"...I'm weak."
"You...! Ugh... I have nothing more to say to you..."
"I'm not even at the level of Body Tempering. Taking on a mission would be a death sentence."
Anmie glanced at the iron chains wrapped around Idiot's body and sighed. "Yes, yes, you're weak—truly weak. As far as your 'attack power' goes, you're not even at Body Tempering level."
Rejecting Anmie's suggestion, Idiot turned away. Little Bun clung to his back, her tiny hands gripping the collar of his shirt as if trying to climb onto his shoulders.
"Mmm~ mmph~"
The little one swallowed hard and lifted her foot, reaching toward his shoulder. Idiot grunted but didn't move, letting her climb at will. Unfortunately, the sock-covered foot slipped against his shoulder, and her balance suddenly gave way—she began to slide down.
"Mmm... mm..."
Luckily, her hand never let go of his collar. Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, her small cheek pressed against his. Her feet, suspended in midair, kicked helplessly as she tried to find footing. After several failed attempts, tears welled up in her eyes—she was about to cry.
Her soft pink hair brushed against Idiot's face, and her muffled whimpers echoed in his ear. Her little hands clutched his collar tightly, her smooth cheek rubbed softly against his neck...
"Ahem..."
With a silent sigh, Idiot bent down. Before her feet could fully touch the ground, two hands bound by chains had already lifted her gently, placing her securely on those deceptively small but solid shoulders.
"Mmm... huh?"
Little Bun opened her eyes wide. In her small world, everything suddenly seemed to shrink around her. As Idiot stepped off the bed and carried her toward the window, the starlit sky, filtered through the leaves, appeared once again both dazzling and unfamiliar.
"Wow... Waaah! Waaaah~! Waaaah~!"
Just moments ago, her eyes were brimming with tears. Now they sparkled with joy as she raised her hands toward the twin stars on either side of the Milky Way.
A summer breeze stirred, bringing with it a gentle coolness. The stars shimmered above, their brilliance etched against the canvas of the night sky, forming one of the most breathtaking sights in the world. Her tiny hands reached and reached, but the stars remained far out of grasp. Just as she began to lower them in disappointment...
A large hand gently cradled her head. Rough fingertips stroked her soft hair—warm, comforting.
Green eyes turned downward to gaze at the face she usually had to look up to see. His dark pupils were still as still as ever, devoid of emotion, his expression unreadable. He remained cold, distant.
But the hand on her head was warm. So warm.
"Mmm~"
A soft murmur escaped her lips as her outstretched hands pulled him into an embrace. She leaned her small body against his head, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his dark hair...
Beneath the vast, endless sky of stars.
——
Rip.
A letter slid through the gap beneath the door, interrupting their stargazing. Without a second thought, Idiot set Little Bun down and walked over to retrieve it.
This was no surprise. For the past three months, Principal Campa had been using this method to deliver information about the next day's classes and assigned cleaning routes. Idiot would study the material in advance and sketch out an optimal route through campus—without careful planning, the cleaning zones designated by Campa would never be finished in time.
As always, he returned to the rickety table, pulled out a hand-drawn section of the Sacred Grace map, and began planning.
Rustle. He unfolded the letter. It bore a single line:
Come to the Tower of Radiance to receive your "mission".
——
Idiot stared at the words for a long moment. Anmie glanced over and snorted. "Go on. What's the harm? If you claim you're weak, then a D-Rank mission should be perfect, no? Maybe ask that old man to up the difficulty—make it C-Rank—and find one where I can actually be of 'use'?"
Without replying, Idiot stood still for another thirty seconds, then folded the letter, picked up Little Bun, and stepped out into the starlit night, heading toward the academy's tallest tower.
——
The night was still.
The clinking of chains echoed softly as they tightened and loosened around his limbs. Holding a sleepy Little Bun in his arms, Idiot stepped onto the Tower of Radiance's lift. In the blink of an eye, he arrived at the hallway leading to the principal's office.
Why would Principal Campa give him a mission?
All the way there, Idiot pondered this. He examined his abilities, his relationships—or lack thereof—and any possible societal leverage he might have. Reflecting on the mission explanation from earlier that day, his conclusion was simple:
He had no connections, no influence, no money. He couldn't paint, couldn't play music, had no discernible talents. His strength, compared to his peers—especially within Sacred Grace—was undeniably at the very bottom. What kind of mission could someone like him possibly take on?
Well... probably a D-Rank. One so insignificant, so thankless, so grueling that no one else wanted it.
Oddly, the thought brought him a bit of comfort. Accepting one's place in the hierarchy was essential to survival in this world. If Campa could still find a suitable D-Rank task to let him earn money, that was fortune enough.
Idiot clenched his right hand, stepping forward. Luck like this wouldn't come twice. If Campa had found a task he could complete—he had to finish it. After all...
He turned his head to glance at Little Bun beside him...
He still needed money. To buy Dragonfire Tongue.
Just one more corner and he'd reach Campa's office. Idiot advanced—then suddenly stopped, standing silently in place.
"Dammit, that old geezer's looking down on our big brother Dale on purpose!"
A familiar voice—Inselton's—echoed from around the bend, followed by the sound of four sets of footsteps.
Exiting the office were Dale, Felt, Inselton, and Princess Walnut. The two attendants trailed behind, while Walnut walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Dale. The voice just now had come from Inselton, who waved a piece of paper marked with a bold B, looking thoroughly disgruntled. Felt seemed hesitant, unsure of what to say. Walnut kept trying to ease tensions, while Dale wore a dark expression that suggested he could explode at any moment.
"With my brother's strength, why not give him the rumored S-Rank mission? Even that skull-rank rebel Traitor was taken down by him with ease! Isn't that proof enough? Why? Fatty, tell me why!"
Inselton looked furious, freckles blooming on his flushed face. But a closer look at his eyes revealed he kept sneaking glances at Dale. Clearly, someone like Dale wouldn't voice his frustrations—so Inselton took on the role of mouthpiece, airing every grievance to secure his place beside the noble heir.
Felt, shaken by Inselton's outburst, could only stammer, unable to explain a thing.
Walnut, irritated by the commotion behind her, waved her hand and smiled politely at Dale. "Please don't take it personally, Mr. Goodsay. I'm sure Principal Campa only denied you the S-Rank mission out of concern for your safety. After all, you're the most gifted prodigy the Stag Empire has seen in a century. You must be protected at all costs."
Dale's face remained grim. His pace quickened slightly, placing him a step ahead of Walnut and the others.
Felt, still caught in Inselton's grip, forced a twitchy smile. "But, big brother Dale, it's still a great honor! You're the first lower division student to ever take on a B-Rank mission. Normally only upper-year students have that kind of confidence. You're three years ahead of the curve! And you even took on two!"
Inselton jumped in, shaking the mission report with exaggerated flair. "Exactly! Two years ago, you started off with three C-Rank missions. Last year, you shattered expectations by completing the first-ever B-Rank mission in the lower division. And this year—you're doing two at once! Once you complete them, you'll be the talk of the academy again! If you were to leap straight into an S-Rank and succeed, it would embarrass even the upperclassmen and put that old Campa in an awkward spot!"
Perhaps Inselton's words finally struck the right chord. Dale's tightly drawn features slowly began to ease.