"Guuh…?"
Mianbao turned her head, just in time to meet the idiot's unblinking gaze. Startled by his intense stare, her arms gave out, and with a soft thud, she collapsed onto the bed.
At that sight, the frost in his eyes slowly melted. He stepped closer and seated himself by the bed. Perhaps expecting another scolding, Mianbao curled up, eyes shut, too frightened to move.
A hand, gentle as the evening breeze, stroked her soft pink hair. The tenderness of that motion seemed entirely out of character for someone so cold and merciless.
Slowly, the little girl opened her eyes to find his ever-serious face above her. Yet, in his eyes, there was no longer any sign of blame. His fingers traced through her hair and along her spine, comforting her with an unfamiliar warmth…
"Wuahh~~"
She giggled, limbs stretching out once more, crawling up into his lap without hesitation, letting out a soft, contented hum.
He sighed—a quiet, weighty breath. What was the reason behind it? Even he might not have known. All he understood was that, in the next moment, his left arm moved on its own, cradling the little one on his lap, and he began to feed her milk, bit by bit.
The night was cold, but even within the chill, there lingered a warmth that belonged only to the darkness. As the night neared its end, a new day prepared to dawn. Tomorrow, the Royal Academy of Divine Grace would begin a new term—and with it, a new life would truly commence.
…
As expected, the new day arrived. At precisely 6:00 a.m.—earlier than any alarm—the creaky front door swung open, and the idiot stepped out, already dressed.
He wore a coarse, short-sleeved tunic—something he had pulled from the cloth sack the night before. Though it still looked ragged by any standard measure, it was a vast improvement over the barbaric rags he'd worn before. At least now, he somewhat resembled a person.
Morning light filtered gently through the leaves—was autumn drawing near? He looked up at the golden rays streaming through the branches, brushed the chain on his right arm, and began his morning chores.
Today, there was no need to haul water to the swimming pool at dawn, affording him the rare luxury of tending to the household. He filled the water jar, boiled water in the pot, prepared a simple breakfast, and warmed some milk. Mianbao was still fast asleep under the blanket. He lifted her carefully, changed her diaper, and washed the soiled clothes. Though the hour was tight, his practiced hands moved with a calm precision born of habit. Years of hauling water had taught him efficiency and endurance. By 6:55, everything was in order, and he sat at the table with a bowl of thick porridge.
Seven o'clock came swiftly. The tasteless porridge was finished in silence. As he reached for the warmed milk and turned toward the bed, an oppressive presence filled the air behind him.
At the door stood Headmaster Kampa, arms folded behind his back, surveying the room with a chilling gaze. His eyes scanned the cracked floorboards, the tufts of wild grass, the morning light filtering through the window—nothing escaped his attention.
The idiot's steps halted. Slowly, he turned to face the headmaster.
Kampa said nothing. He simply nodded—an acknowledgment of the boy's keen perception. Despite deliberately amplifying his footsteps and breathing, the child had sensed his presence instantly. Among others his age, how many could claim such awareness?
A faint smile tugged at Kampa's lips.
Perhaps—none at all.
Three months of grueling water-hauling and electric shocks had not only tempered the boy's stamina but also honed a mind already unnaturally composed. Now, it was quiet. Focused.
"Bring the girl. Come with me."
Kampa turned and strode away. The idiot hesitated only briefly before lifting Mianbao into his arms. From the cloth bag, he took a long strip of fabric, binding her snugly to his chest. He slipped the warm bottle of milk into his pocket and followed.
He assumed Kampa would lead him somewhere far, but after stepping past the brush and onto the gravel path, the headmaster stopped. Following the direction of his pointing finger, the idiot saw a broom, a dustpan, and a large mobile garbage bin.
"Autumn's coming. The academy grounds will soon be littered with leaves. Despite Windbreak Sand City being in the heart of the desert, our seasons are distinct. We even see snowfall in winter."
Kampa stepped aside to let him pass, continuing, "From today until the Holy Night Festival this winter, your duty is to keep the campus clean. I don't expect you to sweep everything in a single day. Compared to filling the swimming pool, this task is much lighter. All I require is that you sweep from 7:30 a.m. until 7:30 p.m.—twelve hours a day. As long as you don't slack off, we'll have no problem."
It truly sounded like an easier task. The idiot bent down, lifted the broom, testing its weight. Just then, Kampa added, "In addition to sweeping, you'll attend various outdoor lecture stages during class hours. While you work, you'll listen. This is the Royal Academy of Divine Grace—I won't tolerate illiteracy among my workers. You'll learn to read. Every ten days, I'll test your progress."
The idiot lifted his head and muttered quietly—
"Read…?"
In that instant, the "box" in his mind flung open. Countless images and texts surged forth, swirling around him. These, of course, were invisible to Kampa.
What appeared were the diagrams for the first sword of the Six Blades—"Wounded." He had studied the illustrations countless times over the past three months, but without understanding the words, their meaning had always eluded him. Mimicking the mud doll's posture had failed to recapture the speed and precision he'd used to save Mianbao from Dailao.
Perhaps… the answers lay hidden in those words.
And now—he was going to learn.
"What's wrong?"
Kampa peered down at him, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
The symbols and diagrams vanished in a blink. The boy looked up and replied calmly, "It's nothing. I'll begin at once."
"Hmph. Enthusiastic, are we? Very well. Before you begin, there's something I must give you. Hold out your hand."
He hesitated, then extended his left hand, still gripping the broom.
"Both hands," Kampa said coldly.
Reluctantly, the idiot adjusted Mianbao's position and held out both arms.
From beneath his cloak, Kampa produced a pair of shackles and clamped them tightly around the boy's wrists.
His freedom vanished in an instant. Instinctively, the boy staggered back—but before his foot could land, Kampa had somehow appeared behind him. Clack—clack. Two shackles fastened around his ankles. The chains scraped against the gravel as he stumbled.
Startled, the boy immediately drew Annihilation to guard his chest, wary of an ambush—but Kampa returned to his original position, arms folded, as though nothing had occurred.
"Relax. These chains won't hinder you. They're long enough for full range of motion."
The boy glanced warily at his bound limbs. Indeed, the chains were long—he could likely even run without tripping.
"Unlike the summer break, there will be more students roaming the grounds now. That chain on your arm, the dagger—it'll unsettle them. They'll fear you, and it'll disrupt classes."
"So," Kampa continued, "these shackles will serve to disguise both your chain and weapon. For now, live here as a convict from Windbreak Sand City."
After confirming the chains truly did not restrict his movement, the boy finally lowered his guard. He flicked his wrist and re-sheathed Annihilation. Then, he reached again for the broom—
"Also, these chains serve another purpose."
Kampa raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
"To ensure your 'light' work doesn't stay so light."
A pulse of ochre light surged from the shackles on all four limbs. As it faded, triangular runes appeared on each clasp. The chains writhed like serpents, suddenly coiling tight, binding his arms and legs together!
"Ugh—!"
A crushing weight bore down. The shackles grew oppressively heavy. Off-balance, he toppled forward—twisting at the last second to shield Mianbao, crashing onto the gravel with his back.
So heavy… so tight! His wrists screamed in pain. No matter how he pulled, the chains refused to loosen.
His freedom had vanished once again.