The Idiot's hands trembled. From his icy expression, it was impossible to tell whether it stemmed from rage or excitement. He stared silently at Kampa, who sat leisurely before him, sipping from a glass of fine wine while flipping through a book, entirely indifferent to the world around him.
There was no room for choice. The Idiot slowly closed his eyes. Then, turning around, he dragged his feet toward the door…
"So, do you think me cruel?"
Principal Kampa lifted his eyes from the book, his tone indifferent as he watched the Idiot's retreating back. The Idiot did not reply. He merely continued forward.
"But I know very well," Kampa continued, "that a beggar like you—who can scarcely feed himself—is utterly incapable of raising a child. This girl is, after all, the daughter of one of my students. If it weren't such a troublesome affair, I would not wish to see her die young. Hm… I have an idea."
He shut the book with a thud, folded his arms, and pronounced his words deliberately:
"I will grant you a place to stay within the academy. There, you may raise her quietly. In return, you shall become a laborer—handling menial tasks I assign. You'll earn your keep through sweat and toil to provide for her. What say you?"
The Idiot halted in his tracks. He turned around, suspicion written plainly in his eyes as he looked at the man across the desk. For once, Kampa did not avert his gaze. He met the Idiot's eyes coolly, waiting.
"…And what do you gain from this?"
No one gives you shelter without reason. No one offers you enough to live without a price. The Idiot had long since learned to mistrust "kindness," to look beyond it for the trap.
"My gain?" Kampa seemed momentarily surprised, then smirked coldly. "As I said, she's the child of my student. That's part of the reason. And as I also said—you'll be a menial worker. Did you think the tasks I give you would be easy? That you'd make money swiftly?"
"No. I'll make sure you do the filthiest, hardest, most thankless jobs. You'll work in squalor, be treated as beneath even the lowest, and earn a wage so meager it borders on mockery. That's the price you'll pay—and the benefit I receive. Now decide. Will you stay? Or will you take that infant and leave this place for good?"
The Idiot adjusted the infant in his arms to make her more comfortable. Faced with Kampa's unvarnished malice, he gave it a moment's thought…
One path led to the streets—to starvation, cold, and death always a breath away.
The other offered grueling labor, humiliation—but also a roof, and work that might keep them both alive.
For the child… which path would be kinder?
"I'll stay."
Without a trace of hesitation, he nodded. Kampa snorted and waved him away. As the Idiot turned to leave, the principal called out again—
"Since you're raising her, don't you want to give her a name?"
The Idiot paused before the door. He looked down at the girl in his arms, recalling the first time he met her—the strange, unexpected bond that had begun with that encounter…
"Bread."
"What?" Kampa blinked, certain he'd misheard.
"Her name is Bread."
(Darkness: Ha! How amusing! What a name! The Idiot and Bread? An idiot needs only bread? Hahahaha!)
Kampa flicked the rim of his wineglass. As the sound rang out, something seemed to dawn on him. He asked once more—
"Very well. But I still need to know—what is your father's name?"
"Bandit."
"…And your mother?"
"Whore."
"And you? What's your name?"
"Idiot."
The door closed behind him. The frail figure disappeared beyond it. And from that moment onward, within the hallowed halls of Holy Grace Royal Academy, among its bright, privileged students, there now existed a girl named Bread… and a boy named Idiot.
———
What makes a house a house? A roof, a door, a wall and a window? Then let's ask it differently: if a house possesses all these, but stands buried among wild weeds and gnarled, neglected trees, its exterior strangled by vines, its roof and walls crumbling and riddled with holes—can it still be called a house?
At dawn, when the first rays of light spilled over Holy Grace Royal Academy, in a remote and forgotten corner, there stood such a place—something that might, in generosity, be called a house. Just a narrow, weed-choked path separated it from the lavish dormitories, scenic plazas, and elegant tea rooms of the students. Yet the disparity between them was jarring.
Yes, this was technically still part of the academy. And yes, this decrepit shell of a house still had windows—one of which now creaked open.
Dust, long dormant, swirled into the air. In the morning sun, the particles danced visibly. The Idiot waved them away and withdrew inside.
Kampa had given him this place just yesterday. Darkness was falling, and to conserve the pitiful remnants of lamp oil, the Idiot had given it a hasty sweep before curling up with Bread to sleep. Now, in the morning light, the full extent of the squalor was clear.
The floor was wooden, but cracks had split it wide enough for weeds to sprout. The room was barely twenty square meters, and at its center stood a table—one leg already broken. To the left of the door, a half-collapsed cabinet housed nothing but dust and cockroaches. Further along, a cobweb-shrouded water jar and a crumbling stove completed the furnishings.
At the back, an oddly large bed filled the cramped space. It might once have been a double, but now it was just rotting planks covered in straw, taking up far too much room.
That was everything the house had to offer.
The Idiot rose, gently cradling the sleeping Bread in his arms, and tiptoed to the door. He opened it, letting the crisp morning air flood in. Despite the filth and overgrowth outside, the freshness of that breeze was real.
The sky had only just begun to brighten. He let Bread breathe in the morning air, then returned inside.
"So," he whispered, "from today on… this is our home."
Darkness opened its eyes, the red pupils flickering through the room.
"Home? This dump? It's pathetic. You should raze it to the ground and start over. Better yet, why bother fixing it? That bastard sticking you in this shack is the real issue! If you'd listened to me and tossed the brat aside, we'd be living in a palace right now—naked princesses from a hundred kingdoms lining up to serve you!"
The Idiot ignored the voice. He'd long grown used to the sword's madness. Dreams like that were for fools, not for someone like him—a beggar with nothing. For him, survival had always been the most attainable dream. The only one worth chasing.
The water jar was empty. He took a bucket and stepped outside. Just around the corner, cloaked in ivy, was a well. He parted the vines and lowered the bucket, hauling up half a pail of water.
Back inside, he placed it on the floor, sat beside it with Bread in his arms, and stared down at the surface.
The water rippled. Slowly, the surface stilled—like glass.
"…What are you looking at?" Darkness asked, noticing his fixed gaze.
The Idiot did not answer immediately. After a long silence, just as Darkness was ready to mock his muteness, the boy spoke.
"…Can I drink this?"
"You think it's poisoned?" the sword asked.
"That's part of it." He dipped his fingers into the water, raising a handful of droplets to the light. "But more than that… I don't need Inael, or Sura, or tricks or theft… and yet, here it is. Water I can drink?"
In that moment, Darkness connected with the Idiot's memories. It saw every drop of water the boy had ever drunk in the frozen North—filthy, putrid water from open sewers. If he wanted clean water, he had to steal money to buy it. If he had no money, he had to fight for it. In winter, the snowfall was a blessing; people would eat handfuls of it to stay alive. But many paid dearly for that small relief—hypothermia, frostbitten limbs, death by cold.
Yet now, in the heart of summer, on a bright morning, there sat a bucket of clear, clean water before him. No one would steal it. No one would make him beg or lie or fight for it. He could simply… drink.
And it was warm. It would not freeze him to death.