The fool lowered his head—he had never believed himself superior to others. In Senag, children like him were forever branded as the weakest. His survival depended not on open confrontation, but on cunning and cruelty in the shadows.
Principal Campa sneered as the fool remained silent. At that cold smirk, the small bundle in his arms—Bread—seemed to shrink further into her cloth wrappings, trembling faintly, not daring to show her face.
Sensing her fear, the fool slowly lifted his heavy hands and gently patted her. Yet his arms were so weighed down that he could not offer her comfort for long.
"Enough! Take a broom and sweep the grounds. Oh, I nearly forgot—this afternoon at three, there's a foundational class for the kindergarten division. You'll assist the teacher, help with reading and writing, and tidy up the open-air classroom in your spare time. Now—get moving."
Campa pointed toward the direction of the academic district. The fool followed his gesture, glancing down the path, then up at the principal's cold, emotionless face. He said nothing, bowed his head, and began to drag the iron shackles bound to his limbs as he walked toward the school buildings…
…Anyone could……Easily……Walk, even when bound by chains…???
The clattering of metal echoed with each of his steps. White scratches, carved into the gravel by his handcuffs, marked his passage. Principal Campa watched the lines etched into the ground, then looked toward the receding figure. A boy so small, and yet in half a day, he had somehow loosened those shackles with his own strength—and now walked freely.
Campa smiled.
It was no longer a cold smirk, but a look of genuine satisfaction, even admiration.
——
At the Royal Academy, lessons were divided into two main categories based on location: indoor and outdoor. Indoor classes offered shelter from the elements, creating a comfortable learning environment, though space was limited—each class had to be taught separately. Outdoor lessons, held in plazas, amphitheaters, or practice fields, were more chaotic but vastly more efficient, allowing one teacher to reach many students at once. Thus, foundational courses shared across all four disciplines were often conducted outdoors.
However, with outdoor classes came the inevitable challenge of large student numbers—an organizational headache for any instructor.
Dragging his chains, the fool made his way through a maze of shadowy side paths toward the open-air classrooms. No one knew how he navigated them so well. Was it instinct? Or had he already explored every corner of the academy?
Classroom No. 2 in Teaching Sector C sat tucked in a corner of the central plaza. "Small" was a relative term—this "small" classroom rivaled a compact open-air theater. The semi-circular platform held a stage at its base, backed by a large double-layered pull-board. The desks ascended in tiers from the center, forming a fan-shaped amphitheater. Though open to the air, a circular canopy above offered protection from wind and rain, shielding the wooden desks and benches below.
Even from afar, the fool could hear the chatter echoing from within—shouts, laughter, and the unmistakable chaos of young children. It seemed no teacher had arrived yet.
He looked up at the quartz clock in the square.
2:58 PM.
He exhaled. Just in time.
The small bread bundle in his arms peeked out, her curious eyes taking in the surroundings with evident interest.
The noise continued—until he stepped into the classroom.
The moment the sound of dragging chains crossed the threshold, the cacophony stopped.
It wasn't the first time he'd felt eyes fixed upon him. Those stares—startled, mocking, disdainful—were all too familiar from his months of labor by the pool. At first, the silence lingered. Then came whispers, and before long, a flood of murmurs filled the air.
"Hey, I've seen that guy! He's the one who tried to fill the swimming pool with a little bucket!"
"Yeah, my brother told me—said some idiot moved into the school. A beggar with a few screws loose."
"Huh? Seriously? What's a lunatic doing here? Look at those chains! My uncle works at the prison—he says bad guys wear stuff like that!"
"What?! You mean he's a criminal?!"
"Yeah—and maybe even a crazy criminal!"
"What do we do? He's not gonna eat us, is he?!"
The children—no older than six or seven, likely all new admissions—sat scattered across the tiers, over a hundred in number. The whispers rained down like arrows, falling into the fool's ears.
He didn't mind. Not one bit. But just as he reached for the broom to tidy the area around the podium, a small, pitiful whimper rose from his arms.
Looking down, he saw Bread huddled against his chest, trembling at the hostile gazes of the noble children towering above. Fear shone in her eyes.
The chatter did not stop—but its tone changed. No longer tinged with fear, it had turned bold, gleefully cruel. These were noble children, raised in wealth and status. What threat did a chained fool with a broom pose?
Yet soon, some among them noticed something odd. The peers they'd been whispering to had fallen silent, their gazes fixed below. Confused, they looked down too—only to be met with a pair of eyes like a frozen tempest, locking onto them.
Silence fell.
The classroom grew still. The noise was gone. And with it, the fear on Bread's face began to fade.
The fool withdrew his gaze and lifted the broom once more, just as the clock struck three. And finally, the long-delayed teacher arrived—yawning, book in hand.
"Huh? What's with the first-years this year? So quiet already?"
A female voice rang out at the doorway. The fool turned to see a woman of seventeen or eighteen, with short golden hair and a tired, narrow face. Dressed casually, she looked like someone who'd barely had any sleep.
"The Demon Queen's here!"
Someone muttered. Those who'd stayed on campus since the semester began immediately straightened up and opened their books. The rest looked around in confusion.
The woman strolled toward the podium, yawning as she slapped her teaching materials onto the desk. As she passed the fool, he noticed a small leather pouch swinging at her waist.
"Alright," she began, "before we start, let me introduce myself. Most of you probably already know—I'm your language instructor, Queline Rooney. I won't bother with roll call. If you care enough, sign your name up here after class."
Another yawn. Her indifference baffled the students.
Only then did she look toward the fool. She studied him with her sleep-laden eyes, then shook her head with a self-mocking smile. Placing one hand on her hip and the other on the podium, she said:
"Sigh. Just my luck. So this is what a student assistant looks like? The principal sends me a convict—chained up and carrying a baby?"
Queline crouched before the fool, lifting her sleeve. She waved a finger before his face and offered a weary smile.
"Listen, boy, this isn't a daycare. I've got enough brats to deal with—no time to babysit you too. If you have even a shred of pity for me, walk away now. Come on—shake my hand. It was nice meeting you, little gentleman. Goodbye."
She extended her right hand, smile still in place. Up close, she was quite pretty—but the exhaustion etched into her features lent her a certain melancholy.
The fool lowered his gaze to her hand, then lifted his head and stared at her. He didn't move.
After a moment, Queline's smile began to falter. A touch of annoyance flickered across her face. She reached further and said:
"Hey, little gentleman, it's terribly rude to keep a lady waiting. Offer your hand. Shake it. Understand?"
The fool looked again, then tried to raise his arm. But the weight of his shackles had long since numbed his shoulders—he couldn't lift it at all.
Now Queline was genuinely irritated. Twice ignored, her temper flared. She grabbed his arm, intending to haul him up and scold him properly. The fool saw the anger in her face and instinctively tried to step back—but his movements were sluggish, slower than a snail. He couldn't retreat in time.
She seized his arm.
"You little—what kind of manners—! …Eh?!"
Perhaps this teacher never imagined a child's hand could weigh so much. In that moment, she failed to lift him.
Startled, Queline stared at him. With a frown, she muttered, "So, you're testing my strength? Ha! I've dealt with stubborn brats like you before. Try to outmuscle me? Just wait—I'll flip you over and spank your bottom!"
But the fool couldn't even move his feet, let alone resist. In the next moment, Queline reached for the iron chain of his cuffs, ready to yank him upright—