures outside the allotted time, reserve an appointment. Class is dismissed.”

  The former crisp attentiveness of the classroom was replaced by the ruffling and shuffling of bags and papers and many sighs, some relieved, some demoralized. Sitting in the far back, I had to wait for the others to get out of the way before going to climb down the stepped aisle splitting the seat rows to the front. I was halfway there when Couren, about to leave, suddenly looked up at me and spoke.

  “Ruthford. See me in my office.”

  Without lingering to elaborate, or waiting for a response, the man left striding out the door.

  I watched his back until it disappeared from sight, dumbfounded.

  What? Why? Even him acknowledging I existed was a security risk. Not all the students had left and they were giving me perplexed looks, trying to guess what the Professor could have to say to a random new girl and if I was in trouble. Or, could it be that we knew each other beforehand? How could that be?

  That impression should've been avoided at all costs. Not the faintest suggestion of it should’ve been given. And he had to know better than that. How did I end up in that man's class, anyway? The headmaster should've known about our history, and it was inconceivable that he could’ve allowed this by accident. So was it intentional meddling? For what?

  Couren had no motivation to expose me publicly, having dedicated most of his life and career to protecting the Kingdom. He chose his country over the Art. Not all Mysterium wanted to get involved in the war, and the former High Mage faced a lot of criticism from the community for his participation in Project Far Shore. He was the one who taught me how a mage should be, the very meaning of rationality and principles.

  But maybe he had changed?

  Maybe he was slipping up? His age was catching up to him. Maybe he had started to think less of Calidea, magic and the cosmic order, and more about his personal legacy, as a human being? We did live several years together, went through a lot, good times and bad times, practically breathing in the same rhythm. It wouldn't have been strange to develop emotional attachment.

  Of course, I'd considered that point before.

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  Being exceptionally gifted, I myself was above such worldly ties, my mental control nothing short of absolute. If I decided I didn't want a feeling, it was gone. But I’d also found it was futile to expect the same perfection from others.

  Yes. It wouldn't have been weird if Professor Couren had grown soft after being reacquainted with the easy civilian world and wished to kindle some kind of familial relationship, against better judgment. Maybe he’d come to view me like his own child? Or, who could say, maybe his feelings had even blossomed into romantic love? It went against his own teachings and every industry rule, but he was a mere man; maybe he couldn't help it? His yearning for me drove him to throw common sense to the wind.

  How pathetic you've become, Master! I'd laugh at you if I weren't so disappointed.

  To think there was a time when I saw you as the ideal mage...

  Whatever the case, it was best to set things straight before it could escalate further.

  I left the class and headed upstairs, following the guide placards along the way. Most of the Professor had their private office, reflecting their status and seniority. A plain regular room on the second floor was the best my old mentor had earned so far. I knocked on the door, twice, with weight.

  “Come in,” the voice inside commanded, and I went in.

  The office was high and narrow. Unlike in the lecture hall, the air here was fresh and scentless and light, as if the room had an atmosphere of its own. Colorless magic lamps supported the daylight that couldn't quite reach every corner from the slim window in the back. Not a speck of dust on the shelves or tables. Every book and folder neatly aligned in their places, sorted in alphabetical order. No superfluous objects or arbitrary decorations in sight. No sand on the floor, only a plain, blue-gray carpet.

  I went to stand in front of the desk, where the man already sat in a high, padded chair of glossy leather that was clearly his own acquisition and not the school’s. He was writing something. A letter?

  “You wished to see me, sir,” I said and narrowed my eyes.

  “You're slipping up,” he said, not raising his gaze from the lines nor stopping his pen. “Your intonation in class projected a personal connection. You should control your presentation better. As I feared, the General has been too soft on you. Neglecting your discipline has given you bad habits. Then again, you were always a terrible actress.”

  So he recited, when I was barely through the door.

  What was his deal!?

  “My tone means nothing,” I growled back. “And you thought to fix it by openly calling me out like this? You might as well have used my codename while at it!”

  “There's nothing out of the ordinary about a teacher seeing his student,” he coolly replied. “If anything, pretending you didn’t exist when you're right in front of me would be far more unnatural.”

  “It's unnatural, if there's no reason!”

  “When and how did you arrive at such a deranged conclusion? Obviously, I do nothing without a reason. Here. Take this.”

  Professor Couren interrupted his writing and took out a small book from his desk drawer. He sent it to my hands with Telekinesis and I caught it, very confused. It was a plain book of dull grayish covers. I examined the front cover, on which was impressed the faint title,

  Comprehending Spatial Magic Vol. I

  “What’s this?” I asked, frowning.

  “It is a book.”

  “I can see that! What I mean is, why are you giving it to me?”

  “Then why didn't you say so? Be more precise. This book is part of a series recording the personal research of a former professor of the academy. I want you to read it.”

  “Once again, what for?”

  “Because the expectations and standards of education should match the pupil. You’re way ahead of most of your peers in theory. It would be a waste of time to have you sit through classes where you learn nothing. So I'm assigning you more advanced topics on the side.”

  “Are you serious?” I gripped the book in my hand, thunderstruck. “You know my being here is only a cover. Why would you give me even more work to do?”

  Couren set his pen carefully aside, crossed his fingers, and looked back at me.

  Even now, after all these years, that unreadable look unnerved me.

  “Isn't this being a cover only your personal idea?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Did anyone ever say you should merely pretend to study? That you won't need to work? That nobody will hold expectations for you, nor consider you accountable? That your future and whatever you do, or wherever you go after this, doesn’t matter?”

  “No, but doesn't it go without saying? What would I do with a degree, when I'm a—”

  “—Whoever or whatever you may be out there, here in Belmesion you are a student. Therefore, as a teacher, I will treat you as one, without making an exception. Anything beyond that is none of my business. That’s all there is to it.”

  “What are you talking about?” I argued, raising my voice. “What are you getting all carried away for with this professor charade? You're only a fake teacher yourself, you damn bomberman!”

  “My license and contract are very much genuine,” he replied, unfazed. “You may inspect them, if you wish. I have been employed based on my personal merits and competence, having gone through the same recruitment process as every other member of the faculty. And I will carry out my work as well as I reasonably can. The same as always.”

  “You…”

  “Then, are there any other questions?”

  I could only stand there, opening and closing my mouth like a fool. Professor Couren picked up his pen again and resumed writing.

  “Let me know when you've finished reading the first volume and I will give you the next. Since this isn’t part of the designated course contents, there is no strict deadline, but do make it before Yuletide. That much should be within your ability.”

  “...”

  “You are dismissed, Ruthford.”

  So I left the office, gripping Comprehending Spatial Magic Vol. I.

  I take back every word I said. That guy has gone insane.