The Idiot cast a glance at the little girl, but gave no response. He turned his head away and looked at Campa. Only after Principal Campa had taken several photographs did the rotating mirrors finally come to a halt. However, this did not signify the end of the ordeal. Campa instructed the Idiot to place Bread onto several other entirely different machines, each designed for various forms of examination.
During this time, Bread's initial excitement gradually gave way to fear, and fear soon dissolved into tears. She clung tightly to the Idiot's clothes, refusing to let go, and buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly. It took a considerable effort for the Idiot to pry her away and place her back into the machines.
The examinations, lasting a full two hours, passed amidst the girl's quiet weeping. When it was finally over, the little one, exhausted from crying, fell asleep once more in the Idiot's arms. Even in her slumber, her tiny hands remained tightly clenched around his clothing. It was clear—she no longer wished to be "abandoned."
Principal Campa was organizing the collected data, transforming it into various charts and diagrams, and studying each one meticulously. After fifteen minutes, he sighed and looked away from the graphs. The Idiot knew then—he had finished reviewing everything.
"Alright, let's discuss the cause," he said.
"..."
"To be frank, there seem to be numerous reasons this child cannot speak. I'll go through them one by one."
The Idiot nodded silently, settling into a chair with the tear-stained Bread still in his arms.
"First of all, her health. From my observation, she suffered from severe malnutrition and a prolonged high fever shortly after birth, am I right?"
The Idiot thought for a moment and nodded again. When he had first found her, she had indeed been burning with fever for two days and nights. As for malnutrition—there was no need to even discuss it. Life in the sewers, like that of a rat, could hardly provide balanced nourishment. To expect otherwise was a joke.
Seeing he had guessed correctly, Campa shook his head with regret. "A newborn's body is far from fully developed—particularly the muscles of the throat. Malnutrition and illness severely impair the development of the vocal cords. This is the first factor that has led to her current muteness."
"Secondly, I believe psychological trauma plays a role. This child has endured far too many terrors since birth. Don't assume that just because she is small, she doesn't understand. Trauma leaves deeper marks on younger minds. These repeated shocks have hindered the development of the brain regions responsible for speech. Her intelligence remains intact, but her language faculties have been significantly obstructed."
The Idiot agreed silently. The blizzard world was nothing like a greenhouse—danger lurked around every corner, and fear followed close behind. Bread had indeed suffered her share of frights since following him.
...Wait—if that's the case, then doesn't it mean...?
Campa glanced at him. From the faint sorrow in the Idiot's eyes, the old man understood what the boy was thinking. He tapped the armrest of his chair and said—
"And the final, most crucial factor is… education."
The Idiot abruptly lifted his head and stared at Campa.
"Babies don't need to learn to walk—just as fish don't learn to swim, birds don't learn to fly, and fawns don't learn to run. Walking is instinctual to humans. Given time, she would have done it naturally."
"But speech—speech is different. Without guidance, a child may never speak, no matter how much time passes."
"As I mentioned earlier, her vocal cords and the language centers of her brain have suffered damage from various causes. But this damage can be repaired. If those around her engage her in conversation often, she can learn through imitation—watching lips move, mimicking the sounds, grasping the essence of language. However..."
Campa's gaze shifted to the Idiot, who now sat with his head bowed, his eyes hidden behind a curtain of thick black hair.
"The person closest to her—how many words does he speak to her each day? Tell me, Idiot."
The Idiot had always been a man of few words. A life spent in constant danger had not only turned his expression to ice but had also forged a habit of burying every thought deep within. In a world devoid of morals, laws, affection, or friendship—a world ruled only by profit—silence was the best disguise, the most effective armor.
Looking down at the sleeping girl in his arms, the Idiot began to ask himself... how many words had he spoken to her in a day?
A hundred?
Fifty?
Ten?
Five?
...Had he even said three?
In his memory, there were few days when he had spoken more than three sentences to Bread. More often, he could pass entire days in complete silence. That was his habit. The sounds Bread babbled from her little mouth were far more frequent than anything he ever said. To say he had never taught her to speak—would be an understatement.
She cannot speak... because of me...
The Idiot understood now. He saw it clearly. And once the truth had sunk in, he lifted his head and stared at Campa, his eyes locked onto the old man. Though his face remained expressionless, Campa could tell exactly what he was thinking.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker. At this point, it may already be too late. This child may never be able to speak. Unless..."
"..."
"Hmph. Unless you take proper care of her. After all, she is only eighteen months old—still growing. Talk to her more. Let her hear your voice, learn the shape of your words. This won't just teach her how to speak—it will also build her sense of security. She needs to know that as long as you're there, no fear can touch her. Also, though it may not be of great use, you might consider acquiring some rare medicine—something like 'Dragonfire Tongue' to strengthen her throat."
"But I must warn you—Dragonfire Tongue is something prized by opera singers, especially the famous ones. It's exorbitantly expensive. Even the cheapest would cost over a thousand sura. If you can afford it, then go ahead."
And with that, Principal Campa's lecture came to an end. No more, no less. At that moment, the clock struck two.
Campa turned off the machines and opened the door. "You may leave now. Miss Queline requires an assistant for her lesson. Today is the final class of the term—I hope you won't be late."
With those words, Campa departed, brushing off his cloak as he walked out.
As the soft chimes of the clock rang through the air, the Idiot lowered his gaze and silently watched Bread sleeping in his arms. Her tiny hands still gripped his shirt tightly. In her dreams, she smiled faintly, white bubbles forming at the corners of her mouth. The Idiot lifted his hand to gently wipe them away. Feeling his touch, the little girl stretched lazily in her sleep, pouting sweetly—
"Mm~ mm-mm ah~"
...
A thousand sura... for Dragonfire Tongue.
For a sewer rat like him, that sum wasn't even worth contemplating.
During the last class of the term, the Idiot sat on a small stool beside the blackboard, cradling Bread in his arms. Tilting his head, he mulled over the problem before him.
How long would it take to earn one thousand sura? Even selling himself might not suffice. But then again—what if he didn't earn it? What if he stole it? What if he took it?
(Queline: "Class, today marks the final lesson of your first term. So—please, settle down!")
Yes. Theft... robbery... perhaps not such bad options. Windy Sand City was wealthier than Saenag, and its people were far less wary. If he were to act, this would be the place. He should scout out a few well-off households in advance.
(Queline: "Now, let us begin by understanding what a 'task' entails—WHO THREW THAT ERASER? Stand up this instant!")
No, it wouldn't work. A thousand sura was too great a sum. Multiple thefts increased the risk of failure. If caught, he would be executed. And repeated crimes might reveal his methods—he could be tracked down. In that case… fraud might be better. No, no—perhaps stealing a magic crystal card, then tricking the owner into revealing the password. That would be faster.
(Queline: "Listen up! Don't think that just because exams are over, the term is too! Sure, I can't control your credits anymore—but if you don't understand the concept of 'tasks' and come crying to me later, I won't help you!")
No, not safe enough. Fraud would expose his face. For safety, that wouldn't do. He needed a method to seize a large sum in one go—without revealing himself. Yes... get the password, then kill the victim. Dead men tell no tales. Perfect. Now, only two questions remained—how to trick the victim into giving the password, and how to dispose of the body.
(Queline: "Quiet now? Good. Let's continue. A 'task' is—")
(Male Student: "Queen Witch~! We heard you tried to flirt with the heir of the Sett family the other day, only for him to dodge you like the plague—is it true?")(Entire class: "Hahahahaha!")(Snap! The sound of Queline's chalk breaking.)